My First Crush

When I was in third grade, I sat across from none other than the one and only Jared Vestal. He was super silly, sporty, and fun to be with. Halfway through the year, I also discovered that he was Mormon. From that point on, I officially had a crush on him. Naturally. We were pretty much destined for each other (how on earth could we not be?!!)

He was the reason that I got pulled out of class twice that year and had a talk with the teacher for being disruptive (the only two times a teacher has ever pulled me out to reprimand me!) He always invited me to play kickball with him and he always picked me for his team. I'm sure he even let me sit next to him at the lunch table, though I don't really remember. Obviously, we were a really serious item. 

Sadly, at the end of that year, his family decided to move. Our obvisoulymeanttobe relationship was being cut-off. Obliterated. Ended. The last time I saw him was at his house two days after school got out and he had a huge goodbye/birthday party. All I remember is a huge water fight and lots of boys. I felt pretty proud of the fact that I was one of only three girls that got invited. 

I was able to put Jared behind me. I was able to move on. But today, when I was looking-up random journal prompts to find something to write about, it made me think of Jared again and the very special and touching i'llpickyouformykickballteam relationship we had. Out of curiosity, I tried finding him on facebook (I know--creeper, right? But don't judge--you know you've done the same!) Lo and behold--I found him! It was the weirdest facebook creeper/stocker moment of my facebook creeper/stocker career (which I promise you, isn't that flourished of a career). He's on a mission right now in Guatemala, and he happens to be coming home from the MTC tomorrow--May 30th! Maybe I should be waiting in the airport for him with a big sign and a bouquet of flowers? 

Let's not even go into how big of an ohheavenspleaseno/i'mshudderingatthethought/ewe!!! idea that was, plus the few, minor (blaring) details that would make the whole thing extremely complicated. No, I think that dear Jared Vestal is cemented far back into the drawer of my 3rd grade memories, and that that is where he will be staying. 

Fort Building

Once upon a time my sophomore year of college, my roommates and I built a fort. Now. This was not just any ol' fort. This was a living room sized fort. This was huge! We used command hooks to hang ropes across the ceiling and a zillion blankets. It was big enough to fit our couch and entertainment center underneath. After we finished building it, Jeremy joined in on our girls night and we watched "Red" together. It was quite the splendid evening.

Because we put in so much hard work and effort, we decided to leave the fort up for the rest of the week. We had people come over to the apartment for no other purpose than to check it out. We even had strangers, who had seen the extravaganza through our window while they were eating their Slab Pizza out on the patio outside our door, knock on our door and ask if they could look at it. It was a wonderful, delightfully happy time of life.

Upon building the fort, we decided that we needed to make rules for it. We grabbed four pieces of paper, and Amelia scribbled them down while we shouted them out. Upon cleaning out our apartment to move to another one in the complex, I found those four papers and it reminded me of what a splendid time we had had that year. The rules we made-up are as follows:

RULES of the FORT

1. Thou shalt not touch the ropes or the Kitchen!
2. Thou shalt not make-out...too much.
3. Thou shalt be ambiguous.
4. Thou shalt do no homework while in the sanctity of the fort.
5. Thou shalt not leave they brushes unattended.
6. Honor the blankets and the pillows that thy days may be long in the fort.
7. Thou shalt not covet they neighbor's blanket.
8. Thous shalt EAT!!
9. Thou shalt eat happy thoughts.
10. Thou shalt keep the girls' night HOLY.

Let me explain the inside jokes...

1. Morgan Kitchen was one of my roommates. the Kitchen is a reference to her.

2. When one of us left the apartment to go somewhere, instead of telling them to remember who they were, we would usually yell out "Don't make out too much!" (We were all seriously dating and madly in love with at least three men each at the time. So, of course, this piece of advise was very useful.) 

5. Upon moving into the apartment, Morgan and I discovered that we had the exact same brush. Several days later, Amelia went to the store and happened to buy the exact same brush. The joke was that Morgan and my brush had made a baby. Being that we didn't want any more baby brushes, we decided it would be a good idea to have a rule about not leaving brushes alone in the fort.

