Growing up – The Bloody Keyboard

On The Lake

But the grandeur of this natural marvel isn’t the only reason I love it. I have come to realize that Lake Powell is more than just the sum of its parts.

I grew up going to Lake Powell every year. First with my mother’s aunt and uncle and cousins when the lake was first filling up, and then with my own Aunt when that first group got too big. (Who are we kidding? That group started out too big! But eventually, when all those cousins started having kids…) Now we go on alternating years with my sister and her family – and I’m so grateful for them for continuing the tradition for my own children. There’s no place like Lake Powell, and although the argument against the Glen Canyon dam is compelling and reading about the wonders that were buried when it was built breaks my heart, there’s still a love for the ease, enjoyment, and beauty of spending a week on the lake with family.

On The Lake

God was having a good day when He created Lake Powell. I am in awe of its beauty and stand in reverent gratitude for the men and women, both past and present, who have worked tirelessly to preserve and improve this incredible area. But the grandeur of this natural marvel isn’t the only reason I love it. I have come to realize that Lake Powell is more than just the sum of its parts. On this lake I have found

People as varied as the tumbled rocks, separate but together, a strong anchorage

Laughter as endless as the starry sky

Friendship as steady as the red rock cliffs

Love as deep as the river

Family as constant as the waves lapping at the sand beach, never-ending and eternal

Wonder as fantastical as the winding corridors

Faith as peaceful as the morning water

Joy as bright as the sun

Puttin’ on the Ritz

The older we got, the more items took up residency on the long bathroom vanity. The countertop was cluttered with curling irons, curlers, crimpers, blow-dryers, hairbrushes, banana clips, towels, hair elastics and headbands, lotion, feminine products, makeup, toothbrushes, toothpaste, contact lens solution, breakfast (if we were running late), articles of clothing, books, a roll of toilet paper (used for both nose-blowing and makeup-smudging—though not at the same time), and a whole array of hair care products including mousse, hairspray, gel, and the occasional box of do-it-at-home hair dye.

Do you remember those hectic days of getting ready for school? The agonizing choice of what to wear, the careful timing that allowed the maximum amount of sleep while still maintaining enough time to look your best and eat something and finish that math homework you never got around to the night before? There are many mornings when I watch my own kids go through that still-familiar routine that I say a silent prayer to an all-wise God who allowed us to eventually leave those rocky teenage shoals.

Puttin’ on the Ritz – by Josie Hume

I grew up as one of the three “big girls.” Hannah was the oldest, born in 1975, Kate, the middle, in 1976, and then me in 1977. The next sibling, Landon, wasn’t born until 1981 followed, in time, by three more siblings, hence the moniker. With the nearest neighborhood kids our age more than three miles down the road, we were each other’s playmates, conversationalists and confidants. As we entered our teenage years, my mother looked on with a Madonna smile, congratulating herself on her wise family planning. My father built a bigger bathroom.

School mornings were hectic at our house: alarms blaring; kids dancing outside the occupied toilet room door or jockeying for showers; shouts of “Hurry up!” and “Don’t use all the hot water!” and “Can I wear your …” and “Has anyone seen my …”

After scrubbing, polishing, buffing, shaving, waxing, tweezing, styling and primping, we descended en masse to eat breakfast and make lunches. On the weekends, my dad would make the best french toast for the family, but on school mornings, breakfasts were generally “if you can find it, you can eat it” kinds of meals. Cereal, pie, toast, leftovers, cottage cheese, eggs… bites of which were consumed while finishing homework, putting the final touches on school projects, making sandwiches, stuffing chips and treats in brown paper bags, or cramming for tests.

When someone saw the bus round the bend at the bottom of the canyon, everything kicked into hyper-drive. The bus trundled up the canyon at 7:15 five mornings a week—and five mornings a week we were never ready on time. Frantic questions like “Where are my shoes?!” and “Will someone grab me some chips for my lunch?!” and “Who took the last cookie?!” and “Has anyone seen my backpack?!” echoed through the house followed by what I am sure was a blissful silence as we made the mad dash up the driveway.

