Keeping out of trouble

Ever since I was a child, I've had a hard time keeping out of trouble.
My teachers in the primary grades used to write on my report cards that I like to talk too much.
When I got older, I would get called into the principal's office (or the local ward bishop's office) because I was creating so much havoc in my classes that the teachers were at their wit's end.
I was either talking too much or writing too much down to share.
(I actually started my writing career with a novel that I wrote in home room one page at a time. I would send off a page as it was finished and start another. The pages worked their way around the room until everybody was reading the latest installment instead of doing their classwork. The only reason I escaped without punishment was because the teacher got caught up in the story and needed to know who had Page 12!)

Gathering

In my inevitable career as a reporter, I often got called to task for a story somebody didn't like or didn't agree with.
Once in a while it involved bringing in my supervisor and the big bosses.
Usually I was OK because I had done my research and my editors know that writing for a newspaper was like working in a mine field. Anything can explode on you at any time.
The ones that got me into the most trouble were the fluff stories, the little innocuous stories that I would do as a favor for somebody, a groundbreaking or an advance for a minor event.
Somebody would see their name in the paper and freak out. Didn't I know this person was hiding out from an ex-husband, the mob or a bill collector and how could I print this trash?
It's been an interesting life as I've gone along, never a dull moment.
And you'd think I'd have learned something about the printed/published word.

Sharing the word

That's why it was a surprise to me when several people reacted to a recent blog, calling me to task for being mean.
I thought I'd been careful with my words.
I hadn't set out to hurt anybody or malign.
I really thought I was simply entertaining the valiant readers who check into "Grandma's Place."
I thought what I was writing was totally benign but possibly interesting.
But I was wrong and so here I am, 60 years old and still talking too much. I apologize but I'll probably keep blundering on.

Happy Birthday again and again

It's always a challenge to figure out what to get Marc for his birthday. It comes just after Father's day so I'm usually out of ideas.
This time though, I thought I had a clear shot at getting exactly what he wanted.
See, he had this pair of Boze earphones that had apparently been stolen when he want to Salt Lake for an audition.
He was heartsick because it hadn't been easy to talk me into buying them for him at Christmas.
I thought they were too expensive and it always makes me mad when I try to talk to him and he's lost in his music.
But he really, really wanted some earphones that stayed in and sounded marvelous to boot.
So when he came home to tell me he'd tossed them on the car seat as he ran in to his interview only to find them gone when he returned, I figured I could save the day by getting him another pair for his birthday.
In the meantime, he got his new job so we wouldn't be free to shop on his actual birthday so I suggested we go up the Saturday prior to pick up a pair. (I dare not buy these without him.)
He was pleased but less than thrilled when I said, "Of course, you won't be surprised on your birthday."
"These are for my birthday?" he said. "We're counting them for my birthday?"
Whoops. I guess not.
Now his weedeater has quit on him so we've bought a new one. Since his birthday is tomorrow, I'm thinking, "All right. Here's his gift."
It came in yesterday so we drove up to pick it up. When I said "Happy Birthday!" he was less than impressed.
So that's no good.
I would have counted the extra tie we got when we bought a wedding tie but that seems cheap.
I wonder if there's any chance he'll break or lose something else in time for me to pick it up before tomorrow.

The night lights

Whether or not you agree with the changes in Utah's fireworks law, one has to admit, it certainly made for a more visually interesting 4th of July.
We happened to be driving home from my son's home in Eagle Mountain and were amazed at the scene.
There were dramatic fireworks on every turn, so big and so many that it was difficult to pick out the professional ones being set off at Thanksgiving Point in Lehi.
(The only way to tell was to identify the longitude and latitude.)
There were fireworks of all colors and kinds, big boomy ones and spinners and the kind that look like giant dandelions.
Some whistled and others danced. Some did a series of flashes and flares. Others soared really high into the air, headed for the moon.
I'm not sure making some more elaborate fireworks legal in our fair state is cutting down on the traffic to Wyoming and Nevada. There were plenty of displays that we could see that didn't look all that legal.
I'm not even convinced that it's a safe and sane plan but it made for a really fun night, especially since we actually only spent about $30 for ours but reaped the benefit of thousands of dollars of other people's expenditures.