9. I told Amelia to write down: "Thou shalt think happy thoughts." Obviously, she was a little hungry at the time, because what came out was "Thou shalt eat happy thoughts." I think her modified version is quite perfect.

We've all moved on in different directions now, but it's nice remembering those fun and crazy times that we had together that sophomore year, like the time we built a fort.  

Great-grandma Brown

When I was five, I lived in a trailer house behind my Grandma and Grandpa Sorensen’s house. We were living there because my dad’s job had brought us to Boise and because, at the time, my family didn’t have a lot of money and my grandparents let us rent the trailer for a low price. Although living in a trailer wasn’t ideal, living next to Grandma and Grandpa’s place was. They had a garden. They had a shop. They had a huge six-foot deep swimming pool. They had two acres of land with cows and a barn that we could run around on. They had fruit trees. They had an upstairs and a downstairs. They had a pool table. They had an (extremely outdated) game station. But out of all the cool things they had, one of the coolest things was their TV. My family has never had TV, or at least, what most people think of when they think of TV. We've always had the screen and the VHS/DVD player, but beyond that, our bunny ears brought us the wonderful world of PBS and that was about it. No dish. No cable. Just normal, free TV.

But Grandma and Grandpa had TV at their place.

This was quite the awesome little detail to my five-year-old little self. Unable to let such an opportune situation go to waste, I frequented their downstairs living room. I'm fairly certain that, had they redone the upholstery at that time, they would have replaced it with something with my name on it. If their living room had been an airplane, I would have been a frequent flyer. This was serious stuff. So serious, in fact, that I often didn't even take the time to put on shoes before running across the gravel driveway to get to my grandparents' backdoor. That's right—I was willing to induce myself to physical pain in order to make it in time for the latest episode of "The Rugrats" or "Even Stevens." After a while, the sharp rocks didn't even hurt my feet because I was so used to running across them.

Every day on my way to the downstairs TV I ran past my Great-Grandma Brown. Great-grandma Brown was Grandma Sorensen’s mother and she had lived at their house for several years. She was very old and didn't ever say much. She usually just sat there in her chair, watching something too boring for five-year-old me, on the upstairs TV. Many times I paused in my mad-dash to the downstairs TV and considered joining her, but upon surveying whatever she was watching, I always considered the wonders of the Disney Channel to be more fascinating and then continued down the stairs. Except for once. One time, for a reason I don't recall, I did stop and join her. My Grandma Sorensen, seeing that I had joined Great-Grandma Brown, came over and asked her if it was okay if she changed the channel to something that I would like. She consented, and soon the latest "PB&J Otter" episode was on the screen. I sat down on the sofa next to Grandma Brown's chair and rested my head on the armrest. Somewhere within that thirty-minute episode of cartoon galore, Grandma Brown started stroking my hair. And I sat there, somewhat awe-struck as I realized that what was happening outside of the screen was probably more important than what was happening on it.

The moment ended, and a year later, so did my Great-grandma Brown's life. Though I never got to know her as the thriving, brilliant, beautiful woman that she was for most of her life, I do have this one sweet memory to hold close. It makes me think that even there at the end, when most sense and reason in the world was gone for her, she still held on enough to stroke my hair while I indulged in my five-year-old TV watching habits. She cared enough to give me that, and even though it's all just a faint shadow in my memory now, it makes me excited to get to know the "real" her someday.

Ask me to recall the TV episodes from my five-year-old TV-watching glory days, and I'll barely be able to sputter out a sentence or two. Ask me to tell you about my Great-grandma Brown, and I won't be able to tell you much more. All I have to offer is this one memory. But to me, this one memory is worth more than all the "Rugrats" and "PB&J Otter" episodes in the world. It was the moment when I realized that the important moments in life don’t happen on Hollywood’s dazzling screen. They happen, I realized, in the quiet closet of the heart.

The Magic of Harry Potter

It started when I was eight. Each night, I’d eagerly ask my dad if he would come down to my room and read the books aloud to me, and he would. I have memories of laying in my bed right before drifting off to sleep, listening to his voice paint out the scenes. Privet Drive. The Forbidden Forest. Hogwarts. The Leaky Cauldron. He also introduced me to all the characters. Hagrid. Ron. Snape. Dobby. Hermione. Dumbledore. Harry. And then the group of us—Harry’s gang, my dad, and I—would go off on spectacular adventures in these magical places. It was positively splendid.

