While The Branch President Is Away...

The branch will... slowly slip into apostasy.

Just Kidding!

I think!

Earlier this week, our Branch President loaded up his lovely wife and charming daughter and drove them half way across the country to visit one of his actual children...leaving us "branch children" in the capable hands of the Barkers. I thought that there was a chance that the Jones might check my blog so I put together a little "Branch Update" for them.

On Monday, we all got together for FHE.
Lacey, a.k.a. our fearless Relief Society president was late (more on that later) . While we were waiting for Lacey to show up (it is against branch by-laws to start any meeting before the RS prez.arrives) , Jessica started getting a little hyper and ended up spitting gum into sweet Sister Barker's hair.

Jessica claimed she didn't do it, but there were several witnesses who caught her red-handed. Hiatt was one of those witnesses and he even demonstrated how wide his eyes were open at the time of the incident.
But even with wide-eyed witnesses like Hiatt testifying against her, Jessica wouldn't admit her guilt. Randy, a third grade teacher who spends more than a little time removing gum from various body parts, had become deeply disturbed by Sister Barker's predicament, so he jumped up and and proceeded to deliver a fiery sermon titled, "Truth Teller's Go to Heaven, But Liars Go To Heck" ("Heck" of course is the 3rd grade approved word for "Hades" which is the 7th grade approved word the place that 2nd Nephi tells us that liars go).

Things calmed down a little when Lacey showed up, but the calm didn't last long. Tricia volunteered to conduct the opening song, but then got a little perturbed when she found out the Jones family wasn't here.

"Wait, wait, wait," Tricia said, "the Joneses are gone?!?!? Who is going to shake my hand or tell me how cute my hair looks?!?!?"

When we told her that the Joneses had gone to visit their daughter, things got really tense. Tricia, overcome by feelings of abandonment, started whipping out her stealthy ninja moves.

And when she found out how long the Joneses were going to be gone, she really lost it. Thankfully the Elder's quorum had just had their quarterly lesson on how to deal with irate Relief Society sisters, so many injuries (and a great deal of property damage) were avoided.

Wednesday was institute, but without President Jones's daughter Kristy in attendance, only Zealanda thought it necessary to show up. Institute just isn't institute without Kristy, so when the Laurels and Priests came in for their "institute orientation", all Zealanda and I could do was sob quietly into our scriptures.

A few other interesting things have happened while the Joneses have been gone...

Remember how I mentioned that Lacey was late for FHE? Well, the reason for her tardiness was that she was using her professional nursing skills to save the life of some big wig from Washington DC.


He was so grateful that he decided the only appropriate way to thank her was to put her face on the newest crop of quarters.

And Lacey wasn't the only one being memorialized in a big way. Brother Barker has been a government employee for quite some time now, but with the economy down like it is, the BLM has had to find non-monetary ways to compensate their dedicated workers. Since the stimulus package was providing money for more public works anyway, they decided to kill two birds with one really big stone.

And without the Joneses here to counsel with us, some branch members have made some, shall we say "unfortunate" career choices.

Zealanda decided to give up teaching to become a pirate...

...Sister Barker left her local students to become the first intergalactic piano teacher...

...and Josh sold his Taekwondo studio and became a sith lord.

And I won't even try to tell you about what the Hobson's have been up to. We are saving all of the newspapers articles for the Joneses, but if they watch CNN with any regularity, they might already know.

So if you are reading this Joneses...know that you are missed. A lot.

And we are going to have a lot to talk about when you get home...

An Elect Lady

My friend Anne died last Friday. She was one of the first people I got to know when I moved to this cute little town, my advisor the first time I served as Relief Society president, and one of the wisest people I have ever met. Single until the age of 45, Anne was an incredible example: returned missionary, church leader, world traveler, teacher, counselor, wife, and mother to everyone around her. You can read more about her amazing life here , but my favorite memories of Anne are centered around her service, along with her sweet husband, in our singles ward. We older singlets would flock to Anne's table during linger longers to hear her stories and advice about being a single woman in the church, especially during holidays like Valentines and Mother's Day. Always uplifting, we never left her table without being inspired about the opportunities that lay ahead for us. I especially remember a long conversation we had in my living room a few months after I was set apart as RS president. She listened to my frustrations, calmed my fears, taught me, counseled me, and made me laugh. I know that she will continue to touch lives through the example she set here, and through her work on the other side of the veil. If anyone deserves some post-mortal-life down-time, it would be Anne, but she has never been one to rest on her laurels, or even take a breather. I'm sure that this last week has been the most productive the spirit world has seen in some time. And whoever she is teaching, counseling, or nudging into the light, I hope they realize how lucky they are to have her.

