Elvis, Earnings, Economy and Exhaustion

(photo courtesy and used with permission of: emersonmade.com)

Sometime, a few weeks ago, I asked my son a critical question: "Do you know who Elvis Presley is?"

"Yeh, the guy in the picture hanging on the bathroom wall." he answered, in part, correctly.



(This picture has hung in the basement bathroom for as long as I can remember and was what started me collecting black and white Elvis Calendars and the white stack of Charmin is part of Padre's TP collection)

"But did you know that he was the King of Rock?" I pressed harder.

"No, why and how?" he asked perplexed that the suave, black haired, full lipped man in a red cardigan, could have anything to do with what he perceives as RoCK!

Being the excellent mother educator that I am, I gave a tutorial starting with a brief history in rock. As most of he and I's educational journeys; we were led to Google; the Maharishi of all answer's to wee one's questions. On behalf of all stymied mothers, Thank You, Google. Truly, thanks. Truly, your site has led my son and I from in front of the computer with him on my lap to places we never dreams and as a result interrupted his nightly dreams with an occasional nightmare or two. But we will take our lumps and bring up your address, daily, just so we can see the cute way you write your name.

I typed: 'Nothing but a Hound Dog'. A black and white Milton Berle episode circa 1965 caught my eye and I dangerously clicked on it. (Padre thinks that with each frivolous click, viruses attack computers. He is so smart. And so old-school)

"Nice guitar and dance moves." he mumbled boredly. Finally, flatly replied:

"Mom, this isn't rock." as if to assume that I, his mom, don't know what I am talking about and to suggest I am also old-school.

"yes, but up to this point NO ONE had gone for this quick,racy beat; he introduced a style that hadn't been done before."

To bring my point full circle, Presley's hips got to swayin' in a circle and he's "cuh-rying"; to the point that I am almost in tears,too.


"See that move?" sniff. "That was really suggestive back in 1956." I wiped my nose with the nearest crumpled napkin.

He looked at me bewildered: "Suggesting what?"

(maybe my ca-rying was perplexing. can't a mom have sinus surgery or heck, get allergies? or oh, yeh, son, I FORGOT that YOUR day is passed this point of moral controversy!)


"That we listen to his CD today as we do our work." I quipped impatiently and hiding my tears lady-like. Or cow-girl like or whatever we women do when you CAN'T show your innate nature to burst into tears over a celebrity or something very minor.


J half hearted watched the comedy between Elvis and Uncle Berlie after the performance, Elvis running his hand through his jet black hair and acting shy and embarrassed about all the women crying and screaming next to their surprised and dejected dates.

Elvis, confessed that, and I'm paraphrasing: " it isn't 'all that' to have women clamoring for you, and that he'd "rather have a quiet, calm gal." I let out a long deep sigh. That would have stricken me from the running right there.

Elvis gave and example of who that lady like demeanor would look like: "Someone like Debra Paget; she's real 'goin'" At that point I'm gone. And, thankfully, so is J who had beat it into the back yard to play. Thank you, Summer.

I kept watching and wouldn't you know, the sophisticated, calm Ms. Paget, shows up on the stage; Berle introduces her to Elvis Presley. And Ms. P loses it, she screams, wraps her arms around Elvis and starts kissing him in this pageant dress, messing up her perfectly placed hair.

Thanks, Debbie! (sniff) that was a true depiction of what we calm women can be capable of, if pushed.

I knocked down You Tube, gathered my self and headed out to start watering my flowers.

As I sat standing with the sun beating down on the back of my calves, I reminded J about his goal: to earn money. And that meant getting to work.

Amazingly, any time J gets a hankering to buy something, he is re-committed to earning his money. Starts at such a young age.

But first, he has to check all the locations and price the item so as to have a good idea how many dollars he needs.

This particular day, it was roller blades: Waaayyy out of his wallet's league. And mine, too, come to think of it, but I don't let him in on my money. I always tell him that I didn't put it into the "budget" and won't budge on buyin' till I do.



"Ya gotta work, son. Not just drool over what you want." I said at the second place we stopped on 17th- yeah, I drove across town for my errands and pretended it was all for him.

