POLAR OPPOSITE

 

Sundy and G.J.

Pioneer Day

My sister, G.J., is my polar opposite, and that is a good thing.  Opposites cannot exist without each other.  We work as background for each other. And we are better because of it. Throughout my life, G.J. has had my back, even when we were asked to sing in church. 

I love singing. I love performing. I love being the center of attention. I love being indoors. G.J. does not love singing, she’s rather be gardening. G.J. does not love performing, she’d rather be behind the scenes. G.J. loves the outdoors.

As children, G.J. and I often were asked to sing in sacrament meeting. One year, in July, my sister and I were asked to sing for Pioneer Day. Grandma T. made us beautiful purple and white dresses with bonnets for the occasion. I gracefully climbed the stairs to the front of the chapel to sing. G.J. nearly ran to the podium. We sang “Pioneer Children Sang as They Walked, and Walked, and Walked, and Walked.” The congregation smiled up at us, and I knew we were the stars of the “show!”  After the last ‘walked,’ I elegantly began the retreat back to sit with my parents. G.J. took one look at the walk around the short wall dividing us from the congregation and leaped over the divider with all the agility of a gazelle. No one remembered our beautiful singing. No one remembered our precious outfits. Everyone laughed at G.J.’s audacity to high jump in the middle of sacrament meeting.

Apparently, our friends and family did not learn their lesson from that experience, because 10 years later, we were asked to sing for our best friend’s mission farewell. I chose a beautiful song called, “Oh, That I Were an Angel.” The message was perfect for a future missionary. G.J. trusted my judgement, because I was a musician. We practiced. We were ready. We smiled at Damon as we went to the podium to sing. The first part of the song was perfect. I felt that angels were singing with us, as we declared that we wanted to share the gospel. BUT then G.J. started laughing. Apparently, she freaked out over the high D in the song. (Which wasn’t really that high.) She continued to laugh, and her laugh was contagious. I began to laugh too. We tried to pull it together. We couldn’t. We didn’t finish. I slunk off the stage completely humiliated. G.J. continued to guffaw when we got to our seats. It was after the meeting that I learned how different we were. Everyone came up to G.J. sympathetically and expressed how proud they were of her bravery in singing. Then they would turn to me. “How could you not hold it together?” they would ask. “You’re a musician,” they accused. I was so embarrassed.

Yes, G.J. and I are opposites. And often that is a good thing. I still sing and love the spotlight. G.J. still plays sports and loves being an introvert. I believe that opposites are not contradictory, but complimentary… except when singing in public.

At least that’s the way I remember it.

TEACHER MODE: ON

 

TEACHER MODE: ON

“McCallister’s residence, Sundy speaking,” I recited, as I answered the phone for the first time. 

My mother had spent most of the day before, teaching my siblings and I how to answer a phone correctly.  Zane, G.J., and I sat in front of clunky borrowed phones while Mom pretended to call us.  She would pick up the phone in front of her and then point to one of us as she made a ringing sound.  In turns, we would answer with the correct phrase, “McCallister’s residence, ______ speaking.” 

Once we all answered correctly, we were able to graduate to the real land-line phone with an extra-long chord.

Mom was a natural teacher.  Before she had children of her own, she taught elementary school.  She considered her students her kids.  She was born to teach and was good at it. 

When I was born, she willingly left her chosen profession to stay home with me.  But she never stopped teaching.  Her new classroom was our dining room table and my siblings and I were her eager students.

Mom loved to read novels to her students.  She  believed in the benefits of reading aloud to kids.

Mom was a great storyteller.  She read aloud with amazing expression and always used different voices for the various characters.  My siblings and I would sit at her feet – hanging on every word.  When she read “Where the Red Fern Grows” by Wilson Rawls, Zane, G.J. and I cried.

“A Wrinkle in Time” by Madeleine L’Engle was my first foray into fantasy books.  I was intrigued by the supernatural beings who teleported Meg, Charles Wallace, and Calvin through the universe. 

Mom let us eat a few chocolate chips every time she sat down to read to us “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” by Roald Dahl.

I loved her reading to me so much that I begged her to read to my own daughters years later when we took a trip to Disneyland with her.  On that vacation, my mother read “Charlotte’s Web” aloud to my girls.  I felt nostalgic and sentimental as I listened to my mother read to my girls and use special voices for Charlotte and Templeton.  The book was one of my childhood favorites – my mother had read it to me.

Mom also started a small business with a friend called The Woodchuck.  She and Lynn Mortenson made wooden gifts to sell at craft fairs.  The Woodchuck quickly became a learning experience for her children as well.  Mom taught me how to stain, spray paint and dot paint.  I learned how to pick out #2 pine wood.  She taught me to pray before using the power tools, and she even allowed me to use the bandsaws and sander.  These skills have enriched my life.  Every time I use power tools, I think of my mom and her life lessons.

