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My Whirlwind Romance – Part Four: Stolen Away

Written on February 10, 2009 by Simply Heidi in A Whirlwind Romance, The Way It Was

Need to catch up on the story?
Parts One and Two
Part Three

Meanwhile, W was having his own problems with the opposite sex. As these things usually do, it all started with a simple question.
“So, having spent the last two years without dating, I’ll bet you’re looking for a girlfriend, aren’t you?”
Isn’t that an obnoxious question? It was asked by an equally obnoxious girl; we’ll just call her K, shall we?
Concerned that she might be applying for the job, W answered, “Me? No, not looking for a girlfriend. I’m only looking to hang out and have fun. I’m planning on just dating. A lot.”
That seems like a good answer right? Well this girl was crafty.
“Who do you want to date?”
“No one in particular. Anyone, really.”
Can you see the corner the poor guy had painted himself into? Well, he didn’t, until…
“So W, how about me?”
That is how we both came to be stuck with dates we didn’t want.
Oh wait, I didn’t know about my big night yet, did I?
When I left you yesterday, J had told W about his intentions, but I was in the dark.
Until W, like a good BFF (to me), spilled the beans.
“What?! You’re kidding! He wants to plan a big special evening and ask me to be his girlfriend? What are we, fourth graders?
“I’m not going. I can’t go! But what will I tell him? I heard about your plan and I’m not really interested? I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
In hindsight, that actually would have been the kindest thing to do, but remember, I was only 19 and pretty inexperienced with this kind of thing. Instead, I begged W to double with us, figuring I’d let J down easy on a different day. A day when he wasn’t scheming to spring a huge relationship question on me.
Somehow W was able to convince an unhappy J that we should double. After all, he didn’t want to be alone with K either.
I had to work the afternoon of the big date but had plans to go shoe shopping with my BFF after work.
As a sidenote: the shoes were for him, not me. And they were tasseled loafers. I had never spent time with a loafer-guy before. I was more of a boot-guy kind of girl. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
Anyway, the shoe shopping took longer than expected and I was in danger of being late for J.
W to the rescue again. He simply called J and arranged for us to pick him up. He wasn’t too happy to hear that we were hanging out together again, but what could we do?
W drove to pick up J first, then K. When he walked to her door, leaving me and J in the car, J told me that we were going ice skating before dinner.
“Oh, um… that sound like fun.”
But it didn’t. It sounded like torture. I am not exactly what one would call graceful. I had tried ice skating a couple of times and let’s just say, if we happened to run into Tanya Harding, I wouldn’t be in any danger.
Just then I noticed W helping K to the car. Helping her, because she was on crutches! She had sprained her ankle the day before, but didn’t say anything because she didn’t want W to have a reason to cancel. Oops! I guess that means no ice skating.
But when she heard the ice skating plan, she was all for it.
“That sounds like fun! I might not be able to skate, but I’d love to go anyway. I don’t mind just watching.”
If she was hoping that W would sit on the bench beside her, she would have to get used to disappointment. He thought skating sounded great. Oh joy.
On the hour-long ride into the city, J and I experienced our typical awkward silence. No matter, W and I had lots to talk about. BFFs! We weren’t trying to be rude to our dates, it just felt natural for us to connect with each other. We never ran out of things to say.
And then I realized, I was sparking.
Not for J, but for W.
My tasseled-shoe wearing BFF.
I liked him.
I like liked him!
And it looked like he liked me too.
Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones who noticed. By the time we got to the rink, J had decided to sit on the bench and keep K (and her crutches) company while I laced up my skates and took to the ice with W.
Miracle of miracles! I could skate. With W at my side, I gracefully glided across the ice like I was born to it…
…for about three seconds, and then that stupid toe kick got in my way and I fell. No matter. Now that that was out of the way, things were sure to go better. Minding my toe-kick, I tried again. This time I actually got some speed going before a spectacular wipe out in a patch of melted ice. So much for trying to stay dry.
W was so sweet, helping me up and not even laughing ~~much~~ at me.
The ~~next~~ seventh time I fell, I had had enough. I complained to W that I had done nothing all night but fall and that it was ungentlemanly of him to stay on his skates. My pride demanded that he fall too.
“So won’t you please fall? For me?”
“Fall for you? Maybe I already did.” And then he skated away.
When he circled back, I whispered, “Hey, who’s on the date here, anyway?”
He glanced over at poor J and K who were glumly sitting on opposite sides of a bench, not talking to each other, and replied, “You and me.”
He was right…we consider that our first date.

Please don’t be hard on us for our treatment of J and K. We really didn’t mean to be rude. And contrary to the way it may appear, W never intended to try and steal me away (as if I belonged to J in the first place). He just enjoyed spending time with me. He liked the easy way we got along, that’s why he kept coming back to have lunch with me (or take me shoe shopping). And though we occasionally engaged in some innocent flirting, neither one of realized that we had feelings beyond friendship for each other until that night. Poor timing, maybe, but it all works out in the end.
Stay tuned.
More tomorrow…

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My Whirlwind Romance Part Three: Engaged Before Our First Date

Written on February 9, 2009 by Simply Heidi in A Whirlwind Romance, The Way It Was

Read Parts One and Two of My Whirlwind Romance here.

