Johnson Family Dish

The Story of A Lifetime

I woke up in the middle of the night a few months ago.  I was thinking about the book that I am going to write, someday.  Actually, this had been a subject which had occupied my thoughts for sometime prior to this point.  I woke up because the title of the book burst into my head, it caused a midnight storm there which would not let me rest again until I jotted my thoughts down in the spiral notebook that I had been brainstorming in earlier.  So, here it is, the title of my story: Raised by Wolves; Pecked to Death by Chickens. 

Yes, I am serious!  I am going for a mildly humorous (sometimes possibly a little dark humor) take on my life.  If I only write this for fun, and for my children, that will be satsifying to me.  But, that will not stop me from trying to gain the necessary skills and connections to get myself published.  Colonel Sanders was 68 when he bagan KFC so, the way I see it, I got time baby!!!

I love that Randon’s Great Great Grandfather Benjamin F. Johnson wrote his memoirs (with out any skills), I adore reading his story.  I feel like I know him well from reading his story.  For me, he does not die because not only does his posterity continue but, I can enter the world in which he lived anytime I open that book; I can enter his thoughts.  I believe that his writings, and those of countless other authors I love, are a fantastic legacy.  I want to leave something that will share who I am and what I experienced in this life with my children and thier children, even after I am gone, just like Benjamin F.

Delayed Idaho Post

Okay, I started this post days ago and haven’t had time to finish it. We have had a bad cold/flu thing going through the Johnson population here. Addi and Morgan developed it during our trip so we literally got off of the plane and went straight into care for the ill mode. Kelcie got it next but, returned to school today.

I had to fit the shopping that I usually would have done on Saturday in to the week too.

On top of that Randon has had a demanding bishop week. I have been in the thick of my research paper on happiness: trying to collect data, calculate it, enter it into excell, analyze it, write about it, and do some additional research for it. So far, I am at 15 pages (and that is a very rough draft and doesn’t include any of my own research data!). I have a lot of polishing to do and many more additions to it still. I have learned some interesting stuff, primarily from other people’s research on different aspects or components of happiness.

And, it has been an “all hands on deck” math week for me. Lots of challenging assignments (and a few tears of frustration too). Randon and I actually did math every single day of our “get-away.” Such is the nature of being a student, I guess (not to mention the spouse of one). He was incredibly helpful, BTW. He has a knack for math, and I missed a math class the day we left town so, I am not sure I would have figured it out with out his “skills.” Thank you, Darling.

So, I think it goes without saying that we have all been sleeping like the dead here at night (and some of the sick among us, during the day too). It was a crazy busy week to get ready to go out of town and a crazy busy week to get back into town and catch up.

Isn’t life grand?!

Beautiful Idaho

Randon and I travelled to Idaho together for a long weekend. We left on Thursday morning and returned Sunday afternoon. The weather was a pristine 79 degrees. Our taxi driver appologized that his air conditioning was not working, we explained where we were from and that the whole state of Idaho felt air conditioned, from our perspective. (We took a taxi only a short distance to where a vehicle was stored for us.)

We then drove from Boise north along the senic south fork of the Payette River. The leaves were just showing thier fall colors. Randon wanted me to cross this suspension bridge across the river, he is such a funny guy. Below him, what you don’t see is a particularly turbulent area of the river. Serious white water there, the pictures don’t do it justice but here they are anyway:

(Really, the pictures are too flat.  They do not capture the nature of the rapids very well.)

The place we stay in Idaho is not only serene but it touts a very unique location as well:

We spent our days exploring this area, and we have plenty of scrapes and bruises to prove it.  Idaho back country is magnificent!  We went down the river in a raft and we went on some long mountain trails.  (I really want to go into detail about our adventures and discoveries but, that will have to wait until I have more time.) 

We found this sign about 4 miles into our not so graceful climb up a 7500 ft. mountain. We started the climb at 6500 ft. (we did not gain much, only 1000 ft., but it is hard to breath even that high up)

We stopped and took these photos on the way home Sunday morning:

It is interesting, I think, that Idaho has the fattest cows I have ever seen!!  They taste good too.  This big guy saw me snapping pictures of his enormous herd and came to give me a proper Idaho send off.

Happiness Survey

So I am getting down to the wire with the research that I have been doing on happiness for my honors project. It is time for me to begin collecting actual data, that is where you, my friends and family come in. I need adults of all ages and both genders to complete this survey.