My mom went back to teaching fourth grade when I was in college.  Every year she allowed me to come to her classroom to teach, direct, and produce a performance with her students.  She taught me through example and experience how to be a patient, kind, and dedicated teacher.  It was because of mom that I knew I wanted to be a teacher when I grew up.

“Always be teachable” my mother reminded me.  I wish I could still be her students.  She loved learning.  She loved teaching. 

She taught me many valuable life lessons.  One of the most memorable: We are all students and teachers.  We should often ask ourselves, “What did I come here to learn?  What did I come here to teach?” 

At least that’s the way I remember it.

ABUSED MUSICALLY

Dad on his mandolin.

When I was a child, I remember he was most often on his guitar.

One of my favorite movie quotes is, “I was abused as a child. It was mostly musical in nature.”  

The moment I heard this quote I called my father to share that I too had been abused musically. He laughed and agreed.

 

It began as a child. GJ, Zane and I would lie on our parents’ bed waiting for our turn to be “rocked” by dad in the rocking chair.  We each were given the opportunity to choose two songs. If we were quiet, we got to listen to all six songs as we waited for our turn.

 

We each had our favorite songs. Dad always sang, “You Are My Sunshine” to me. GJ’s song was, “I Love You A Bushel and a Peck.” And Zane loved a really obscure song called, “Give Me That Thing.” The other songs were chosen based on our moods. Usually dad sang, “Come, Come Ye Saints” and “O My Father.”  

The memories of the rocking chair are my earliest memories of music and the wonderful feelings that come with it. But, my “abuse” did not end there. Singing on vacation in the car was another wonderful memory. Dad taught us all kinds of folk tunes. We sang, “There’s a Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road,” “The Wreck of the Old 49,” “The Hunter,” and “Jug Band Music.” Sometimes, Dad would even have the words typed up for us to follow along so we could learn it easier. That really helped when we learned “To Morrow” by Bob Gibson (the Kingston Trio performed it).

 

I love folk music, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Most of my generation like country music or 80s rock. I even have friends who love classic music and new age music. My daughter adores the 70s vibe of Queen, and my other daughter rocks out to One Republic.

 

This past month, Scott and I have been “rocking out” to folk songs. I laugh to songs like, “John Henry,” sung by the Smother’s Brothers. He and I cry over songs like, “The Raven,” by Peter, Paul and Mary.  Buffy St. Marie brings back memories of Dad again with her song, “Cripple Creek.” I just love it all. Why? Well, folk music has a history to it. I can feel it in my bones. It’s timeless. It’s like a captured sunset or a firefly. I grew up singing these songs everywhere — in the car, around the campfire, and at home in our living room. And the concepts are timeless and teach wonderful life lessons. There are many songs about love or heartbreak, but there are an equal number that are fun, light, and happy.

 

I love so many types of music because of my “abusive” childhood. Music is truly incredible. Music touches us each differently, and I hope we are never ashamed of the music we love, no matter what our tastes are. There’s music out there for all of us to enjoy. But, I hope you’ll give folk songs a chance. You never know what you’ll love. 

 

At least that’s the way I remember it.

CAUGHT YA

“You’ve got this!” My mom encouraged as I struggled through another difficult contraction. I was in labor with my second child and my mom was my coach.

Two weeks earlier, my husband moved to Las Vegas, Nevada. He was to prepare a place for our little family to move to as soon as the baby was born. He was still in Vegas when Dr. King informed me that Scott needed to come right away for the birth of his second born. I called my husband, and he hit the road.

In the meantime, my mom was my pregnancy coach, and my mother-in-law was watching our 18-month-old while I gave birth.

Mom picked me up at noon to take me to the hospital. She looked beautiful. She always did. She never went anywhere without looking “put together.” She wore a bright yellow shirt, sunshine ear rings, and denim culottes. She smiled as she excitedly took me to the hospital.

My mom spent the next 6 hours giving me ice chips and holding my hand through the pain. She told me stories about her school students and their antics to take my mind off the labor.

I remember her smiling a lot in anticipation. My mom’s smile is legendary. She never showed her teeth when she smiled, but her eyes danced. Every time the doctor and nurses came to check on my progress her smile would reach almost to her ears.

At 6:00 p.m. on June 26, 2000, I told the doctor that it was time for me to push. He told me to wait for my husband, but Katia wasn’t patient. 

I began pushing. Mom continued to hold my hand and cheer me on. After two pushes, my husband walked into the delivery room. He came up to where my mother stood and took her place, taking hold of my hand. Mom moved down toward the foot of the bed to get a better view of her newest grandchild.