Just like that, the cloud I had been living over seemed to dissolve. School and work were going well. I was making new friends. And suddenly, guys started to notice me.
Perhaps it was because I was no longer silently screaming “Are you talking to me, freak?”
Suddenly, I had gone from no plans to a full calendar.
A co-worker set me up on a blind date with a cute fireman.
A guy in the car stereo installation shop was planning to teach me to surf on our next day off together.
And J and I had gone out on a handful of dates.
He was cute. He had a real job – a police officer. He was sweet and nice and he really liked me. That’s why I couldn’t figure out why I felt nothing when we spent time together. Maybe I just hadn’t given him enough of a chance…
In addition to all the ~~flirting~~ dating, I was steadily developing another relationship.
A great friendship.
That guy from the dance, (let’s just call him W, shall we?) started coming in to buy CDs and look at car stereo equipment, just about everyday – right before my break. We got to know each other over daily lunches.
I didn’t have to try to come up with things to talk about. We just talked…or we didn’t and that was okay, too. When there was silence, it wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. I found myself telling him things I’d never told anyone before, things that you would only tell your best friend.
W + Heidi = BFF
Everyday at lunch, I would ask him when he was going to let me drive his car. It was a running joke with us. He had just bought a new blah-blah-blah, whatever and he was quite proud of it. So of course, I started asking him to let me drive it. I didn’t really care, I just liked watching him squirm.
The first few times, he uncomfortably mumbled something about his insurance. But one day, he came up with an answer that silenced my questioning. That day, W told me that the only person he’d let drive this car would be a family member. His mom, dad, brother…a wife.
We both cracked up, joking about a girl who would marry a guy just to drive his car.
That must be some kind of girl!
That must be some kind of car!
It was even funnier when the kitchen sent out a little congratulatory dessert.
For our impending marriage.
I had an acquaintance that worked at the restaurant. An acquaintance that apparently misunderstood what he had overheard.
Red faced, I laughingly explained that we were just friends.
And then he asked me out.
I was becoming entirely too popular.
All of these other dates couldn’t fail to come to the attention of J. We were obviously not exclusive. And our time together was not physical; we never went beyond hand holding. In fact, the only difference between a date with him and lunch with W was the awkwardness that happened on a date.
Shortly after my and W’s ‘engagement lunch” J asked me to go into the city with him. His exact words were, “Heidi, I have to go to Portland later this week. Want to go?” I assumed I was accompanying him on an errand, and agreed. I thought I’d hang out with him one last time, to see if there was a spark. Or even a spark of a spark.
I might have thought this was just an ordinary date, just like the others, but J had other plans. He told W that he felt it was time to move things along with me. He was going to plan an entire evening of special events. At the end of the night, he was going to ask me to stop seeing other guys and be his girlfriend.
To be continued tomorrow…

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Romantic Recap

Written on February 9, 2009 by Simply Heidi in A Whirlwind Romance, The Way It Was

It’s Valentine’s week and love is in the air, causing flushed cheeks, sweaty palms, shortness of breath, and incoherent thinking.
On second thought, maybe it’s a virus.

Newt has a fever and is having to miss her co-op’s Valentine’s Party today. And I will be nursing her back to heath with Gatorade and Harry Potter. (We only have about 100 pages left until the end of book number four.)

But as promised, this week will be the week that I finish sharing all the sordid details of the beginnings of my love affair with Mr. Frantic.
However, today is like one of those recap shows where you don’t learn anything new, but you ~~hope~~ watch anyway. It’s been so long since I posted part one and two of my story, that I decided to repost them today. New ~~dirt~~ details tomorrow.