I continued my motherly sermon: " You may find that you don't want it that bad after you have worked for that amount of money." (value of a dollar must be taught here! Economists think inflation is caused by all these other factors, c'mon geniuses, it happens with parents given in to kids! tongue in cheek, tongue in cheek, brillaint math/statistic/ brains out there that know how to count.)

Dejected, we walked back into the car and I priced a couple items I wanted and will never buy, and went to my errand runnin'

Windows down in the Suburban, and 2/3 of the way through the Elvis track, J said he wanted to pick up some cans from my sister's horse hotel:A quaint little number in the country that makes J extremely jealous of his cousin's good fortune of living in such a divine location. It prob cost me the price of the cans he smashed to drive there, but hey, I am teaching him to WORK!

By the time we finally were beating it back from Iona to our house because we had a late afternoon bb game, J and I were fighting over listening to 'See See Rider' or 'A Little Less Conversation A little more Action.' We flew passed the outlying HIGH SCHOOL when he said: "Now, this is better." referring to the up tempo in Elvis' repertoire.

Time was tight to pick up our gear, fill the orange cooler in lightning time, and grab the back pack of mitts and stray baseballs. Throwing them all in the car, child included: (think of Calvin and Hobbes when the bathrobe, slippered wearing mom tosses Cal out the front door to catch the bus to school. Now that brings tears to my eyes too, sniff. Those comics could be J's biography.

In the late afternoon heat we drove back across town to the City Park where the games are played. Whether the heat or what Elvis was bringing over the stereo, we MOZIED to la musica with a 'devil may care if we are late' attitude. The deep strains of background Cello and the mellow croon of Presley running through our heads like kids through sprinklers.

Crossing over the train tracks, onto the back road to the ball diamonds, J threw his request out once again. Go to 30, mom. Not car speed but the number on the CD where more 'Action' lay. (his fav Elvis song, now)

I eyed him with the look of you have had your way all day and of course consent when he said:

"I gotta get ready for the game, mom!"

So we stepped it up with King's help.

We won, he earned some more money mowin' the neighbor's lawn that evening and I realized that when J has to work to earn moneyI am right there beside him; workin' hard, too, teacihing the correct way and re-directing him.

Afterward, in an effort to keep inflation under control I was bartering over what percentage of money the child actually earned, considering I did a HUGE portion of the pulling, prodding, and pushing: All in an effort to help him reach a goal.

He fought back like a politician. Wow. What exactly am I teaching him? We hit the hay, exhausted.

He was sinking into sleep and I quietly sat up from cuddling that cute boy and singing the songs we've sung since day 1; tucked the covers tightly around him so he'd still feel my embrace when he deliriously murmured to me:

"We gotta not work so hard, momma."

Oh! That melted me empathetic heart and highlighted the aching muscles through out my body.

I kissed his cheek real soft and whispered: "I'll say. this is summer, Son!"

Leaving a crack of light from the hallway, so he can find his way to me if he needs to, I looked one last time in on my growin' little man of la mancha, (long time Spanglish nickname--) knowing that with kids out there like him and my little baseball team, the economy is gonna be in good hands.

A Preparation Lesson for Ewe

WARNING! DO NOT READ THIS POST IF YOU ARE VERY BUSY! IT WILL ONLY MAKE YOU RELAX AND LAUGH-- ALL THINGS THAT PREPARED PEOPLE TRY TO AVOID!

YOU WILL SEE A LINK TO WEARABLE WONDER

IN THE FORM OF FLOWERS, DRESSES, AND BLOUSES. Clicking on the link will only inflict desire and longing; followed by tight budgeting to buy the items your heart desires. (The seductive URL: emersonmade.com)

BE ye LEMONY-SNICKET FOREWARNED!!!!!

(This person is the Mystery author of the brillaint book series: A Series of Unfortunate Events. I highly recommend them. Snickett grabs your attention with smart definitions for words; made up, or no. Witty word selection and warnings along with hiding behind a cool pen name, never showong you his face; genius-)

That said, I can now superflously stuff words on this post with out the pressure. I can weed out any half-hearted/half-commited followers, and thus wrap myself in free-lance freedom.

Anyhow, My true followers, ought to know by now that I enjoy LONG, thick, Bible- book reads; so get comfy; this won't be short.