Earlier in the evening, Dr. King asked me if it would be alright if one of the interns delivered our baby. I assured him that would be OK. So, the intern was in position with my mom standing close by.

Katia was so excited to join the world that instead of coming out in the span of two pushes, she slid out in one. The intern was caught by surprise, and my baby girl slipped through his hands.

My mother jumped into action. She caught my precious child before she hit the floor. The yellow shirt she had adorned for my benefit was a mess, but my little girl was healthy and safe.  My mother literally saved my daughter’s life.

Since, she always reminded my daughter, “I caught ya’, Katia!”

Mothers are extraordinary! My mother has always been my role model. She’s been my cheer leader. She’s been my teacher. She’s a mentor, a confidant, a religious instructor, and a terrific grandmother. She’s been my best friend. 

Lance Conrad once wrote, “I can imagine no heroism greater than motherhood.” My mom really is my hero!

At least that’s the way I remember it.

THE SACRAMENT

 A little background: I was 17 years old, a senior in high school, and I constantly had a boyfriend. I struggled with self-worth — due to bullying — and I found a false sense of self-worth in always having a sweetheart.

I started off dating a lot of young men who belonged to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Unfortunately, those relationships were unsuccessful. So, I began dating a lot of non-member boys. I argued that I could “change” them and share the gospel with them. I also determined that sometimes young men not of my faith could be kinder and more gentlemanly than some of the boys in the Church.

My senior year, I began dating a boy I met in show choir. Regrettably, he was only 14 years old, which gave my family something to tease me about. He also came from a broken home with a lot of inappropriate principles. Being older and more mature, I thought I could transform him into the perfect guy.

Despite my neediness, I still had a testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I was a good girl. I got straight A’s in seminary. I went to church every week with my family and partook of the sacrament. I tried to keep the commandments.

One particular Sabbath morning, I went to church with my family. We sat in the middle of the congregation as the bishop stood up to begin the meeting. Somehow, my gaze wandered to the sacrament table, and I realized that nobody was there. At the same time, two of my good guy friends (Damon Sheneman and Mickey Matlo) noticed the same thing.  I watched them look at each other and communicate without words as they both headed to the front of the chapel to set up the bread and water.

My heart softened as I realized how extraordinary it was that they were worthy and had the appropriate priesthood to set up the sacrament. I loved how they took their priesthood duties and authority seriously. That day they blessed the lives of those in the congregation — we needed to partake of Christ’s Atonement. 

The sacrament was administered and although there was nothing different about the bread and water, it was a sanctifying experience. The ritual was different because I had realized the importance of the priesthood and I knew I wanted to have the power of God in my own life. In that moment I felt inspired to repent. I knew that I needed to marry someone who held the priesthood. I knew that I needed to date worthy young men who were strong in the gospel of Jesus Christ. I knew that I couldn’t “change” someone. 

The power of that sacrament meeting was never forgotten. 

Spencer W. Kimball explains that “Marriage is perhaps the most vital of all decisions and has the most far-reaching effects, for it has to do not only with immediate happiness, but also with eternal joys.” Eternal joys come from covenants made in the temple to a worthy priesthood holder.

If Damon and Mickey had not used their priesthood for good and served in such a simple, profound way, I may never have achieved my dream of a celestial marriage with a wonderful man! Thank you, Damon and Mickey, wherever you are.

At least that’s the way I remember it.

MUSHROOMS

 

My "original" mushrooms

MUSHROOMS

My daughter thinks mushrooms are gross.  Not only does she find them disgusting, she actually is a bit suspicious of their motives.  She believes mushrooms are little aliens that are waiting for the signal from their mushroom planet to take over Earth.  In the mean time, we eat some of them, and she’s worried that they will retaliate and hold a grudge for all of the mushrooms consumed by unsuspecting earthlings.

I have never given the matter much thought, until my husband and I recently went chasing waterfalls.  We hiked all over Tennessee and Kentucky looking for the majestic floods of cascading water.  Some of the falls were mere trickles, but all of them were simply gorgeous!

On our excursion, Scott found tons of beauty in the leaves that had changed color on the ground.  We took pictures of lots of red and yellow leaves.  Some of the leaves were speckled and also contained shades of brown and green.  I found his color study intriguing.

As we walked, I discovered a small mushroom – I was captivated.  I bent down and studied the specimen.  The shroom was shaped like an umbrella with a white stem.  The bowl of the plant was white with intricate, small, raised bumps all over it.  It was beautiful in its simplicity.  I took a page from my husband’s book and took a picture of the fungi.

At the next waterfall, I found two more specimens.  One was the classic red mushroom with white polka-dots.  The stalk was much bulkier and looked like it could be a lawn ornament.  There was also a tiny yellow mushrooms cluster.  I took photos of these also.