A Whirlwind Romance: Part 1

I was nineteen. The past few years had been spent in the painful chrysalis of trying to figure out who I was. I made mistakes. And I suffered.
It had taken some time and a badly broken heart, but I learned that I was a daughter of God and He loves me. That knowledge was everything. I started behaving more like it.
One warm May evening in 1995 I decided to go to a church dance. I don’t know why I wanted to go. Because even though I had decided to make Christ a part of my life, I still had some misgivings about the other people my age at church. The girls seemed cliquish and the guys were weird. Really weird. And nerdy. And weird.
I did not like them.
So no one was more surprised than I was when I started getting ready to go to this dance. I carefully picked out my outfit. One that said, “I’m cute, friendly, and not interested in any of you weirdos.”
In case you are wondering an outfit like that looks like, I lay it out for you:
Black Doc Martins, faded Gap jeans, and a sheer short-sleeved sweater with a modest black tank underneath.
Oh yeah, and a scowl.
So the Princess left for the Ball.
And it was bad.
Bad dancing. (Think Elaine from Seinfeld)
Bad music. (YMCA again?)
Bad food. (Store bought cookies still in their plastic cases)
Bad. Bad. Bad.
Here is where some well-meaning older adult would tell me that “Fun is an attitude, not an event” and I would punch them in the throat.
Or at least sigh and roll my eyes.
Did I mention that even though I had learned who I was, I was still dealing with some issues?
I felt like the girl that gets invited to a party because the birthday-girl’s mother made her. Everyone acts like they want the girl there, but she knows the truth.
Honestly, the people at my church were probably quite nice, but I was really insecure. I was trying to reject them before they had a chance to reject me.
And it was working out quite well. Thankyouverymuch.
I was standing by the table of chocolate chip cookies and red punch when someone introduced me to Mr. Frantic. He was newly returned from serving a two-year mission.
A mission where he did not date or even flirt with girls. Where he did not watch tv. Or listen to the radio. Or read anything other than scripture and scripture commentary.
He devoted every waking minute to God’s work for two years.
The poor guy had been home for less than a week and he was feeling really awkward at his “reentry” into real life.
I could have been gracious. I could have helped him to feel welcome and comfortable. But before I could say a word, the thought went through my mind, “I wonder if this is the guy I’ll end up marrying?”
I have to tell you, I was not in the habit of thinking about marriage.
I was nineteen for heaven sake!
I had plans. Plans that included moving away from my parent’s home. Travel. Finishing up at the local community college and moving on the university. Preferably one far away.
And not BYU.
My plans did not include getting married anytime soon. Nope. Not me.
And so that little matrimonial thought poisoned me against my new acquaintance. I barely spoke to him. We each came away from that first encounter with a less than favorable impression of the other.
I thought he was annoying. He thought I was obnoxious.
Can’t you see how the seeds of love were planted?
Me either.

Part 2

At this time in my life I was busy pursuing both a fine education (general studies at the local community college) and a career (customer service rep at Circuit City). On Sundays I attended a college ward (LDS terminology alert: ward = congregation) for young singles. It was not really going well. Remember how I mentioned that I had a bit of an attitude? To my intense surprise, my prickly personality had not won me any friends. I was considering whether I should continue going there or go back to my parents’ ward (snore).
Politically incorrect sidenote: Growing up, it was the standard joke that all of the people in my parents’ ward were either short, fat or mentally impaired. Thankfully, I’m only 5’1″.
One afternoon at work I received my schedule and noticed that I was supposed to work the following Sunday afternoon. That meant that I would be unable to attend either ward. But I really did want to go to church. By a series of odd coincidences I ended up in a ward way across town. I had never been there and didn’t know anyone that attended there, but it met in the morning and I could go and still get to work on time. So I went.
I sat in the back, feeling slightly awkward. A few people smiled at me but I didn’t know what to say so I buried my head in the program. Hmmm…I noticed a familiar name. That one guy from the dance, my future husb- shut up! would be speaking that day – reporting back on his mission.
A I listened to him speak I realized that he was really a nice guy. And he seemed so confident, so sure of himself, which was exactly the opposite of what I felt. I felt bad for being so snotty to him when we met.
After the service, he saw me leaving the chapel. He caught up to me a grabbed me by the hand.
“Heidi, what are you doing here? Do you go to this ward?”
“Um, no I have to work this afternoon and- actually it’s really a long, boring story. I liked your talk. Welcome home.”
I guess he was excited to see a young familiar face. He dragged me over to meet his family: his parents and older brother. I really didn’t mind, they seemed nice. I felt strange. What was this feeling? The opposite of awkward, comfortable…
The next Sunday I went back to my college ward.
I walked in and no one said hello.
I sat in the back, alone.
What was I doing there?
I said a quick, sort of demanding silent prayer.

Hey, Heavenly Father?
I’m here because I thought this might be where you wanted me to be. And yes, I admit I haven’t tried quite as hard as I should, but still…I’ve been coming for months and I’m not even sure the bishop knows my name, let alone any of the people my age. I’ve committed to follow you, and I will. I know it won’t always be easy, but I can’t take much more of this. If you want me here you’ve got to throw me a bone. Here’s what I need: a friend. Just one would be enough. Oh, and I’d like to feel like I belong here please. Today. Or I’m never coming back. I guess I’ll join all the short/fat/impaired people and my parents…

Before I could finish the bishop came up and said, “Heidi, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Could you meet me in my office after church for a few minutes? I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Um, okay.”
And then that guy from the dance walked in and said, “Why are you sitting here all alone? Come sit with me and my friends.” So I did.
That day I met his friend, J. J was nice and cute. So of course I said yes when he asked me out. Could be fun, right?

Stay tuned…

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View from the Bottom Bunk

Written on January 19, 2009 by Simply Heidi in The Way It Was

I remember sharing bunk beds with my older brother. Our beds were able to covert from two separate beds to a single bunk bed by means of holes drilled in the head and foot boards. When stacked, one on top of the other, wooden dowels were placed in the holes to hold the two beds together. Those half-inch pegs were the only things keeping the top bunk from toppling off and crushing the life from anyone unfortunate enough to be in its path. Miraculously they held, though we did our best to break them.

The top bunk belonged to my brother, by rights of seniority. I jealously coveted both his ability to touch the ceiling with his toes and the satisfying boom his leap from bed made when he hit the floor each morning.
Our radio sat firmly on the window ledge were we both could reach it, though he was the self-designated only one allowed to change the station. A job he took upon himself and performed with reckless abandon – turning the dial from Magic107 to Z100. And back.