Signs of the Times

I was at the grocery store on Saturday (buying more lozenges in an attempt to lure back my wayward voice) and had a nice conversation with the clerk about how I spend my studentless-summers. I was a little surprised when she asked me if I stayed in town or went back to the "big city" for the two and a half month break. "I go visit my family during the summer," I answered in my scratchy-sounding whisper, "but I live here year round."
I have to admit that I was surprised by her question because I really can't understand how anyone could NOT want to live here year-round.
Case in point: This week, in honor of National FFA (Future Farmers of America, for you city folk) week, the kids drove their tractors to school. Sure, I might have to drive 45 minutes down the interstate to get to a mall, an Italian restaurant, or a Barnes and Noble, but diving past a high school parking lot full of John Deere's makes those kinds of sacrifices seem mighty insignificant.

As one of our newest street sign's proclaims, this is God's country (If you don't believe me, please notice the strategic placement of the stake center in the background of the photo). And, come to think of it, the SIGNS around town are a big part of the charm.

My mom's parents grew up in this town, attending the picture shows in the same theater I frequent. There is a new sign in front now, but I love that the original bricked-in name is still visible. The two signs link the past with the future and make me smile every time I drive by.

The signs around this town tell much more about Burley than just the names of businesses or the rules of the road. For example, the fact that most of our street signs are still nailed to wooden beams instead of mounted on metal posts tells a lot about the pace of life in this cute little cow town.

And don't even get me started on the hand-carved city building signs. Every time I see one I look around to see if I can spot Sheriff Andy walking little Opie down to the fishing hole.

I love the sign for the Rusty Spur...

...and my brothers never visit without commenting on the name of one of their favorite Magic Valley establishments. Of course, they are all about the bodily function humor, so you can imagine the fun they have with the service station's title.

Even though I have lived here for close to five years now, my favorite signs today are still the same signs that stood out to me the first few times I ventured into town for job interviews and house hunting.

I still laugh every time I see this one...

...does anyone else thing the & sign looks a little too much like another letter "S"?

And then there is the two-sided sign outside the church on the corner of my street. I love giving people directions to my house because I get to tell them, "You'll know you are almost there when you see the 'Prepare to meet thy God' sign."

And the other side is a nice reminder for them as they enter and exit my apartment...

My all time favorite sign is also very close to my house.

The local senior center is just across the street. The actual building is set far into the block behind some trees, making it almost impossible to see from the street as you drive by. In what must have been an attempt to make the center easier to locate, the sign was unfortunately erected down the lane and right on the main street. Why is that "unfortunate" you ask? Look in the background of the photo, behind the sign.

Yep. That's a cemetery.

And since you can't see the actual senior center from the road, it kind of looks like the older folks round these parts get much the same treatment as lame horses get.

I guess that would explain why my parents haven't seemed real excited about the prospect of moving over by me when they retire.

The only sign our little piece of heaven is missing is the "World's Best Place to Live" sign, but I'm sure the FFA kids will get to work carving us one as soon as they finish parking their tractors.

My LOST Voice

I have been living on a completely different plane of existence lately. And while the levels of surrealness I have been experiencing might be perfectly normal on an episode of LOST, they are not perfectly normal in the life of a cute little rural school marm like me.
I haven't missed a day of school in weeks, but I also haven't really been present for those two weeks either. The wheels of the educational process have been spinning in my classroom, but my classes have been at a standstill.

At this point, the evil smoke monster from LOST could make an appearance in the lunch room out side my classroom and start tearing the lunch ladies limb from limb and I wouldn't bat an eye.

So how did I end up in this teaching twilight zone?

I lost my voice.

That may not seem like a big deal to some, but for a person as vociferously verbose as me, the inability to talk while teaching is a tragedy of epic proportions. Think Tiger Woods trying to golf with two broken arms, or Emeril attempting to whip up a culinary masterpiece without the use of his taste buds or scent sniffers.

A teacher without a voice is like a chalkboard without chalk: flat, dull, useless... and we both make really annoying noises to boot.

I tried using my nifty megaphone that not only amplifies voices, but can make a speaker sound like a chipmunk or Darth Vader or an evil robot or a chipmunk who is impersonating Darth Vader while being attacked by an evil robot. It worked fine for about thirty seconds, but then I had to put it away because all of the kidlets kept wanting to know when they were going to get a turn with the megaphone. They were pretty disappointed that I wasn't as willing to share my toys with them as they were to share their strep viruses with me.