Now that you are prepared for this post,

I have to ask you a serious question first.

Have any of you seen Footloose?

You know, the horror film with Kevin Bacon in it?
(It falls into that category simply because of Bacon's striking resemblance to The Tormentor older brother, for any of you that are new to this site).

You might wonder Why did Amanda randomly ask this question or make mention of this movie in conjunction to preparation? (short answer: killer filler and her inability to tell ONE story without several inbedded)


LONG ANSWER:

If you have any connection to the Lehi Flour Mills you mention it because it's like you, Kevin, and the iconic movie all had something to do with eachother's success.

...the backdrop to Kevin's sweet ballet/gymnist/anger management dance.

I bet you also did not know they create the best wheat around. -I confess, I didn't either, until I checked out their site, lehirollermill.com, to find a picture of the place and also found that they make yummy heart healthy baking mixes. -Did I mention I don't get a cut of any of these plugs? (I just hope they will forgive me if I get caught up in some copyrite probs...)MY connection to the Lehi Mills, which is now surrounded by a sprawling town is down the street from a car dealership: Hardman Car Company. Care and her husband, Sonny:

The duo behind the dealership have major education under their belts and wheel-n-deal from there. If you were to walk into the office, lanky cap wearin' guy in shorts and a Hardman logo-ed polo, flip flopping around the lot would take you pleasantly by surprise. He doesn't LOOK like a saleman or ACT like one!
(see the blog: The Car Salesman's Wife, for my friend's travails and thoughts about being the wife to an HONEST car salesman can be found- this isn't a monetary plug either. Sonny is that good of a man, hence Care's blog. If you need a car or want to see what I am talking about go to: sales@hardmancarcompany.com;hardmancarcompany.com)

Okay... back to my little story

A FAR ann LONG stone's throw from the mill is where my Preparation Story takes place. The setting: a cozy country home, redone inside with modern cuteness by Care, my friend. But outside huge trees shade the once used chicken run, wrap around porch and overall country tone. From neighboring ranches horses whinny, sheep softly bleat and the view of the mountains makes a breathtaking atmosphere and reasonably back up the Happy Valley moniker.

The Hardman's are taking a special spotlight on this blog because it was at their home that I learned the very valuable lession about being prepared:

No matter how much you prepare for, it can be undone or lost within seconds, so keep it all in perspective.
There was some saying or bit of advice I heard long ago that essentially said to "imagine your favorite thing; broken." That sort of pessimistic thinking can put preparation freaks into an all out frenzy. I don't like it.

In our family bringing everything but the kithen sink is a quote we unconsciously live by if we have inherited the "sink" gene. Some of us, and I won't mention names, go berserk about being prepared, only to miss the point of WHY you prepared in the first place. When I was a mere pre-teen I anxiously watched Padre spend all night and day getting ready for a camping trip only to drive into the camping grounds, us kids packed in the suburban like sardines amongst the gear; to turn around and head home. (Genetically discouraged and tired from all the preparation. To REMOVE the items out, use or put them up, only to take them down again and return home was too much and begs the question I'm sure he asked himself that late evening: What's the point in that?

You can see that the sink gene can be a blessing and a curse. That's why we women carry a purse.

If you need anything; ask one of these purse carrying women if they have what you need. 9 times out of 10, they will. But often, you need just the sink- and they don't haul that..ppff.. how silly is that?

To ask sink gened folk to follow the scripture: "without purse or script" takes a whole lot more than faith. Who would take that kind of Devil May Care attitude? That is for us to grapple with and you just need read on.

Okay, here's the story and

Remember, I had to set the stage for my visit to the Beehive State where I work Hard, Man. Whether visiting my office at the U where, I grind away as a Professional Pioneer of Modern Medicine, (the pay is not good unless you think of paying it forward, in which case it is priceless, or a leisure vacation with work worked into the agenda.

This particular visit didn't require I hit the U office but work from the tranquil home where Sonny and Care reside. Hard economic times however, have made the two of them very busy and my trip down was to work; not play.

Unlike the two of them, I had the opportunity to stop at points and do my favorite job in the world:

weed, cultivate dirt and stand in the sun with a hose in my hand watering flowers.
I like to see dry dirt the color of adobe bricks made somewhere in Nex Mexico turn into the lovely, renewing color of brown earth; hills and valleys turned over by my two glove covered hands and deet/mosquito, SPF-ed reppelant body.