We had no ladder. The slats on the bottom head board provided enough of a boost to enable small bodies to haul themselves up top. There was no safety railing either. My brother kept rolling out of his bed onto the floor, but didn’t so much as get a bruise. However, my mom – as all moms will, worried about him someday injuring himself with this nocturnal free-falling. She decided to put a stop to it by placing a chair next to the bed. Looking back she is unable to explain why she thought this to be a good idea. The next time he fell out of bed, he hit the chair and broke his clavicle. He never rolled out again, so perhaps we could count the chair-plan as a success.

My spot on the bottom was not totally without perks, and not without its own perils. I could tuck a sheet into the top mattress, letting it hang down and turn my bed into a private island. Or a tent in the jungle. Or a curtain on a stage.
And, at night, when my jealousy over my brother’s lofty perch hit a peak, I could brace my feet on his mattress and heave, bumping him several feet, or miles, or even a few inches into the air. Lucky for me the lone brave two-by-four that braced up his mattress was strong enough to withstand all that my eight year old legs could dish out.
Take that, top-bunk!

Girl Wonder had been asking for bunk beds, but in this current economy, we just couldn’t justify buying one for our only child. Then last week, a friend from church offered us a bunk bed her children have outgrown and we jumped at the chance.
It is red, which does not go with her room at all – but I plan to spray paint it in the backyard this spring. A friend and I set it up on Thursday while Mr. Frantic was at work and Newt has been on the top bunk ever since. We even did our history lesson up there on Friday.
I hope she remembers her bunk bed as fondly as I remember mine.
Even without the obnoxious older brother.

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Rerun

Written on December 17, 2008 by Simply Heidi in That's So Random, The Way It Was

With all the winter weather going on around here, I thought this might be a good time to repost my very first ever Frantically Simple post, from way back in January.
Enjoy!

Better is Not Always Better

One evening last week, my husband and I picked up our seven year old daughter from a friend’s house. She had spent the afternoon playing and then stayed for dinner. (Why is it that someone else’s fish sticks always taste better than mine?)
Anyway, she came home later than usual. We pulled up to the driveway after eight o’clock.
Eight o’clock is a special time of night. Eight o’clock is bedtime for my girl and me time.
For me.
Mine.
Get it?
(Well, sometimes I do share it with my husband. I’m not entirely selfish you know.)
I was all ready to rush the little one up the stairs to bed so I could settle my self on the couch with Jane Austen, but then something happened. I looked out the car window.
The recent snow lay on our little hill glittering in the moonlight. I turned my head to the porch and there was the abandoned sled.
Just that morning we had spent twenty minutes stuffing ourselves into our snow gear. Her pinky had refused to go into its own slot in her gloves. It preferred to double up with her ring finger and I had to remove her glove and try again several times before it would be coaxed into being alone. Then her hat made her head itch. Her boots were hard to put on and her sock had a wrinkle. All the while a new snow was outside beckoning, and we were inside getting increasingly frustrated with the scarf stuck in the jacket zipper.
Once we finally (angrily) got outside there were only a few minutes left to play before having to go back in, un-gear and head off to the day’s must-dos. The sled was left on the porch. Mom and daughter were thoroughly unsatisfied.
When I was a little girl growing up in Oregon, snow was a magical rarity, maybe two or three times a winter. I did not own a stitch of snow clothes. In order to keep our feet dry in our hand-me-down tennis shoes, my mom gave my brothers and I saved bread bags to put on over our socks. When our jeans got too wet and we were freezing we came into the house for some mothering.
Our home had no fireplace so we dragged the kitchen chairs to the oven. My mom would crank it up to about 300 degrees and put folded towels on the open door. There we would prop our frozen toes to thaw while we sipped hot cocoa. Once we were warm and dry, we’d slip those bread bags back on and head out for more cold, wet fun.
We made snow angels without snow pants. We made snowmen and had icicle sword fights without gloves. Sure it was cold. I remember my hands stinging when I came in the house. But I did not die; I didn’t even catch a cold. And I still had fun. My daughter has every cold weather comfort item out there, but somehow they seem to detract from rather than add to the experience.
And so this brings us back to the car and me looking out the window at that moonlight hill. The little girl in me woke up and said “C’mon woman, Jane Austen has been around for 200 hundred years, but this moment will be over in a second. Let’s play!”
I got my confused child out of the car in her capris and mary-janes and we grabbed the sled. It was amazing. The darkness seemed to add to the thrill of the ride. Sledding our tiny front yard hill was no longer ordinary; it was a mysterious, exotic adventure. We came in the house half an hour later, wet, cold, and laughing.
As she got ready for bed, my daughter kept asking me, “Mom, why did you let me do that?”
I guess I just remembered for a minute what it feels like to be a kid. And in this overstressed and over scheduled world, I want to make sure she knows too.

P.S. I’m happy to report that since the original publication both my writing and Newt’s clothing issues have improved. She is now quite content to gear up for cold weather fun. And I am just as content to let her get cold on those occasions that she just doesn’t want to.

