The last time we were at the Space Center Marc launched an authorized probe.
I was in the control center watching the background action when the guys in charge noticed it.
They were curious about why he would launch one when the captain hadn't asked for it.
I've been teasing him since then.
He's always liked buttons and dials and knobs. He plays with whatever there is on the car dash.
I think it's one reason he likes computers and iPhones. There's always something to push or turn.
Put him in front of a panel with options and he can't help himself.
So when I was assigned to be science officer in charge of probes and interior scans, I found it challenging but I figured I could behave myself.
I sat next to Marc.
He showed me the probes.
They were cool.
I could send out a scientific probe, a defensive probe or one that simply gathered general information from space.
I could collect chemical data, take a soil sample, blow up things.
I had no idea.
I tried to interest our captain in my probes.
"Not now," he said as he had his hands full with things that mattered more.
I bided my time as others on the bridge rushed around protecting the bridge, firing phasers and torpedoes, talking to aliens and the onboard computer.
"Would you like me to launch a probe?" I asked a couple times. "How about now?"
When I was waiting for permission, I tried launching one just so I would know how to do that when the time came. (It takes time to put the proper probe together and I wanted to be ready.)
We were in the middle of a crisis when the computer said, "Someone has launched a probe that has damaged the station wall. The damage will need to be repaired.")
Then one of the crew came over to tell me I owed 10,000 kronar for the damages.
I was mortified.
Marc started laughing.
One granddaughter wrote in her log about grandma being the one who launched a probe. She thinks it's pretty funny.
I think I understand things a little better now.
We love the quail who live in and around our house.
I like the bobbing heads and the little flippy feathers on the male's heads. I find them a fun kind of bird.
We do our best to protect them from roaming cats and dive bombing hawks.
Every year we delight when the baby quail hatch and we come upon a mother quail scrambling to get her little family back in under the bushes where they apparently roost.
We find them on the sidewalk in the mornings and out back in the herb plants in the evenings.
We try not to upset or harass them.
This year, however, we kept surprising them when we came out of our garage.
When the garage door would go up, they would panic.
One day, they scurried about and several of the nine chicks ran back into the garage, behind our garbage can.
I worried about them getting stuck inside and not being able to figure out how to get out.
So when I returned from an errand, I pulled the garage can out.
Sure enough, there was a frantic little chick back there trying to hide.
He went behind a piece of cardboard I had behind the can.
I moved the cardboard and he ran out, fortunately toward the open door and freedom.
I thought he was the only one.
But the next day, Marc found a lifeless baby bird on the cement, then another.
I guess they had hidden deeper inside and died for lack of food and water.
Then I found some fluff and tiny feathers on the walk.
We're assuming a hawk had a snack.
Now when I see the mother quail I can only count two chicks. Who knows what happened to the other four?
Life in our yard is obviously a dangerous life for a quail.
I'm not sure how to protect them, how to ensure they live long enough to grow up.
At this juncture, I can only cross my fingers and consider posting "No Trespassing" signs around our yard.
Maybe I should buy a BB gun and fence off the garage door.
Marc called it.
I was reading about the line of people that snaked around the block from the Clark Planetarium. They bought 21,000 pairs of Eclipse glasses Wednesday.
The planetarium staff expected they would run out today.
I had heard about the recall on the glasses supplied to the grocery stores and how no one could trust any of the glasses unless they were from the planetarium.
I had checked around for some in Springville and Provo and had no luck.
I now really wanted a good pair.
I have stood in lines for less important things like Cabbage Patch dolls and Elsa dolls.
So why wouldn't I stand in line for proper eclipse glasses?
"You're going up to Salt Lake, aren't you?" Marc said.
It was only about 8:30.
I glanced at the clock, calculating my journey.
I could get up there easily by 9:30 and still have time for my other errands and plans for the day.
I went in and dressed.
Marc grinned and went off to work.
When I arrived at the planetarium it was 9:47. The doors were scheduled to open at 10:30 a.m.
There was already a line of people from the door back about 200 feet.
I joined them, realizing quickly that I should have planned a little better.
I needed an umbrella, water and sunscreen.
I also could have used a camp chair and a full bag of makeup to apply while waiting like the lady in front of me.
A guy came out and started warning the crowd. "We only have enough glasses for 700 transactions," he said. "And we're asking you to limit your purchase to five per family."
He went on to explain that he couldn't open the doors early as it wouldn't be fair to people arriving at 10:30.
(I didn't really get the logic behind that decision as the people who arrived at 10:30 would be out of luck anyway.)
As it was, by the time I was handed a ticket for purchase as buyer #82, the line went down the street and came back around and down the street toward the Gateway Mall.
The man handing out tickets was spending a lot of his time telling people where to go to get information on making pinhole cameras.
I eventually was allowed inside the building and allowed to buy my glasses.
People around me in line were offering to buy any glasses I might not need and I was gaining a new understanding of supply and demand dynamics.
As it is, I'm keeping my glasses out of sight until Monday at 11:30.
They are in the safe.
Eight-year-old Hannah is in love.
Her new BFF has shiny red hair and a glossy mane.
She also has a gentle temperment.
She and Hannah get along great. They're already best buds after getting together once.
Unfortunately "Tess" lives in Bear Lake County at the Beaver Creek Lodge.
Hannah will only get to see her maybe once a year.
We took several granddaughters to ride into the forest on our last trip to Bear Lake.
We rode along calmly into the pine trees and the brush, trying in vain to keep the horses from nibbling on the weeds as we went.
Tess was a little lower to the ground which made Hannah more comfortable since Hannah is not very big or tall.
She walked along with an even gait so Hannah didn't bounce.
When the other horses trotted to catch up to the leader, Tess just kept a steady, even pace.