Watching my friend frantically work on marketing strategies and my inability to increase my risk for skin cancer by laying by a serene pool that I can't get into due to sinus surgery, spurred me to weed. Or rather, they lured me into my trance-like gardening state of mind.

Pulling long, straw entwined by thorny rose bushes is an unsatiable challenge. (Brain surgeons must feel this same mind numbing satisfaction, Minus all the pressure but still holding the same scary feeling of moving a centimeter from where you should.)

I wasn't wearing gloves which is a green thumb no-brainer. But often I am able to weed better when I don't have the gloves blocking the senses in my finger tips;I can feel the root tug, needed position on the weed to extract it from its earth grip.

It reminds me of the nurses that sometimes risk taking off a glove to search for one of my veins because they can get a better idea where the little devils roll off and hide.

Yes, it takes a special personality to find rapture in weeding and watering. You should try sitting on a stool in a garden hovering over weeds, methodically pulling out each one so your the garden can grow.

The cool earth rejuvenates your body and the quiet growing of flowers, plants, food, and even those wild weeds helps your heart slow down to a molasses like rate.

If you surrender to them, the solid earth beneath your feet can ground you. The green grass and leaves of plants around cool and prepare for the vivid bursts of color and flavor that can come from their contrasts.

Heart beat in time with the course of a harvest makes me think gentler thoughts. Each flower or rose branch is tenderly cut back or dead-headed. While you prune you somtimes are hesitant to take something that is still pretty but somewhat wilted, but you do because you know that the up and coming buds need the nutrients in order to burst into continued beauty.

Workin' hard, man, has never been so pleasant and easy. Especially at the Hardman's.

A day of fairy-like flitting through the yard generated a vase full of big yellow roses, salmon/peach and pink rose trees lent contrast beside a variety of other colors.

The final wall of red roses create a fortress of Mexican Red Senorita red roses against the back drop of wooden fence. Here was the final destination for my work. To clip back and take of the best ones for my bouquet.

I sat on the grass and rearranged flowers as I tilted my head from side to side, rotated the pale lemonade colored vase to see if the symmetry and fractal-like lessons I'd been given years earlier from Peter Lasik, the head gardener at the time for Temple Square were being put to good use.

With the rubber side of the gloves I broke off the stubborn, sharp thorns by taking my thumb and pushing them to the right until their razor peaks fell off. This way they slid more easily into thte vase. My clippers worked wonders for the rose bushes whose stems had a zillion tiny annoying spikes perfect for slivers. In fact I had to take out two even with my gloves covering my hands.

But none can compare to the big one from the Texas yellow rose bush that drove itself into my big toe's side-kick. REmoving a sandal without disturbing a shark fin drivin into your toe isn't easy.

*****okay this post is getting too long for even me.

After all that work, I went outside to get better reception from my blue tooth, my head was down as I walked toward that wall of roses and the yellow visor from Wal-Mart blocked my view.

Suddenly I saw something and looked up to find myself in a herd of gy-normous sheep all lined up in a row from one end of the fence to the other. Chawing the rose petals real slow with their head all turned in the same direction to look at me we both stared at one another for a long second.

They seemed to be thinking: "What's that dumb girl doing talking to herself?" and with the audacity to think that what they were doing was not a big deal.

After my shock of being in front of unsheered sheep that reached my shoulder I let out a scream.

Sheep scattered all over the place. Leeping over eachother and me, trying to find which way they'd gotten into the yard. I found my way back inside the house and Care came and shepherded them back through the open gate.

All that pruning was for naught. The sheep had successfully eaten most of the red roses, leaving only the utmost top ones they couldn't reach.

As we examined the damage, stepping between the excrement, Care checked the gate to see if it was securely shut.

She looked over the fence to see all the sheep stadning there waiting in a line. Just her saying that brought awful thoughts of being swarmed by them and I let out

another scream. they hightailed back over the canal via the bridge and into their little pasture.

Lesson learned: There is no way to be prepared for what life will throw at you cause you can't see what is comin' no matter how hard you try.

THE END of this POST-- aren't you glad? I am