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Mama's Kitchen

Written on November 15, 2008 by Simply Heidi in Real Food, The Way It Was

My mom is not a good cook.
Growing up, a typical family meal (or should I say the typical family meal, since it was served at least twice a week?) consisted of a shriveled baked potato, burned-to-a-crisp hamburger patty, canned green beans and white bread with margarine.
Oh yes, and milk gravy for the potato.
Never heard of it? ~~Lucky you.~~ Here’s the recipe. Basically, you add milk and flour to your hamburger grease and boil until thick.
To drink, we had Kool-Aid, usually cherry, in plastic tupperware glasses that always felt a little slick from years of washing in the same sink as the milk-gravy pan.
Good times.
Also included in my mom’s recipe repertoire were such favorites as:
Hamburger Casserole – all the basic ingredients of the typical dinner but with added cream of mushroom soup and cheddar cheese
Hamburger Tomato Soup – home canned tomato soup with hamburger and elbow macaroni
Mock Fried Rice – white Minute Rice with crumbled hamburger, onion and tomato.
Raise your hand if you are sensing a theme.
She also made what she called Tuna Fish Rarebit – creamed tuna on toast. Gag.
(On the other hand, her cinnamon rolls were excellent and I’ve never been able to duplicate her yummy pie crust.)
She did not have The Joy of Cooking. I’m talking about both the cookbook and the emotion. My mom had just had too many years of what-am-I-going-to-make-for-dinner-tonight-with-hardly-any-money-too-many-kids-and-a-meat-and-potatoes-man-to-feed. Cleaning the bathroom was less drudgery to her. But, thanks to her efforts we never went hungry.
Unless we chose to.
Twelve years ago, on my first Thanksgiving as a bonafide grown-up married lady I offered to cook the entire meal. Because I wanted to enjoy eating it.
I hadn’t really learned how to cook at home, but I wasn’t worried. I knew I could follow a recipe and had some natural aptitude.
And everyone’s standards were really low.
The meal turned out pretty well and a new tradition was born. For the next three years, I prepared the feast in our tiny apartment kitchen and transported to either my parent’s or my in-law’s, whichever set of parents we were spending the holiday with. When we bought our first house, we began inviting both sets of parents to eat with us.
My mom was always the most unintentional entertaining guest. One year she wore a blonde wig she had found at a garage sale. She declared that it made her feel bea-u-ti-ful! It might have looked fine if it wasn’t on sideways…
And so our holiday went for the first nine years of our married life. I loved bustling around the kitchen, listening to the parade on tv, and bossing Mr. Frantic around. I love preparing a big meal and sharing it with my family.
But then we moved 3000 miles away. And I felt like Thanksgiving was a bit depressing without extra people to cook for. So for the next three years, I didn’t cook.
One year we went to a hotel restaurant and felt like losers. Most of the people there were with large extended families. They sat at large tables in the center of the dining room. Scattered about the edge of the room were medium sized tables with families of five or six people. Then, wedged in by the kitchen doors or way over by the bathrooms were a few small tables for our family of three and one or two old people dining alone. I was tempted to ask those lone diners to join us and pretend to be our family, but then we’d have to move to a bigger table. And they were all full of happy shiny people.
The other two years we went on vacation. And we ate at restaurants, but we were surrounded by other vacationers, several of whom were probably escaping their extended family gatherings, so our little family didn’t seem so ~~pathetic~~, ~~pitiable~~, ~~unloved~~, unusual. It was actually fun.
This year, we are back home in Oregon and I am really looking forward to cooking the big meal. Newt is excited to help; she wants to learn to be a really good “cooker”.
I’m trying to pass on what I know, but she’ll need to ask grandma for help with pie crust.
And milk gravy.