For me, picking-up a Harry Potter book, even if it’s just for a few minutes, feels like a little piece of childhood. Harry and I did, after all, practically grow-up together. When the first book was published in 1997 Harry was eleven and I was six. When the last Harry Potter book came out in 2007 Harry was eighteen and I was fifteen. These were the books that planted within me my love for reading and, as such, I read them multiple times growing-up. The first four books especially, I read like crazy. Book number two’s cover is bent and the pages are tattered. Book number four is so worn that the binding had to be fixed with packing tape. But I didn't care what the books looked like on the outside. I cared about what they looked like on the inside; inside my imagination, to be exact. That’s where the magic was.

I realize that by now I probably sound like one of those die-hard fans who walks around wearing a cape and who wonders why my acceptance letter didn't come in the mail when I was eleven, but I’m not. Really—as I sit writing this I’m wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and the only mail I've ever looked forward to getting are the birthday cards I get every year from Grandma and letters written by friends serving religious missions. But just because I don’t read fan fiction into the late hours of the night does not mean that the Harry Potter series does not hold a special place in my heart.

7th Grade Basketball

When I was in 7th grade, for some crazy reason I decided to join the girl's basketball team. I think it was probably because the 7th grade volleyball coach convinced me (she was also one of the 7th grade basketball coaches). It was like the precursor to seminary. Because of limited gym space, the 7th grade team got to wake up and have practice around 6am every day. In the winter. When it's dark outside. And cold. And wet. As the season went on, I began to realize how much I really didn't like waking-up at 6am and even more how much I didn't really enjoy playing basketball. I sucked. Our second game of the season I made my first 2 points of any game. They were also my last. As these realities became increasingly evident to me, I decided that it would be a good idea for me to quit the team. I approached my mom to tell her.

"You can't quit," she told me.

"What?! But Mom--I hate it!"

"Too bad. You committed to something, and you're going to see it through."

Needless to say, I wasn't too happy with Mom. Regardless, I did, as Mom "made" me, finish out the season. I don't think I've played a basketball game since then (and that was 8 years ago).

Even though I didn't much appreciate it at the time, today I'm grateful that my mom made me stick to doing what I'd committed to do. I feel like that bit of tough love has made me into a much more dependent, hard-working and responsible person; which I'm grateful for. In a world full of people who think they are entitled to things and who want the easy way out, I think we need a little more tough love. Though it sucks at the time, it makes you into a better person in the long run.

Pets

Mom, Fred, and I

When I was two, we had a dog. Not that I remember, I just hear stories about me loving him to death. He got sick and died not long after we got him. Being two, I didn't really understand this, so I would go out to our backyard and call his name. "Fred! Fred!" Or at least, that's what my mom says I did. Like I said--two-year-olds don't remember much.

When I was in kindergarten, we got a fish tank. This, I remember. I remember going to the store and looking at the fish through the glass and thinking they looked so awesome. I remember thinking that it was strange that some of the fish ate each other (cannibalism, anyone?). I remember thinking that the "sucky fish" was my favorite because it's the one that lasted forever and didn't die.

When we moved to Washington, we gave up the fish and tank and since then, my life has been pet-free. When I was little, I really, really, really, really, really wanted a dog or a hamster or an anything, but we remained pet-less. And really, that's okay. I was fine with the idea of visiting my friends' pets for an hour or so and then being able to go home without having to worry about all the unpleasant parts of having a pet. Course, now Jessica, Abby, and Kate are trying like crazy to have my parents get them a dog. I doubt they'll cave in.