With the help of my mentor, Clark Smithson and Beth Gioia, my psych and honors professor, I have composed a survey in effort to measure happiness in conjunction with seven facts I have discovered related to happiness. The survey is actually made up of 2 surveys: a five question “Satisfaction with Life” survey and also a 20 (possibly 21, the jury is still out) question survey. If you are willing to take my survey, I will e-mail the tests to you. If you are interested in the findings, I can get those to you at Christmas time, just make a note on your completed survey.

This information is just for me. I will use the survey information gathered in a general manner, that is: all respondent information will be shared as a whole, not in individual respondent’s parts.

And one disclaimer, this is not a facebook quiz!! This is an effort to gather data for an actual research project. You will not have some cute little icon pop up with your quiz results either, .

P.S. Send me your e-mial address @ michelle@johnsonfamilydish.com if you are willing to take this survey.

Charis is 7!

Our baby is seven tomorrow. How that even happened I am not sure. All I really know is that she has been a light and a blessing to our little family ever since her arrival. She arrived here 14 days later than she was expected, which caused no small amount of stress and discomfort for her mother. When she did finally come, she came with a bang! With a little over two hours of labor Charis was born into her daddy’s hands at 5:30 one morning, which cause no small amount of stress and discomfort for her father. We didn’t really plan for her to be born that way but, it was one of the most tender moments of our lives, which we will never forget. I remember looking at her after her daddy handed her to me. We were still attached as I watched her look around quietly and without breathing; she didn’t need to breathe, I was still giving her oxygen, through the cord which connected us. I examined her, discovering that I had given birth to our fourth girl. I cleared the fluid from her mouth and nose. I cannot fully convey with words the feelings of that moment; I am sure I will never match it. Randon was on the phone with our midwife frantically asking what he should do next but, I knew. We just needed to be quiet and wait, and we did.

How seven years have past since the day she was born, I don’t know. But, Charis has grown to be such a happy girl. She loves to help people and I love that about her. She is our last child and Randon and like to say that, like Jerry Seinfeld, we have ended on a high note.

Dominoes

So I hope that this is not the only way I find time to blog but, this is another of my creative writing assignments, which is going to serve a dual purpose as both the fulfillment of an assignment and material for my blog. In the previous post, the prompt was to write about our first job. It is always amazing where writing takes you, as both reader and writer.

In this assignment we are focusing on scene and I had to start with the prompt: The last time I heard (blank) song by (blank) artist, we were down at (blank) and (blank) was happening (action). So, here is my 2nd creative non-fiction piece, happy reading.

The last time I heard “Wrapped Up In You” by Garth Brooks, I was in the kitchen monitoring a frying pan of onions, garlic, celery and mushrooms, when behind me I felt a hand at my waist. The size and the warmth of that hand gave away the identity of its owner. Taking the spatula out of my hand and placing it on the counter with his other hand was my dance partner, turned husband, Randon. He turned me around, took me by the waist, placing my right hand in his, and began dancing with me. I couldn’t help but tip my head back and let out a mirthful laugh at the happy interruption. The sound of laughter brought our two youngest daughters, Addison and Charis, running out of their bedrooms. They ran through the living room, which proudly displays portraits of the family war heroes, generations of wedding day photos, and loved ones long since gone. Together they burst into the kitchen stopping suddenly as they rounded the corner and saw their mother and father playfully dancing and laughing together in the kitchen.

The smell of the vegetables sautéing on the stove permeated the air. The little girls did not stand looking on for long. Giggling, they were just tall enough to wedge right between us, one at waist level and one just above, and push us apart. Once separated Addison grabbed my two hands declaring that I should “spin her.” What she meant by spin was twirl. That is, holding her hand in mine, just above her head, my fingers weave around her hand as if they were twirling a baton, her body then, following her hand, twirls. While Charis took her daddy’s hands and wiggled back and forth, shaking her entire head and body with the movement, her long curly hair blurring her face. She couldn’t keep that up for long so her daddy scooped her up into his strong arms and danced a funny little back and forth dance with her. The kitchen, painted a shade of yellow that resembles melted butter, happily accommodated two additional dancers.