I had found a fascination that I didn’t know I had.  It turned out that I really liked mushrooms.  Of course, I sent the pictures to my youngest daughter.  She expressed her revulsion, but I was not swayed in my newfound admiration of the plants.

Fast forward to a few weeks later, I continued to find mushrooms everywhere.  There were two unique mushrooms in our yard. One had “gills” underneath the cap: The gills looked like gathered ribbon to me.  The second fungus was shaped like a wooden flower.

Last year, my oldest daughter (the one without mycophobia) and I were driving home from grocery shopping.  As we drove, I saw gigantic mushrooms on the side of the road in the shape of a ring.  I quickly turned the car around, jumped out of the car and began snapping pictures.  Each mushroom in the display was the size of a salad plate.

There is really nothing remarkable about mushrooms, but I have learned that there is real beauty in simple things that some people find disturbing.  I think if we take time to really look at things, we can find beauty in almost everything, including alien fungi.

At least that’s the way I remember it.

I used my wedding ring for reference to how big this mushroom was.

MY PHANTOM OF MUSIC

I don’t know when the music theater bug hit me first. 

Perhaps it was when my father brought home “Brigadoon” for movie night.  None of us wanted to watch a movie with such a weird title.  What was “Brigadoon?” 

Once we turned on the movie, I instantly fell in love with the songs, dancing and storytelling this film brought into my life.  I sang “Go Home With [Gaydra Jean]” to my sister for weeks after watching the movie.

Or perhaps it was when my dad introduced me to the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber and gave me a book to read about the elusive Opera Ghost.  I dreamed of being Christine Daae, as she clearly and beautifully sang an E6 as the Phantom guided her.  The magic and the mystery of the opera made my young mind dream of possibilities.

I may have begun loving Broadway theater when my parents made sure we watched “The Sound of Music” when it aired on public television (before videos, DVDs, and instant downloads).  The whole family was armed with dad’s popcorn and Velveta cheese for a snack, as we watched the Nazis try to destroy the von Trap family.  Julie Andrews quickly became my hero as she confidently sang her way to becoming a nanny.

Somehow a love for Broadway found its way inside me and did not let go.  I began auditioning for roles in high school.  I took music lessons.  I even took a few dance classes. (Which could be another story in and of itself about following through despite embarrassment and awkward moments.)

I landed a couple of minor roles in the chorus for the first part of my high school career.  I loved every moment of it.  I continued to sing and dance my way through my teenage years.  And I dreamed of becoming a big star on the stage before I left Grand Junction High School.

Imagine my elation when I learned that our school would be presenting “Oklahoma” my junior year –   Dad had made sure that I had a healthy dose of Rogers and Hammerstein while growing up.  “Oklahoma” was my favorite.  And my favorite character?  Ado Annie, of course.  I loved her solo, “I Cain’t Say No.”  And she made me laugh as she kissed all the boys; I could definitely relate to the boy crazy attitude.  I really wanted the role, but my competition was fierce.

Our director, Mr. Jones, had a daughter that went to school with me and she also loved theater.  I knew Janin wanted the same role and I was sure I would be playing second fiddle to her again.  I tried not to get my hopes up as I auditioned.  Janin was a good actress, but my singing voice was a bit better. 

It was a tight race.  The morning the results were posted, I cried tears of joy and excitement as I realized I was going to be Ado Annie.  (Janin was my understudy.  I later learned that my choir teacher and music director, Mrs. Schafer, really fought for me to get the role of Ado Annie.)

For two months I practiced after school every day.  I sang.  I learned choreography.  I got fitted for costumes – my favorite dress was yellow.  And eventually we choreographed the kissing scenes: the Persian Goodbye and the Oklahoma Hello.  I was on cloud nine throughout the whole experience.

I would be lying if on opening night I said I was confident and not nervous at all.  I was a wreck.  This was my first big role, and I was anxious about everything.  Would I remember my lines?  Would my voice hold out during the song?  What if I forgot the dance moves?  And what if I missed a cue? 

As I tried to calm my anxiety, a friend came in the green room with a rose and a white mask in a vase tied with a black ribbon.  The card read, “Don’t be afraid.  The Angel of Music is with you.”  My stress melted away as I realized that I had had my own Opera Ghost for many years.  I knew at that moment who my Phantom was and that my dad was rooting for me and would always be one of my biggest supporters.  With that knowledge, I was empowered and had the courage to be Ado Annie for our production of “Oklahoma.”

Dads are remarkable!  My dad helped me to see the situation clearly – I needed a boost of confidence, and I knew my Phantom of Music was the confidence I needed.  He helped me to be independent while encouraging me to be the best Ado Annie I could be.  I’m so grateful for my Angel of Music.  Thanks, dad, for believing in me.

At least that’s the way I remember it.