Bicycles and Blessings

Children always have a special excitement for their new bikes. I witnessed this first hand this last Christmas when Abby, and Nate received new bikes for Christmas. They could hardly wait to go outside and ride. It didn't seem to matter that the weather was much worse than inclement. Their eyes sparkled every time they even looked at those bikes. And frequently throughout the day you would find at least one of them just sitting on their bike, right in the middle of the living room of their home. The scene was magical, and the memories it evoked were poignant as well. It took me back to another time, and another Christmas a very long time ago, when I received my first bike.

I loved that bike! And like Abby and Nate, I couldn't wait to get outside and ride it. It was the first morning of a very long relationship between me, and my bike. Like the proverbial sixteen year old that has just been handed their first set of keys, I had just been given my first form of faster transportation. And nothing but good weather, and a few hours outside could make that morning any better. I had that bike for years, and me and my siblings, Bob and Nik, would spend hours riding those bikes. They would take us to far away lands, amazing new terrains, never before seen by man, and everywhere else that our imaginations could take us.

This bike was the source of my realization that mobility could come in much faster varieties, that it could cut down on the amount of time it would take to get somewhere, and was a source of endless fun and freedom. It was even the source of my one and only broken bone. Bob and I would frequently set off to go somewhere, or more often than not -- no where. Just around the block, as we use to call it. It was on one such of these block adventures that Bob and I became more consumed with where we were going, rather than what we were doing. As Bob steered into me, and I lost control of this wonderful form of transportation, I suddenly, and unexplainedly, found myself alone, in the middle of the road, with my bike on top of me -- and my broken ankle.

All that really registered was the pain at the time. Until of course a car came around the corner, and I realized that there was something much bigger, and faster than I was on the road. Fortunately for me, this particular car was carrying a good Samaritan that took the time to stop the car, and carry me into the house. Bob of course had vanished long enough to alert mom to the impending catastrophe that was already unfolding, out in the middle of the road -- the one place we weren't suppose to play. But my only concern was for my bike, still lying forlorn, and alone, where it had been left, out in the street.

This incident didn't end my love affair with my bike -- it simply slowed it down for a time. In fact, that passion for riding my bike didn't fully end, until I discovered the use of an automobile. But I still feel that I saw more of the world from the top of my bike, than even my car has been able to show me. The lands, and places created in my imagination, for me to explore, on this two wheeled wonder, would never be overshadowed through the realities of my expanding world.

Field Trip to the Zoo

One thing that I remember most about my school years, was my mother's active participation in our education. We all learned to put an emphasis on education -- through the attitude and example of mom, and dad. Mother was always active in the PTA, fund raising projects, science projects, extra-curricular activities, and any events that required chaperons. I don't have many memories of specific events of my parents being involved, but I do remember vividly mom's active participation in all aspects of our education. I frequently feel that me, and my siblings had fewer problems than a lot of kids, due to the amount of involvement that my parents had in each of our lives.

Parent teacher conferences were particularly unbearable, because it wasn't merely my mother that always attended. I can remember my father always coming home from work, in order to go to parent teacher conferences, with mom. I never looked forward to these evenings -- usually because I knew what the teacher was going to say. "Lisa is a great student, but she needs to work on not talking so much in class." I think by the end of my high school years, my parents could recite this phrase to the teachers, even before they started to think about uttering it. This of course would lead to the inevitable lecture on the importance of studying harder, and focusing on my schooling, and not goofing around so much in class. I don't think I ever thanked my parents for their avid care, and concern they demonstrated in my educational pursuits. But now, as an adult, I can see that it is one of the most important gifts they could ever have given to me in my life.

One particular annual event stands out from all the rest in my schooling years. When I was in elementary school, during the first week of December, mom would always take to the kitchen, and make gingerbread houses. These houses weren't just your usual gingerbread house, made out of graham crackers, with a couple of M & M's on them. These were considered a celebration for not only Christmas, but for Bob's birthday, as well. And mom, true to form, always had to share with the whole class. And of course she couldn't single out one child over another. So, she made a gingerbread house for each child, for every single year of our Elementary school years. These houses were spectacular. I can still smell the warm gingerbread as it came out of the ove. The gingerbread was home made, and it would take hours to get them put together, with the frosting. Once they were completed, we were allowed to help with the decorating. I am sure you could never taste the gingerbread of the house, because of all the candy that was on them. They were big enough, to feed an entire elementary school class. Which is exactly what she had in mind, when she put them together. On the last day, before Christmas break, were were suppose to get together as a class, and break the gingerbread house, to share with all of our class mates. I can still remember the debates that mom had with more than one teacher, who didn't want to break the house, because they were so beautiful. They just didn't understand that in mom's eyes -- they were a gift for the kids of our classes, and they were suppose to be broken, and shared.