This particular bout with voicelessness has been especially annoying because the kidlets and I recently hit the really exciting part of our second semester novel.

I have spent a lot of time and energy over the past six weeks helping the kidlets get sucked in to Avi's tale of intrigue and murder on the high seas.

The classes have been racing to see who can reach out port at the end of the final chapter first...

...but just as the mutant shark and killer squid blindsided the unsuspecting crews of my 1B and 2B classes, my 16 days of silence have left me dead in the young adult literary waters.

I like to read the climatic chapters out loud to each class to make sure that they feel the full impact of the nail-biting plot twists. My favorite part of the story time process is when we get to a really exciting part - - so exciting that the kidlets have stopped following along in their class copies and are staring up at me, wide eyed, lost in the moment and waiting with baited breath to find out what will happen next. That is the moment when I like to throw in a plot twist of my own. Something like, "And as Charlotte, after escaping certain death yet again, took a deep breath and turned to bask in the warm light of the mid day sun...Mr. Morgan charged her from behind and pushed her overboard into the pleasantly surprised jaws of a hungry shark. The end." I love the second and a half of confused silence that follows, just before they start whipping through pages of the book to figure out what the heck just happened. I really love it when they figure out that I was just messing with their cute little heads. Hell hath no fury like a seventh grader who thinks they have been betrayed by their lit teacher. It's more fun to watch than...well, an episode of LOST.

So since I have missed out on so many great head-messing-moments with this novel, I am really hoping my voice returns before the kidlets and I start reading the fantastic narrative poem, The Highwayman. This school year would be a complete and total waste if I didn't get to dress up as the characters for the kidlets to interview for their newspaper articles. I have been working on my "red coat" accent, and my "Tim the Ostler" impersonation since last year, so I would hate for all of that preparation to be for naught.

Over the last two weeks, my voicelessness has often left me with the urge to scream...which of course I can't do because my voice is lost, and that just frustrates me even more. It is a vicious cycle. So if any of you out there in blog land have any idea where my lost voice might be found, nothing would make me happier than un-losing that once-unappreciated voice.

Wait...actually there might be one thing that would make me happier than finding my lost voice: finding the guys from LOST.

I really wouldn't mind whispering sweet nothings into their ears.

But being able to read the final chapters of The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle to my kidlets would be a close second.

But no matter what, Jenny will always be older than me.

Thirty years ago today, my birth was proclaimed to all the world via the "today's special" sign outside my dad's restaurant. With such an auspicious beginning, there should have been little doubt that I was destined for great things. I mean, really, can President Obama or the Pope claim to have beat out fish and chips for top billing the day that either of them were born? I don't think so. And I am proud to say that I have spent the past three decades living up to the tremendous potential hinted at by that sign so many years ago: I am a pretty decent teacher, a college graduate, a published writer, and a returned missionary. I can play three instruments, speak fluent Canadian, and program my DVR to record two programs at the same time. When I look back on my list of accomplishments, I can't help but feel tremendously blessed, which is odd because, when I look back on the photos of my early childhood, I can't help but notice that I look tremendously annoyed.

My big sister Jenny always seems to be smiling and looking pleased as punch about her lot in life, but my facial expressions seemed confined to the unhappy, confused, or generally ticked off side of the emotional spectrum. I find this to be somewhat troubling because I have always believed my childhood was extraordinarily pleasant. Photographic evidence, however, seems to disprove that.

Apparently, my childhood was full of terror,

...frustration,

... confusion,

...and whatever emotion inspired me to do this.

I clearly suffered a great deal during my formative years, but that newly gained insight into my past has actually had a positive effect on me. I have been anticipating this thirtieth birthday with a great deal of trepidation because I couldn't imagine that my life could get any better than it has been. I felt like I had already experienced my high point and everything else would have to be a downhill plunge into the dark and hopeless abyss of old age. So you can imagine my relief when I realized that, according to the photos, my childhood actually sucked, which means I still have some good years banked.

Of course, my other working theory to explain the faces in the photos is that I spent the first five years of my life stressing out over the knowledge that I would eventually be thirty years old. And that would explain why, when my mom wished me "Happy Birthday" this morning, my facial expression looked an awful lot like the one I am wearing in the photo below.

Here's hoping the next thirty years are just as terrifying, frustrating, and confusing as the last thirty, because it has been one heck of a fun ride. Viva la birthdays! And please pass the cake.