Randon and I are not really dancers. We both have terrible rhythm and form, we bounce too much when we dance and too often, without realizing it, I tend to take the lead. Anyone watching us could see that we lack natural aptitude and any amount of skill. So, it is strange that were it not for dancing, we might not have ever met.

We met in September, just after my twentieth birthday. We were both at a dance. I had come by choice with two girl friends. He had come after being cajoled by his two older sisters. Country music was blaring from the speakers. It is still hot in Phoenix at the end of September; the air conditioning could not possibly keep up with the body heat that was being generated in this room. It was just larger than the size of a standard basketball court, complete with a hardwood floor, and full of people, moving, dancing people. At first glance, it looked as though the whole room was in motion. The dance floor was so crowded that dancers were bumping into one another. On one side of the room, the side from which everyone entered, those who were not dancing stood watching the perpetual motion of the dance floor. This is where I found him.

I came to these dances a lot and I knew all of the best dance partners. I had learned some basic steps so that in the hands of a good leader I could, usually, keep up. Though I had accidentally tripped a few partners or missed one of his cues to turn, sometimes resulting in a collision with another couple, it was a rare thing for me not to be dancing. I can’t recall why I wasn’t dancing when I saw him standing there. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to, or I would not have met him, I think it was because all of my favorite partners were dancing with other people. Whatever the reason was, I saw him standing there, alone, watching the moving dance floor and I felt compelled to go ask him if he wanted to dance. And I did. He turned me down telling me he did not know how to dance. I always wondered why guys like him even came to these dances if they were not going to dance; they were just going to stand there, alone. I thought this was just a polite way to say “no thank you, leave me alone, please.” As these thoughts were racing through my head and I was turning to leave he said with a smirk, “but you could teach me.”

I don’t remember what song was playing then but, I remember giving him dancing lessons for the rest of that night. It is true that I wasn’t really fit to teach him. I had no idea how to teach a man to lead, I simply told him to follow my steps, and that is what we did, song after song. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, I counted in my head continuously as I taught him the two-step because it was the easiest and most versatile dance I knew.

We were strangers then. When I think back to that night, and that man I met who was standing still in a moving room, it seems as though that was an altogether different man than the man who is dancing in the kitchen with our little girls and I. And in a lot of ways he is a different man; I am not the girl who approached him that night either. I have climbed into the attic in my mind where I keep memories and I have sorted through files looking for when exactly we changed or what it was that changed us. To my surprise I could not find one event that changed us into who we are today, instead I have found that the changing was gradual. It was a sequence of changes; like thousands of dominoes standing in formation just waiting for the first one to fall so that each one could systematically follow suit, executing their reason for being stood up. But, the dominoes of change move in slow motion, not like the real life dominoes that take hours to line up and seconds to fall. These dominoes work differently. First, you never know they are there at all until you look back and see that there is a line of them behind you neatly fallen down. They don’t fall every day either. In fact you never know when they will fall. And looking at them all lying there reminds you of all the lessons learned and adjustments that were made together, for each other.

Yet somehow, with all of the changing we have done, he is, for me, still that man standing still. He is constant and dependable in our world of change. I did not know then how much I needed him to be standing firm, with his quiet strength, always there, a refuge I turn to when all of the movement is too much.

Stolen: An Essay on My First Job

**Disclaimer**
I wrote this piece as an assignment for my creative writing class. I am finding creative writing to be not only fulfilling but theraputic as well. This disclaimer is for anyone who is related to me who might find reading this essay troubling because they know one or two of the real-life characters. If you find this essay troubling, all I can say to you is that this is my experience, as percieved, written and recollected by myself. Sometimes the truth is a very difficult thing to look at; we realize only after staring down the truth in the eye, that we have found liberation.
*****So, read on, if you dare****

Growing up the oldest of six children, in a family which lived well below the poverty level, I was given the opportunity for my first paying job at age 11 when the neighbors needed someone to keep an eye on their children for a few hours while they went out and did whatever it was parents did when they left their children at home in the hands of the 11 year old neighbor girl. I returned home that night with ten dollars to contribute to the cause of feeding and housing us all. My parents were delighted and eagerly took the money.