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The Haunting of Heidi

Written on October 30, 2008 by Simply Heidi in That's So Random, The Way It Was

I’m not sure if I believe in ghosts.
Sure, I have a firm belief in the afterlife and spirits as they are mentioned in the scriptures, but a bunch of malevolent beings moaning and rattling chains? I just don’t know about that.
Even so, I may have had a supernatural experience.
Maybe.
I’m still not sure.
I could have just scared myself into thinking so.
It is entirely possible that the unusual circumstances that happened could have been have been a fluke.
Was it a real encounter with the unknown or merely a coincidence? You decide…
About nine or ten years ago my husband and I traveled to Klamath Falls, Oregon for a family event. My sister and her family were living there at the time so she set us up at the bed and breakfast where she worked: The Boarding House Inn (sadly, no longer in business). It was a really cute place with cozy rooms, lots of antiques, and cool custom painted murals. And the food was fantastic. I was familiar with the couple who owned the place and Tom, the owner/chef, certainly knew his way around a filet mignon.
Oh yeah, and The Boarding House Inn was haunted.
At least that is what my sister thought. There had been many strange happenings there, to be sure. Guests had frequently remarked on the sound of footsteps in an empty stairwell. Oil and vinegar bottles that were just haphazardly thrown into the pantry would be discovered the next morning in neat rows: oil, vinegar, oil, vinegar. Bicycles parked in the front hallway fell over with no one around, toward the kickstand.
Certainly all of those things could be explained. It was an old building; it had been a boarding house for railroad workers in the thirties. Creaks and pops of a settling old house could have been interpreted as footsteps. Someone might have tidied up a cupboard (in the middle of the night) without mentioning it. And the bikes? Perhaps it was the wind or an uneven flooring that caused them to tumble in a seemingly unnatural way.
But then there were the creepy sensations my sister sometimes got while cleaning a room. She seemed to sense movement out of the corner of her eye, but there was never anything there. Sometimes she felt like she was being watched. Could these sensations only be proof of the power of suggestion? Who knows.
Nevertheless, I was a bit nervous to be staying there. My parents had booked the room across the hall from us and I remember joking at dinner about coming to sleep with them if the ghost came in my room. We all shared stories of the strange happenings at The Boarding House, enjoying the thrill in the safety of a well lit room. But all too soon it was time for bed.
As is our nightly habit, Walt and I said our prayers before climbing into bed. He soon drifted off to sleep, but I lay awake starting at every noise. After awhile, I turned on my lamp and tried to read. That’s when my husband began screaming.
He awoke in a cold sweat, gripped by a nightmare that still felt very real. Though rare, this was not the first time since he had had a nightmare. Still it rattled me. And yet, once again he was able to calm down and drift off to sleep before I could.
In order to keep from disturbing him (and terrifying myself) again, I switched off the lamp. So, like a child, I lay there in the dark cursing myself for being so scared. I told myself it was just like all the times when I’d make up creepy stories at a slumber party and end up becoming more scared than anyone else. I guess I have too much imagination.
But imagined or not, I just didn’t feel secure in that room. It’s hard to describe exactly, but I had a terrible feeling like someone was standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me. I couldn’t see anyone there, but it just felt like it.
Finally, I reached the point where I could not take it anymore. I knew that if I had psyched myself into this fearful place, I would just have to psyche myself out of it. I told myself that I am gloriously alive: I have a body of flesh and bone, a beating heart. I have a family that loves me and they were alive, real and all around me. I am a daughter of God and he loves me. I have power.
And then, whispering so as not to awaken my husband (and also because I was feeling incredibly stupid) and calling upon God for help, I addressed the probably-not-real being that was troubling me and told him that he had to leave my room. Now.
Almost immediately I felt better. The presence, if there ever had been one, left. The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep was looking at the clock. It was 3:15 am.
In the bright morning sun, it was all too clear that my imagination had been the only thing haunting me the night before. Over a breakfast of delicious pecan pancakes I told my family about how I had scared myself into a near sleepless night. I did not mention the fact that I had spoken to the “ghost” for fear of being mercilessly teased for the rest of my life.
All of the sudden my mom spoke up. “I got scared last night too. I woke up from a fast sleep, feeling like someone was standing at the foot of my bed staring at me. I never could get back to sleep. I’ve been awake since 3:15.”
And before I could even begin to process what that meant, the smoke alarm above our heads inexplicably went off.
Walt and I were packing our things before the pancakes finished cooling. And we never stayed there again.

The preceding story is absolutely true. And it still gives me the creeps.
Happy Halloween

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A Trick and a Treat

Written on October 28, 2008 by Simply Heidi in The Way It Was, Where I live

Only two more days until Candypalooza! Whoot-whoot!
First the trick: DIY face-paint. That greasy store-bought stuff is just so… greasy. And it never dries, causing it to rub off on and stain everything.
To make your own, mix approximately 2 parts hand lotion with 3 parts liquid tempura paint. Apply with a clean paintbrush. It drys in minutes with no icky mess and at the end of the evening the paint easily washes off with soap and water.
See Rocks in My Dryer for more tips and tricks.

Now for the treat: a true spooky story (suitable for all ages)!
In case you missed this the first time around, I’m reposing my experience with Newt’s spooky house. And on Friday, I’ll be posting my one, true experience with “the paranormal”.
Wha-ha-ha-ha!

Poor Tony Originally published, February 23, 2008

Last week, I was sitting on the couch, using my laptop to ~~surf the internet~~ do some really important work on my book while my girl sat at the kitchen table sharing a snack with her friend, Claire. Since I was absolutely absorbed in my, um…work, they ignored me and started having a conversation about ghosts. I quickly opened a word document and transcribed their conversation. Because I’m sneaky like that.

C: My house is haunted. Every morning I feel someone tapping on my shoulder and then when I wake up no one is there.
Newt: I wouldn’t want to go in a haunted house.
C: You know the spooky house? I went in there and there was door but it was really a trapdoor and when I put my foot on it my foot got covered in blood. But it was fake blood.
Newt: eeewww!
C: Oh, and don’t ever go in the shed. There is a menorah on the ceiling and everyone is trying to get it. My friend Tony went in there and disappeared. He was trying to get it and he disappeared.
Newt: What’s a menorah?
C: It’s a light like that one, (pointing to the chandelier overhead) but it is covered with shells.
Newt: Did you ever see him after he disappeared?
C: Yes.
Newt: Where?
C: In the shed. He got a piece of it: a string that was hanging on it, and it was magic and he disappeared. Everyone was trying to get it but he climbed on the ceiling and got it first. It was his shed.
Newt: He shouldn’t have done that. I never would. We say hi to it when we pass by it.
C: Do you take a walk near it?
Newt: No.
C: (suspiciously) Then how do you say hi?
Newt: Heather and me just say “Hi, old friend” when we pass by on the bus.
C: It’s not your friend. Really. It’s not.
Newt: Oh.

