Nana's Camp

 I'm just enough younger than my two older sisters that I watched and envied them everything they did growing up.  That hasn't changed much over the past 30+ years of our adulthood.

My sister, Carrie, has spent her time raising ten children, supporting her husband in his successful business ventures, volunteered countless hours to all manner of causes but especially those centered on her faith and her family, mothered and mentored scores of teenagers, and opened her home to any and every stray animal or child to wander up her country lane of a driveway.  She always manages to turn up when I need her the most, bringing sunshine and laughter in her wake.  Her kind, insightful soul has often spoken wisdom, grace and forgiveness when none other could manage a kind word.

Now that her children are grown, my sister delights in entertaining her grandchildren.  Judging from the way my grandchildren attach themselves to her when she breezes into town for a few days now and again, I have a small inkling of the love her own bear for her.

One of the things she does for them is Nana Camp, which consists of a day with just Nana (and, maybe Bapa if he can finagle it) doing all sorts of wonderful things like painting their own aprons and then preparing their own meal, a trip to the movies or the children's museum, the park and the local frozen yogurt shop.  And, because she is a collector of strays, she may have just as many "grandchildren" unrelated to her as her blood kin.  After all, she only has seven grandchildren, the oldest eight.  That's scarcely any at all.

Of all the ways I would like to emulate my sister, Nana's Camp ranks high on the list.  However, I'm not as tireless or capable as she, and not nearly as fun, so I can't fly solo or even with Papa as an erstwhile co-pilot.  Especially with four toddlers ranging in age from 18 to 33 months, my daughters-in-law wisely spell one another to cover my many lapses.

Even so, Ariane gets to attend the temple for a bit and Desiree' runs a few errands unencumbered.  We pick figs off the tree in the backyard (which they've eagly anticipated all spring), swim for an hour or two, eat ramen and watermelon, and have "quiet time" with a movie.  Then, when it's time to load up for home, Abram clings to my leg and whimpers, "I want to stay with Nanny"—the most intelligible thing I've heard him lisp all day.

It's been a good day.  We definitely need to do this again soon.  I just wish Dustin could have been here.

My Two Dads

Today being Father's Day, I wanted to pay tribute to both my dads.

Les Neves, my step-dad

An unhappy divorce left its mark on my family, but without it, we would have never been blessed with my step-father who made all seven of us his own.  W. Leslie Neves is the "Daddy" of my childhood.  I was four when he and my mother wed.  Gentle, soft-spoken, loving and self-sacrificing, he was the great intercessor whenever I would knock heads with my mother as teenagers are wont to do.  He could always restore peace to our home.

A subset of our family, 1972

Les never owned anything he would not sacrifice for my mother or us children.  After they wed, more were added.  Ultimately, he counted twelve children his own.  He hated his job at the IRS but sacrificed his dreams for us: the law school he had to abandon to care for us, his writing career that always got pushed back for something else.  But most dearly, he sacrificed himself, for his needs always came lowest and last.  We lost him in 1999 to cancer and he has been sorely missed.

Glen Tarbet and my step-mom of 15 years, Ann.

Ironically, Glen F. Tarbet, my biological father, is the "Dad" of my adulthood.  Seven hundred miles of desert separated him from six of his seven children, but he performed miracles stretching the dollars to suit the distance at least twice a year.  My childhood is filled with fourteen-hour treks across the great deserts of the Intermountain West, Los Angelas to Salt Lake City and back again.  We would always fist-pump drivers of the big rigs we passed who would obligingly blow their big horns for us.  I can just imagine the sight: six kids piled into a long-finned station wagon, the windows rolled down, the wind ruffling through my sisters' long hair,  the tailgate window hosting two pair of dirty bare feet, each urchin with their nose stuck in a book.

On Timeless Beauty

I'm not quite exactly sure how to take this, now that I think about it.  Like all brilliant poetry, there are many facets to explore and angles from which to view it.  Be that as it may, my son, Paul, age 23, has a Shakespeare class at university and decided to dedicate this to the senior people in his life.  The dedication was instigated when he said that no one told him they grow up so fast, referring to his five-month-old daughter.  He got a shower of 'cry me a river' from his middle-aged relations, and so thus came the sonnet in reply. I am going to go with my knee-jerk response on this one and proclaim it a beautiful sentiment and an undeniable truth.

Sonnet #2 by William Shakespeare