This was the beginning of my career as a babysitter for anybody my mother could convince of my virtues and skills, these skills not only involved children but also housekeeping, and cooking. And because I ran my mother’s home for her while she worked and did whatever she did when she was fed up and need some time out of the house, I did have skills. I got plenty of jobs. My jobs would always end in the customary way, after having done miscellaneous housekeeping, cooking and child care, I would be sent off with ten, fifteen or even twenty dollars in my pocket to lie at the altar of the greater good of the family. I was not, however, a saint. Sometimes someone would give me twenty dollars in the form of one ten, one five and five ones and I would take whatever I thought would not be noticeable. This I would set aside for my walks home from school where I passed a circle K and could buy a cold soda or a bag of Doritos to share with my friend. I was happy enough with this arrangement for many years and the pilfering of my own wages was never detected, whew! What a disappointment I would have been then.

My mother was the sort who believed that teenage girls are not capable of maintaining their virtue in any situation, and there were always those ready to help her out of her virtue at a moment’s notice. “No, you cannot go to that football game with your friends! You’ll be off in an empty school bus or under the bleachers having 6@* with some stupid boy!” So, going off and getting a real job by myself in the dangerous world of men and boys, was out of the question.

It was out of the question until I turned 15 and my step dad was moonlighting, in effort to add to the family income, at Arlington Stadium where the Texas Rangers played ball. In the state of Texas you had to reach the age of sixteen before you could get a real job, a regular paycheck sort of job; that is, unless you knew someone or could fudge the date on your birth certificate convincingly enough. I don’t remember applying for that job but before I knew it I had a job there under the watchful eye of my step father.

It seems that Ranger Stadium needed a travelling Cracker Jack representative. I was to cover the entire stadium with a case of Cracker Jacks, holding up a single box while shouting “Cracker Jacks!” I, like the other travelling salesman, wore the most blindingly awful combination of bright yellow and orange uniform shirt, so people could spot us I suppose, with a Texas Ranger baseball cap which was not nearly large enough to hide my shame and humiliation at having to sport this fashion atrocity. But, I had no choice, my family needed money and my parents arranged the perfect situation in which I would contribute and be under supervision.

Cracker Jacks sold for two dollars and fifty cents a box. I had to bring my own change, that way any miscalculations in my mental math would cost only me. I worked on commission. After several weeks of performing this task I realized that I was not even making minimum wage. Not that I really cared, I wouldn’t see the money anyhow, besides I was out of the house and I wasn’t babysitting anyone either. But because of my meager checks, my parents wondered if I was working at all. I was. I walked up and down each and every isle in the stadium, including the nose bleed section, which was a monumental sacrifice due to my fear of heights.

I hated this job. It turns out that selling Cracker Jacks was the lowest of the low on the stadium salesman totem pole. The people who sold beer were at the top, hot dog commissions were second, both scoring tips. Cotton candy was in third position, though kids never tipped sales were high. Popcorn and peanuts were tied in fourth place. So few people actually bought Cracker Jacks that I was beginning to think I was just wasting my time; I believed I was just a token to make the song “take me out to the ball game” true, when it was in fact not true. People bought cotton candy for their kids, not Cracker Jacks, the song lies. I complained. I wanted to sell hot dogs but, that was out of the question. The people who sold beer and hot dogs had to carry large stainless steel boxes by a strap around their neck and I was deemed, “not strong enough, not old enough and I did not have the seniority required to fill that position.” I was given a large canvas bag full of plastic packages of roasted salted peanuts, in the shell, and told that I could sell them in a section designated for me. If I had overstepped my bounds at any time the other salesman would promptly correct me.

Peanuts started to bring home some money, in the form of a paycheck. The bad thing about paychecks was that I couldn’t smuggle out any money for myself. I simply signed my name on the back of the check on payday and off it went. This was a service which was expected of me. I didn’t dare complain lest I have to suffer through a lecture from my mother detailing, “how expensive it was to raise me and how my dad did not pay child support that month. Did I realize how much it cost to feed me? Did I fully comprehend how expensive the rent was, how behind we were because of my dad?” Lucky for me though, when the games would go into overtime and beer was being consumed liberally, I would make some tips. My favorite tip was from a drunken man who paid me twenty dollars for a bag of peanuts that cost four dollars and twenty five cents, mumbling “eep the shange.” He was sitting in the cheap seats so I knew I should have confirmed that he in fact meant for me to take the fifteen dollars and seventy five cents left over, I didn’t though. I took his money and left before he changed his mind.