Daughters in My Kingdom

One of the most powerful book I've ever read is "Daughters in My Kingdom." The first time I read it, I read it because Sis. Beck, who was at the time the General Relief Society President, was coming to speak to the girls in my stake and she asked us to read it. I did, but it didn't really do much for me. Then, last summer, our Relief Society decided to read it together. Because I wasn't distracted with homework assignments and huge to-do lists, I was able to really focus on it this time. It was absolutely amazing. I loved reading this book so much because it gave me real, strong, admirable role models to look up to. The following is part of a letter I sent my friend while I was in the middle of reading the book. I think it sums up my experience reading the book fairly well:

"I’ve had such an amazing experience reading DIMK. I think that Heavenly Father told me to have the Relief Society read the book mainly just because I needed to read it. I’ve only gotten through a third of it, but already it has better strengthened my testimony of Relief Society than any other talk, scripture, or manual ever has. Relief Society is awesome. And the women of the church are even awesomer. I used to always feel so disconnected from Relief Society because I felt like it was so old and stuffy. Reading this book, however, has helped me realize that, like I said earlier, the women of the early church weren't pushovers. I admire their courage and testimony and strength. This book has given me the right kind of role models to look up to. Not the skinny, worldly kinds we see in the movies and the magazines. No. These women knew God, and wanted to follow Him. They served and served and served and never stopped. They loved their families and let the God-given female desires they had lead and guide and motivate them. They weren’t ashamed to want to have kids and to nurture and love and…well, to be feminine.

Not going to lie—I’ve kinda grown up my whole life a little afraid? Embarrassed? Against the fact? that I’m a girl because girls can be annoying and obsessed with silly things like makeup and clothes. I like running around and getting dirty and doing ‘boy’ things. Also not going to lie—I’ve never liked the stereotype of the girl who comes to college just to get married. And for a while I felt like saying that I was—am—excited to have kids and a family made me feel like I was a part of that stereotype. This book, however, has taught me that being a girl isn’t about the hair and the makeup and the frills. It’s about taking care of a family. And it’s a good thing to want to take care of a family and that I shouldn’t be ashamed of the feminine qualities God has given me. These women weren’t, and as such, they had a greater capacity to love and serve those around them and to be just plain amazing. They weren’t ashamed to be who God made them to be. They were women—and happy and proud of it! I want to be like that, and reading this book is helping me to be more like that. I have not a doubt in my mind that it was inspired by God. I’m so grateful that we have leaders who are awesome enough to seek out Gods will and to follow it so that we can benefit from their efforts."

Boomboxes

This is a picture of the boombox I had!

When I was young, boomboxes were the coolest things. Ever. I remember going over to my friend Alix's house when I was in first grade and listening to Backstreet Boys and Nsync while jumping on her bed and dancing and singing along all because she had a boombox. It was pretty serious business. We were pretty serious business. That's how cool you got to be when you had a boombox in your room.

I didn't get a boombox until the next year for Christmas. At least, I'm pretty sure it was the next year. Second grade. I walked out that Christmas morning and there it was, in all it's grey, bulky, metal and plastic electric glory. This was it: my ticket into the cool club.

Okay, so I didn't really think in terms of trying to get into some "cool club" or anything, but I did deem myself pretty awesome for now owning my very own music playing device.

Anyways.

Sitting next to the boombox (my boombox) were my very first CDs. I got the soundtrack for the movie Shrek, with cool songs like "All Star" and "I'm a Believer," and a CD of a Christian girls  group named Zoe Girls. It was awesome. The whole boring grey exterior wasn't working to well for me, though, so I decorated it with rainbow heart and peace sign stickers. On the power button, I put a yellow smiley face.

Just three years after that the world was introduced to the iPod, but I stayed loyal to my boombox. My collection of CDs continued to grow, with music from "Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrects" (which got stepped on one day when left out on the ground at Grandma Sorensen's...we went to WalMart the next day and bought a new one), the "Lord of the Rings" soundtrack, and the "Pirates of the Caribbean" soundtrack (I kinda have this thing for soundtracks). At night, I would press the "sleep" button and then drift off to sleep while listening to "Pride and Prejudice" or the song "Fairy Dance" from the 2003 "Peter Pan" soundtrack.

I have since moved on from my cool boombox and CD days and now buy everything I listen to with a click on Amazon or iTunes and then upload it to my iPod. I think, though, that there will always be a special place in my heart for big music-playing hunks of plastic. They are, after all, the ultimate ticket into the thirteen-years-ago second grader's cool club.