I admit it; I was eavesdropping on a private conversation, one that I knew that I would never be invited to participate in. Ghost stories and haunted houses are deliciously real in the realm of childhood, but like a favorite pair of sparkly mary-janes, they are quickly outgrown on the journey to becoming an adult. And though I knew my fully grown foot would never again fit into that fancy little shoe, as I heard them talk, I couldn’t help but admire it.
A nearby spooky house is a ‘must have’ for every successful childhood. It is useful place for keeping all of your fears contained.
An old witch that eats unsuspecting children? Into the spooky house you go.
A terrible monster chained in the cellar? Hope you like the accommodations.
Or one from my own childhood, a disembodied and white-gloved hand? Welcome home.
The neighborhood spooky house is large enough to hold them all, even a haunted menorah.
There they sit, safely tucked away from everyday life, but easily accessible whenever needed to raise a thrilling crop of goosebumps.
I still remember the haunted house from my childhood. It was on the next street over, Candlewood Drive. I don’t know how long it had been abandoned, but the children in my neighborhood speculated that the last owner had died in the house over a hundred years ago. And had never left…
There was a story circulating that a boy who had lived in the neighborhood had tried to trick-or-treat at the house. Alone. He was never seen again. His parents had been heart-broken so they moved to California. I wonder if his name was Tony…
The house really was a foreboding place. Darkness seemed to ooze out from behind the jagged panes of glass. At one time it had probably been painted a sage green color, but the years had faded it to a peeling greenish-gray. Oily looking moss grew on the roof while the yard was choked with blackberry brambles and poison oak.
Whenever I had to pass by on my bike I crossed to the opposite side and held my breath until I was safely past. My heart hammered in my chest, but not with fear exactly. It was more like triumph. The house didn’t get me! I felt powerful.
I have heard Girl Wonder talk about her spooky house before. I wasn’t exactly sure where it was located but I knew that her school bus passed by it on the way home. Also, the house has a shed behind it. My funny girl had thought the house was haunted but the shed was nice. And she did refer to it as ‘old friend’. At least until Claire filled her in.
Today was a cold and gloomy day, perfect for looking at a spooky house. I grabbed my camera and had my girl direct me to it. I knew it would look old and maybe even a little creepy, but I was sure the haunted house of my childhood was much scarier.
I was so wrong. This house is far better.
First of all, Newt’s house is invisible to grown-ups unless they know it was there. I know because we have lived in our house for nearly three years and I have driven by that house at least a dozen times a week, and yet I had never noticed it. My eyes simply slide over it as I negotiate the curves of the road. When she pointed it out I was surprised that it had been there, in plain sight, but I had never seen it. I felt a little better when my husband pointed out that the house is only visible in winter, when the many trees around it are bare.
It is set back a bit from the road, the same greenish-gray color as my childhood house. There is no driveway, not even a footpath, only impenetrable brambles surrounding the property. A line of trees at the back, just behind the shed, screen a large cemetery. I attended a graveside service there just this last summer.
I stood on the edge of the road holding my camera, wishing I could get closer and yet relieved that I could not. Seconds after my first shot, I was started by a movement at an upper window. Suddenly a large black bird, a vulture, flew from the darkness and settled into a massive tree above me.
I was stunned. “Wow,” I thought, “that was creepy. And cool.” Feeling disappointed that I had been unable to capture the creature with my camera, I turned my attention back to the house. There in the same window appeared a second bird. It observed me from the rotting windowsill for several seconds while I snapped a few more shots. It then few out and joined its dark comrade. I could hardly believe it.
When I returned to the car, I looked back at the house one last time.
And then I exhaled.

Happy Halloween!

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I thought it looked more like a deformed reindeer