The summer of my seventeenth year I earned a cosmetology license. At the insistence of my parents, I juggled working my new job in a salon with one last season at Arlington Stadium. I never was given the freedom to utilize the money I earned at my own discretion, and like a broken animal, I simply complied.

Until the day I decided I would no longer comply. On that day I listened for the sounds of my mother leaving the house. I heard her footsteps grow faint as she walked down the hall past my room. I heard the engine of her mini-van roar into action, followed quickly by the sound of her backing up and driving away. I looked out of the window just to make sure she was gone, she was. In her room, I found the check book I was not allowed to use, with the checks that were in my name, and took it. I also took my social security card and my birth certificate, items she would later claim I “stole” from her. I went to the Winn Dixie grocery store, where I asked the clerk for the maximum amount I could write a cash check for, “one hun-dred and fif-ty dollars” the clerk said with her thick Texas accent. I wrote the check. I went to one more Winn Dixie and wrote one more check for the maximum amount of one hundred and fifty dollars. I was sure that there was much more in the account but, that was all I dared take, and hopefully it was enough. I took that money, loaded up my twenty year old car, and sought my freedom in Arizona.

School Update

Today marks a full week since the kids returned to school so, I believe an update is in order. Our biggest transition, getting up at 5:15am to have our morning devotional is going better than I expected, though we do have some room for improvement. It is hard to get up that early and hard to go to bed early enough to get adequate sleep, still working on that. Morgan has a particularly difficult time waking up at any hour, she is not a morning person, so this has been the most challenging for her. Kelcie has been waking herself up and getting ready down at her end of the house and is ready to go out the door by 6am. I am amazed by this because when I had early morning seminary, I just did not care how I looked, I just went.

The update from youngest to oldest:

Charis is doing well, loves her class, her teacher and the classroom pet, an aquatic turtle. She is excited to go to school every day, loves learning and being with her friends so this has been a piece of cake transition for her.

Addi is also doing well. This year all of her friends: Anna, Brittany, Payton, Brookly and Tanner are all together with the same teacher. It is always easier to transition with with your friends. She and I are reading “The Graveyard Book” together. That book won the Newberry award and was written by the author of Coraline. It is a bit dark and I am waiting to read what was so award worthy. It is, however, an extremely creative notion.

Scott is doing well. He really likes his teacher, who is due to have a baby any minute so she will be gone for a couple of months. I am worried about this transition but, he is enjoying school so far.

Morgan is doing really well. She is happy that she has two electives this year and some advanced placement classes. She has formulated some goals for her experience this year including joining the National Jr. Honor Society and she won’t let me post anything else, darn her!

Kelcie started high school this year as a freshman, I have already lamented this fact here; I am choosing to be happy about this. She likes her classes and is also taking some advanced placement classes.

I really hope that our readers will be forgiving with me for talking about our children’s success. I realize that this sort of thing can be vicious in that others might feel that I am bragging obnoxiously. Watching my children succeed is very exciting to me; mostly because I was a chronic underachieving student as a child. So, put into that perspective, my children are hard workers in whom I am very proud, and delighted that they enjoy school and learning.

One of the nice things with our early morning schedule is that Randon gets home up to an hour earlier than he used to so we have more time together as a family.

Life is good.

What You’ve Given Me

Stupid jokes that make me laugh
Til tears come to my eyes
And fluid spews from my nose.
Joy.

Courage to love myself
To be strong and clear,
To last forever.
Rocks.

Five people
Who are so many of the things
I adore in you.
Cement.

Unconditional, like I did not know
Existed in the world,
No strings.
Love.

for Randon.

School Starts Tomorrow

for all of my children. I have to admit that I am really sad about it. I am gonna miss them so much. I don’t want to end our laid back summer routine for the early mornings and very busy evenings, sigh.

Kelcie is starting seminary and high school this year which means our days will begin at 5am with scripture study and prayer so that our Kelcie can get off to seminary which starts at 6am then she goes directly to high school which begins at 7:20.

While Kelcie is off and running I will be getting the other children ready for their day and carting the 3 youngest off to school which starts at 7:40 and then Morgan whose classes begin at 7:50. Why does school have to start so early?!

I will be happy when my classes being on Aug. 18th because I think being alone at home might drive me to tears.

Oh, that I could just stop time and make summer last forever….