Parade squatting

The family put me in charge of finding a good spot for watching the Lehi Miniature Parade.
Everyone else either has a legitimate job or babies or children to chauffeur to gymnastics and such.
So I agreed to take on the task although I highly dislike seat-saving and have — in the past — made some rude comments to people who do that.

I pride myself on getting to places in enough time that I don't have to ask anyone to save me a seat and I wholeheartedly agree with the new LDS Church manners policy that says the only good way to save a seat is to be in it.
So I approached the task with some trepidation.
I know how seriously people in Utah take their parade-watching.
I've seen the fistfights that break out at the Freedom Festival Parade between folks who've slept on the street overnight to secure places and those who arrive late with kids in tow looking for a shady spot.
I figured I would need to get to Lehi early if I wanted to find enough space for half a dozen adults and as many children.
The parade started at 6 p.m. so I planned to head over at 5.
By 4 p.m. I was so nervous I just grabbed a book and booked it.
I drove up and down the streets noticing that most of the available green space was already claimed with chairs and ropes and blankets laid down from Wines Park to Main Street.
I headed to a familiar spot near the Legacy Center. Marc and I had often parked ourselves thereabouts when we were covering the parade for our newspapers.
I found a place for the car and spied a thin space between two sets of lawn chairs across the street.
I marched over and put down my chair. I then put a heavy blanket on the curb figuring the kids could sit there and we adults would fit ourselves in behind them.
I eyed the chairs on either side of me and the lawn behind. I gently pushed the chairs aside a bit to make room for my daughters, husband and grandchildren.
We'd probably be all right if we were lucky and the people who owned the chairs weren't hostile.
I sat. I started reading. I played a game on my phone studiously ignoring people who came by, near or around me. I broke into a sweat every time a truck stopped on the road in front of me, sure that I was going to be yelled at. I checked my watch and waited for reinforcements.
Time passed. People were congregating.
I went over and put out another  blanket on the curb by the intersection in case we got evicted.
"Ma, am!" said a lady on my right. "Ma, am!" she said again.
"This is it," I thought, slowly looking up and at her. She was standing by the chairs I'd pushed over a little, looking somewhat indignant.
"Uh, yes?" I asked, all innocent of course.
"Are you saving all of this space?" she demanded, waving her arm at the expanse.
"Uh, no." I said, "Just this, just where I'm sitting."
"Good," she said, plunking herself down and inviting her party to do the same. "I hate it when people who aren't even here try to save the whole street!"
Whew, a fellow marauder.

Finding our digs

Usually when we travel to Bear Lake we know exactly where we're going.
Since we own a sliver of a timeshare we have a condo at Ideal Beach that is made available to us every year for a king's ransom.
This past weekend, we were winging it.
I had found a fairly reasonable rate for a place online where we had never stayed.
The trouble began when we started to look for it.

Not where we stayed

The only address I had was "Marina #6" at Harbor Village.
Having stayed and eaten at Harbor Village in years past, I wasn't worried and didn't do the Internet Mapquest thing although I know better.
We drove to Harbor Village. The posh restaurant we remembered was closed up. The formerly classy units were now run down. There was no business office apparent.
We drove around finding signs that said "Private! Stay out!" and other friendly warnings.
We looked carefully at our home printed receipt. It listed the place as a Bear Lake Properties rental.