How my mother must have sighed with relief when we all ran out the door! Maybe she snickered at the spectacle of kids trying to shove papers in school bags, carrying one shoe and hopping on the other foot while eating a banana and balancing a paper-mâché mobile of the solar system. Or maybe she rolled her eyes at us big girls as we picked our way through the snow in sandals because sensible shoes didn’t go with our outfits, secure in the knowledge that she was never so foolish when she was young. There must have been many times she growled when she noticed three lunches still sitting on the kitchen counter and had to race after us so we didn’t go hungry.

But I like to think that most of the time she had a smile on her face as she stood in the kitchen we’d built and watched her children tramp up the driveway, laughing and joking with each other, lending a helping hand when needed, excited for the day ahead of them. And then she’d turn back to the one or two small children still at home with a sense of peace, knowing that she’d done her job and done it well.

Breathing Room

My new room had two windows, a large closet, a desk, and a bookcase that doubled as a dresser. It didn’t have a heater yet, but it was mine and mine alone, and being able to see my breath in the winter didn’t seem that daunting of a prospect if I was the only one seeing it.

Do you remember the first time you got your own room? Perhaps you’ve never had to share? Perhaps you never had your own? I remember mine. It had wine-red carpet, cream walls and two windows, one on each side of the corner. My view of the mountains was spectacular, and I often opened the windows to breathe in the sweet morning air. Life in my room was good.

Breathing Room – Josie Hume

For most of my growing up years I shared a large room with my siblings, all six of them. We were like the dwarves in Snow White—seven beds all in a row. I was in high school when we finally built an addition to our house that included individual bedrooms.

Besides being cold, the room was also aptly named “The Bee and Fly Room.” Wasps and flies lived in the attic above my new domicile and wouldn’t go away, no matter how many times my father sprayed. Being attracted by the light and heat of the bulb, the insects would crawl into my room through the light box. On chilly mornings, dozens of tiny but deadly black and yellow bodies, sluggish from the cold, littered my floor like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. They stayed there, a wriggling carpet, until the sun crested the mountains and warmed the air enough so they could start their busy day of tormenting their co-resident.

After several stings, I developed the following precautions:

Remain covered up—bees won’t worm their way under the covers, but if you invite them under, they’ll accept.
Keep arms and legs (and head) inside the blankets at all times.
Check the bedspread for wasps before you uncover in the morning.
Keep a pair of shoes or slippers beside the bed so you don’t have to walk barefoot across the treacherous floor.
Check your shoes or slippers for insects before you slip them on.
Always make your bed in the morning so nothing can make it their home during the day.
Look where you plan to sit before actually doing so.
Don’t leave clothing on the floor or something else might try to wear it.
Shake out your clothes before you put them on, even if they’ve been folded in the bookcase.
Pause a moment outside your room and assess the situation before entering. Ask yourself the following question: Is what I need inside really worth it?

It is a testament to just how badly I wanted my own room that I put up with these “roommates.” I hadn’t realized how stifled I’d been. All of sudden, I had my space. If I wanted to be alone, I had a place to go. If I wanted to stay up all night reading, I could do it without keeping anyone else awake. I could listen to my radio, tape posters on the walls, do my homework, or have a friend over for a private giggle about boys or a slamfest about teachers. The door to my room didn’t shut me in—it shut the world out.

I experienced a lot of firsts in that room. I cried my first tears over a boy and dressed up for my first prom. I read my acceptance letter to The Netherlands Rotary Exchange program when I was sixteen, then packed up the closet and the shelves to leave my family for the first time. I returned a year later and a decade older. Those walls heard my laughter and my prayers, my sobs and my whispered dreams, and they sheltered me as I muddled my way through the tangled emotions of high school.

That was the last time I had my own room. I joined the Marine Corps after high school and shared a squad bay with sixty other girls at boot camp, then moved to my next duty station and into a double room in the barracks. Eventually, I got married and have shared a room with my husband for twenty years now. Even though living with him has brought me more joy than my teenage self ever imagined possible, we all need some alone-time occasionally. Everyone needs some breathing room. A space to be ourselves, to let our hair down—to think outrageous thoughts and scream obscenities and laugh till we cry. A space where the only eyes watching us are our own.

So go ahead, take a minute. Shut the door and breathe.