As it was Hannah's first time on a real horse ride (The ponies who go round and round at Thanksgiving Point don't count, apparently), she was very happy to have a peaceful ride.
My horse and the ones that Adell and Ellie were riding liked to change things up now and then by breaking into a trot.
Mine liked to walk up right up against the trees on the trail, forcing me to try and push him over and away or lose some skin on my leg.
All of the horses liked the mountain stream where they could plunge in and take a long, cool drink.
The ride is a good one.
The scenery is gorgeous and we enjoyed being out in the green and the sunshine.
However, it's a little hard on the legs when you only ride once a year.
I was happy to return to the starting point and climb down to the ground.
So was Marc.
We were feeling like bow-legged oldsters. We headed for the car and the air conditioning.
The girls, especially Hannah, lingered back with horses, patting their heads and rubbing their necks.
Hannah was telling Tess good-bye, not sure she'd ever see her again.
She had tears in her eyes on the way home.
I'm already thinking, can we get the same horses next year?
We both thought it was strange when Marc got a ballot in the mail inviting him to vote for the 3rd District Congressional candidate.
I got one but I'm a legitimate Republican born into a Republican family and taught by a Republican mother to only be righteously Republican, nothing else.
Marc is one of the few Democrats I know and love.
His dad was a Democrat and so he's a Democrat. Besides that Marc fits the mold. He likes to go against the flow and argue when it might be easier to agree.
He's dismayed with the Trump administration and never was impressed with Chaffetz.
When John Curtis decided to run for Chaffetz' seat, he was ready to vote for him. He didn't like the other two guys.
Marc worked with Curtis when he was covering Provo City for the Daily Herald and admires him, his philosophy and his abilities.
I have written for John Curtis and about him for Provo and I like him too.
He's a decent guy who thinks clearly and has good ideas when it comes to problem-solving. He's aware of the pitfalls and dangers he faces in the United States congress.
So when Marc looked at the ballot, he was initially excited and ready to cast a vote for Curtis.
Then he thought about it.
Why was he eligible to vote in this race anyway? Why did he get a ballot at all? What was going on?
Turns out Utah County officials made a mistake and sent a whole bunch of unaffiliated voters these ballots which were NOT for them.
The officials in charge discovered their error and retracted their offer but not before I had discarded the ballot.
Turns out people could still use their ballots but the votes for congressman just would not count.
Now Marc wanted his ballot.
He'd left it right on the counter two weeks ago.
I had thrown it away after I mailed mine in.
That meant Marc had to dumpster dive into our recycling bin to find his ballot which he did and now his vote is in the mail.
He was a touch irate with me for tossing it.
But who knew he cared that much?
It was Marc's birthday and I wanted to write something profound in his little birthday card.
I had bought him a kind of bubble spa thing for his poor feet that often hurt in the evenings.
I wrapped it up and prepared a nice card deliberately avoiding the urge to be funny, no jokes and no sarcasm.
Since I sometimes (?) razz him about his homely toes and purple ankles, I figured it was time to just be nice and let him know I love him.
I told him I loved all of him, including his feet.
I told him he was my heart and my life, I thought.
When he opened the card, he seemed puzzled.
He held it this way and that way, trying to decipher the message.
Exasperated, I reached over and took the card.
"See, it says "You are my rack? rust? rook? and my hert? hees? hunt?" I tried to tell him.
But I couldn't read my writing either.
I'm obviously been a journalist too long. I write like a doctor.
I huffed off.
Several days later, I picked the card up and studied the message.
What could I have meant to say?
Finally, the mist cleared: "You are my rock and my heart!"
Of course, clear as a bell.
There you have it.
Much better than "You are my rust and my heat, "don't cha think?
What's hard to understand about that?
I had agreed to run my granddaughter over to her friend's house in Eagle Mountain.
Alyson was at my daughter's house in Lehi and I had an hour before I was due at the dentist so it seemed like a very doable thing.
I know the way to Eagle Mountain and figured I could make the round trip with a few minutes to spare.
We took off.
I asked Alyson if she knew which part of Eagle Mountain we were heading to.
She blinked. "Yeah, I know where she lives but she moved," she said. "But I have my phone."
All of my grandkids keep up. They can text and use the GPS with no problems.
So when she pulled out her phone and typed in the address, I wasn't concerned.
We laughed a little when it turned out the GPS voice was a man with a British accent, just like Alyson's dad.
He told us to go to the Crossroads, to Pioneer Crossing and into Eagle Mountain toward where Alyson used to live.
We turned into her former subdivision and followed the directions to the letter...until the voice said, "Prepare to park, then walk to your destination."
I looked to the right and there was a big, vacant field.
Across the field was another development but it looked like mostly new, empty houses and the field was a big one.
"Umm, I think I can walk," said Alyson.
No way was I going to let my 14-year-old granddaughter out to cross that field by herself.
I imagined snakes, mice, glass and rusted nails.
I tried to picture having to tell her mother that the last time I saw Alyson she was trudging across a vacant lot alone.
We weighed our options. I figured I was going to make the dental office people mad because I would be late or miss my appointment.
I turned the car around and we went back to the main road on down to the grocery store we could see from where we were.
The GPS kept arguing, telling us to make a U-turn and prepare to park and walk.
We muddled around, turning this way, searching for somewhere we'd never been and then, voila!
There was a house with the correct number on the garage wall. Apparently this subdivision was not yet on the Google map.
Alyson collected her things and walked to the porch. She rang the bell and the door opened.
I called the dentist and rearranged the appointment.
All is well.
But, my goodness, what was the GPS thinking?
I'm NOT leaving any of my grandchildren to walk any unknown distance to a vague destination.