Not where we stayed

The Harbor Village we remembered

We looked them up on Marc's smart phone and tried to drive to the address for the office downtown.
"Downtown" again in Garden City, we finally found the office back behind a bunch of souvenir shops and the post office.
The lady in charge gave us keys, tried to draw us a map and we headed back out.
This time we drove up and around and down and around and back again around Harbor Village. We found private homes and condo units with chains on their gates and defunct rentals. We found some friendly deer.
Finally we settled for a bunch of somewhat tired-looking condo units in a pink building with garages on the bottom and no way up to the living space.
Number 6 was painted on the garage door in front of us but there were no stairs or elevators apparent.
I went up the south side and Marc went to the north. I found grass, lots of brick steps and a scenic view. He found stairs, four flights. He trundled down to #6 and tried his key which fit.
I started toting luggage clear down the way, up the stairs and south again.
It was our place for sure, an okay condo with a patio view of Bear Lake and five working remotes (what more can a man ask for?).
So it worked out. We got our exercise every time we went in or out and we learned a lesson.

Also not where we stayed

Never assume people who build condo units or rent condo units do things in a way that makes any sense.

A tree in the drink

Last year, we all stood on the beach at Bear Lake and lamented the lack of water.
The lake was so far out and the water so far down that we had to trudge long distances to reach the beach.
We had to park our shademakers and canvas chairs right down next to the waves if we wanted to be ready to march into the water when the Jet-skis were launched.
We all griped about how tough it was.
This year, it's a whole new problem.
The beach that was, isn't.

Trees growing in H2O

There's no sand between the water and the shore, unless you count the sand imported by Ideal Beach Properties that served as a beach a decade ago.
The homes that boast of having beachfront property now have water just off their porches.
The trees that have grown in the sand are now clear out in the lake, looking sort of funny and very vulnerable.
It will make for an interesting recreational year for families like ours who traditionally spend a week playing in the water.
We'll have to watch out for tree branches and grass getting tangled in our wave-runners.
We won't be able to take the little kiddles clear down to the water to make sand castles. We'll have to adapt and play more games inside.
Instead of sandy beaches to play in, we'll have to learn enjoy walking in muck.
We can drive over to the North Shore and pay $5 to play on the public beach but that seems a shame since we have beach privileges on the Ideal Beach side just outside our condo.
It'll require some adaptation and creative thinking, some sacrifice and loss.
How rude of Mother Nature to do this.

The Hover Guy

Marc and I received a little card in the mail from R.C. Willey telling us we had money to spend.
All we had to do was to go to one of the stores and find something for $10.
Now, I'm no dummy. I realize there's nothing to buy at this fine store for only $10 and the card with free money is really a gimmick to get me in the showroom.
But I'm a sucker for a freebie and thought it was at least worth a try.
Maybe I could find something for $25 or $30 and look at it as getting $10 off.
(I once found a really nifty camera case for about $50 when I had a $25 gift card.)
We had a little time a few days ago while we were visiting in Salt Lake so I convinced Marc to stop at the outlet with me.
"Look around," I suggested. "Maybe there's a banana chair or one of those kid-size recliners on sale."
He started walking around — not an easy feat right now since his foot is broken and in a boot.
I met him at the CD sale table but by then he'd picked up a salesman.
This guy wanted to know what we were looking for.
I told him we had a little cash to spend and just wanted to browse.
Not taking the hint, he pushed. "Anything in particular you'd like to see?" he asked.
"Oh, maybe a banana chair or a small-size child's recliner," I offered, trying to get away.
He scoffed. "We haven't had those for years," he said, "but here are our banana chairs."
I stepped over and surveyed the inventory.
Marc came with me. So did the sales guy.
We looked them over but for some reason, Marc was a little testy now. The sales guy was two feet away, staring at us hard.
We went back to the CDs. Some were within our $10 price range but Marc was disinterested, not really looking seriously at any of them. He was getting kind of angry, even.
"Maybe this wasn't a good idea," I said, "I didn't think about your foot."
"It's not my foot," he said with a significant look at me.
I looked behind him. The sales guy was hot on his heels. He was hovering and intent. He really wanted to sell us something. He was obviously committed to earning his commission.
So much so that he drove us to a premature albeit unsatisfying shopping decision.
"We are outta here," Marc said.
Anyone need a $10 gift card?