Written on September 23, 2008 by Simply Heidi in Homeschooling, The Way It Was

It happened in the car on a Sunday evening, nearly a year ago. Our family was driving home from the Washington DC LDS Temple visitor’s center. They have a fantastic Christmas Festival of Lights. All was quiet, peaceful.
And then, out of the blue, our daughter asked a question, the question, really.
I was totally unprepared for:
Mom, how do babies get inside their mommy’s tummy?
!?!
Where did that come from?! Was it the live nativity? And how the heck am I supposed to answer a seven year old?
I tried to compose my thoughts while flashes of my own awkward introduction to this subject ran through my head:
My brother innocently looks up from his dinner and asks, “What’s sperm?”
SILENCE.
My mom, flustered and embarrassed, herds the two of us children away from the table, leaving our dad to eat alone. We cluster into my bedroom, shut the door, and listen as Mom chokes out a confusing explanation about a man planting a seed. Who was this man? A farmer? And why did my mom want to keep him a secret from my dad?…
Here is essentially what I said: “Heavenly Father has prepared a special way for a man and a woman to make a baby. He wants them to use it after they are married. The man puts a seed in a woman’s body and it grows into a baby.”
Dang, I brought up the seed; it’s that crazy farmer all over again! What was I thinking?
Mr. Frantic was shaking with silent laughter as I tried to be casual. No discomfort here. Nope. Not at all.
I asked my daughter if that answered her question and she said…
“no”.
crap!
As I tried to think of what else to say (the mom and dad fit together like a puzzle?) she changed the subject. When I asked her asked her if she still wanted to talk about babies she said no.
Great. Me neither.
We rode the rest of the way home in silence.
A few days later, after the initial panic had subsided, I brought up the subject again. I calmly, yet simply detailed the mechanics while also explaining our family’s moral stand on S-E-X.
She asked a couple of questions and I answered them without fear or embarrassment.
Yay me!
I even had the presence of mind to explain that this topic was very special and other kids needed to learn about it from their parents, not from her, so she should not try to educate the her friends. Please.

Fast forward several months. I learned the disturbing news that many girls now may begin puberty as early as age 8!
And, I won’t get into specifics here, but I suspect that my girl may be an early bloomer in that department.
I’ve been meaning to talk to her about what changes are in store for her.
Once again flashback to horribly embarrassing health class films about Your Changing Body.
Gag!
Yes it was awful, but it saved me my mom the horror of a discussion at home.
But I homeschool now. There is no one else to do this one for me. I needed to talk to her myself, and preferably in a way that would not cause us to begin avoiding eye contact.
This afternoon she asked me why girls don’t get big adam’s apples.
It was time.
Readers, you would have been so proud of me! I continued making dinner as I explained that girls’ and boys’ bodies go through some different changes on their way to becoming men and women. I did not choke on the words “breasts” or “menstruate”. I pretended like they were perfectly normal pre-dinner discussion topics.
And when words did not suffice I pulled out our trusty little white board and drew a picture of the female reproductive system.
Oh, yes I did.
We discussed what happens to an egg on its journey to becoming a baby or, um, not a baby.
I positively waxed eloquent.
When I was finished speaking I asked the golden question.
“Is there anything else you want to know?”
“Yeah. Why does your drawing look like a dog with earrings?”
Where is a health teacher when you need one?

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Works for Me Wednesday hosted by Rocks in my Dryer

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A Whirlwind Romance – Part 2

Written on August 18, 2008 by Simply Heidi in His Tender Care, The Way It Was

Click here for part one of the greatest love story ever told (on this blog).

At this time in my life I was busy pursuing both a fine education (general studies at the local community college) and a career (customer service rep at Circuit City). On Sundays I attended a college ward (LDS terminology alert: ward = congregation) for young singles. It was not really going well. Remember how I mentioned that I had a bit of an attitude? To my intense surprise, my prickly personality had not won me any friends. I was considering whether I should continue going there or go back to my parents’ ward (snore).
Politically incorrect sidenote: Growing up, it was the standard joke that all of the people in my parents’ ward were either short, fat or retarded. Thankfully, I’m only 5’1″.
One afternoon at work I received my schedule and noticed that I was supposed to work the following Sunday afternoon. That meant that I would be unable to attend either ward. But I really did want to go to church. By a series of odd coincidences I ended up in a ward way across town. I had never been there and didn’t know anyone that attended there, but it met in the morning and I could go and still get to work on time. So I went.
I sat in the back, feeling slightly awkward. A few people smiled at me but I didn’t know what to say so I buried my head in the program. Hmmm…I noticed a familiar name. That one guy from the dance, my future husb- shut up! would be speaking that day – reporting back on his mission.
A I listened to him speak I realized that he was really a nice guy. And he seemed so confident, so sure of himself, which was exactly the opposite of what I felt. I felt bad for being so snotty to him when we met.
After the service, he saw me leaving the chapel. He caught up to me a grabbed me by the hand.
“Heidi, what are you doing here? Do you go to this ward?”
“Um, no I have to work this afternoon and- actually it’s really a long, boring story. I liked your talk. Welcome home.”
I guess he was excited to see a young familiar face. He dragged me over to meet his family: his parents and older brother. I really didn’t mind, they seemed nice. I felt strange. What was this feeling? The opposite of awkward, comfortable…
The next Sunday I went back to my college ward.
I walked in and no one said hello.
I sat in the back, alone.
What was I doing there?
I said a quick, sort of demanding silent prayer.

Before I could finish the bishop came up and said, “Heidi, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Could you meet me in my office after church for a few minutes? I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Um, okay.”
And then that guy from the dance walked in and said, “Why are you sitting here all alone? Come sit with me and my friends.” So I did.
That day I met his friend, Jay. Jay was nice and cute. So of course I said yes when he asked me out. Could be fun, right?

To be continued…

PS: Thirteen years ago today, Mr. Frantic asked me to be his wife and I said yes. I’d still say yes. Happy anniversary, sweetie.

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