One picture I came across, brought back a lot of memories of my mother's involvement in my schooling. It is a picture of a small group of me, Bob, and three other of my class mates during a field trip to the zoo; mom was helping out with this trip, and the picture was attached to a thank you card. Attached to the back of a construction paper bird/card, it had a brief note written by our teacher. "Thank you for helping us on our field trip, love" From there each one of us were to sign the card, in our interesting rendition of handwriting, from the time. Myself, Bobby (Bob), Rachel, Mardee, and Lori.

My school years would never have been the same, if mom had been less involved in our lives, and participated in fewer events. I had forgotten how much I treasured the time I was able to spend with her, and the effort she put into always building a relationship with each of her children.

How Times Change

How times change. School was something that I looked forward to, from the very beginning. Learning has always been one of my passions, and I remember when I couldn't wait to be big enough to go to the big kid's school! Life was so much simpler, with fewer worries. The biggest worry either my mother or I had on my fist day of school was making sure that I would be able to catch the right bus. Getting to school was never the problem. Mom knew exactly where to catch the bus. When mom was around there was never a worry in the world, she knew what had to be done, and how it needed to be accomplished.

The big concern would come at the end of my day, when I realized that mom wasn't there, to be sure I would be able to get back on the correct bus. Today that risk could lead to terrible danger from kidnappers, drug dealers, and serious car accidents. Back then the danger came from getting news to mom that I had missed the bus, and I was stuck at the school. That of course could symbolize the end of the world. The solution -- the infamous name tag. All the kids wore them -- but what a fashion statement. They provided all the appropriate information for any new kindergartner. Name, bus number, and of course -- for those serious emergencies -- the home phone number! Back then identity theft hadn't even been invented -- so the information was proudly displayed on the front collar of each child's clothes. A must for starting school -- in what seemed like then, the big, bad, world. Oh, if only we had known then what would come.

School Days

I remember from the time I was a little girl, mom always kept the yearly photos of each of her children. As I got older these pictures turned into the yearly school pictures. There was always a place in our home showing the yearly picture of each of the children in our family. These pictures also had to be provided to each of the grandmother's, so they could proudly display them on top of the television, or somewhere else prominent -- where all visitors to their homes would see. I never really thought much about these pictures, other than when we looked at them later, when mom and dad were moving, and Nikki and I would laugh over the lack of fashion sense, the ridiculous make-up, and of course the hair do's that we couldn't stop laughing at.

At that move, mom gathered up all the pictures, and memorabilia of our lives, and put them in large piles in the middle of the living room in Kaysville. One pile for each child. And she ultimately sent those pictures home with each of us. I don't know about my siblings -- I know James' wife Kris is pretty good with scrap booking, and she has been working hard to get all of their pictures, and things organized. For the rest of us, however, and me in particular, these pictures ended up in various boxes, forgotten. At least until I would trip over them, or accidentally pull them down on my head, while trying to get to something else in my closet. This year, starting with last Christmas, we have all decided to get on the "family history" band wagon, and do these family project for our family. This has led me to a general desire to get all of mine organized, in some fashion.

I have started several projects, and explored several different options. And I have found them all frustrating. Scrap booking is just not for me, at least in the traditional format, because ultimately I just can't stand the mess it creates -- and I am not that patient of a person. I am an organizer, not a creator. I have tried just putting them in books, without all the cutsie fuss, and that frustrated me, because all of my pictures, like my life, are never the exact size to fit in the pre-designed books you can buy in the store. I have tried the Google web-site, and I just don't like the format it appears in, and it is much harder to work with, than the blogs have proven to be.

All of this ultimately led me back to this blog, with a subscription to a picture site where I can make them into books electronically. The blog is more appealing to my style of presentation, and the picture site, I will be able to do electronic "scrapbooks" that should I choose to, I eventually can order online, without having all the mess in my home. Of course this leaves the originals in the same old boxes. But no one can see those pictures anyway.

So, as I started the organizational process, I had to decide where to start. I finally decided the best place to start, is with the beginning -- with me. That brings me back to the yearly pictures. I have literally hundreds of these pictures, since they always came in packets, with every size you can dream of. And buried in the middle of these pictures, I came across the set that Grandma Armstrong had kept, which mother had returned to me, upon Grandma's passing. Why did I find this set of pictures any different from the rest? Because Grandma Armstrong, true to form, had labeled the back of every picture with both the year they were taken, and the age I was, at that time. I had forgotten that habit of hers, until that moment, when I came across that stack of pictures, neatly piled together, all the same size, and all with the exact same label on the back -- the year, and my age. Why did that stand out to me? The result is the slide show at the top of this blog. Thanks to Grandma Armstrong, I didn't have to spend forever trying to guess at which picture came first, and what order did those pictures belong in.

So I am using this blog as a beginning. And a reminder of everything I am, and everyone that has helped me to get there. Like Grandma Armstrong, there has never been a person in my life that has not had some kind of influence on me, in helping to shape me into the person I have become. And why do I choose to separate this blog, from my other one? Well, this one is going to be more the scrapbook, and the history. My other one is more of my thoughts, my ideals, my reading -- and a look into the person I actually am today. I hope you enjoy this blog -- and I would like to thank each and every person that is so important to me, that has helped me to put this together throughout the years.