Elbow Room...

Good news! I have figured out what is wrong with kids today and the trend towards not being able to spell, use grammar or otherwise communicate effectively. "Texting?" you suggest? Nope. "The internet?" Oh sure, blame the web yet again. And...no.

It is because they lacked in their youth the most important learning tool imaginable. That's right, two tiny words: Schoolhouse Rock.

Okay everyone over age 30--how did you learn about Exclamations? Or how a bill becomes law? Or about the Magic Number 3? That's right--Schoolhouse Rock.

Today when my mind was practically bursting into flame because of overuse, I tuned into YouTube and sure enough, there they were.

"Interjections (Well!) show excitement (Oh!) or emotion (Hey!).
They're generally set apart from a sentence by an exclamation point,
Or by a comma when the feeling's not as strong."

Seriously--have any better lyrics ever been written? I must say that I do not believe so. And set to music? Genius!

C'mon, if I say "Conjunction Junction" you know you're going to burst into song with "What's your function?"
Because some amazing educator came up with a way to remind you that there are three most commonly used conjunctions which are, of course, "and, but and or". Or that the preamble to the constitution--perhaps the greatest document ever written--begins with "We the people in order to form a more perfect union..." Or that a bill has to go through all sorts of steps to become a law--the basis of our entire legislative process. (Okay, that might have changed since the 1970's given recent changes in the Beltway...)

Anyway, just thought I'd let you know that I've found a way to remove the "cu ltr" nonsense from our youth. So now, if you'd excuse me, I'm off to hum along. But as I go, just remember this:

So when you're happy
Or sad
Or frightened
Or mad
Or excited
Or glad
An interjection starts a sentence right!

Julie and the Marlboro Man

By the time I left Utah 5 years ago to head back north, I must admit that I had become accustomed to certain things. And some of them were things to which I was most happy to claim as things I loved most about the Beehive State. One of the top ones? The whole clean air/no smoking thing. It was so refreshing to be able to walk into a restaurant, inhale deeply and not develop lung cancer on the spot. Unfortunately, you couldn't say the same about walking outside during the inversions, but I digress. Smokers existed, and I personally knew several of them, but for the most part they hid in corners and parking lots, their eyes darting furtively about as they waited for someone to begin a pseudo coughing fit as a not-so-covert suggestion that they find a new place to light up. Like Asia, for instance.

When I moved to Big Sky Country, I was not a little bit stunned to see smokers standing about actually letting people see them puff away. And, not only did they not scurry off when I approached, they would actually continue smoking and blow it in my general direction. I would go into a restaurant and immediately catch a strong whiff of eau du Camel and was the unfortunate victim, on more than one occasion, of having my Guadalajara beans and rice bear the ever-so-faint aroma of Winston. Part of the issue in restaurants was that they could actually have smoking and non-smoking (yeah, that happens) sections or, if the restaurant happened to be attached to one of the 749,000 casinos we have here (not the good kind of casinos they have in Vegas, mind you), the smoke would billow in from the bank of poker machines.

In the last couple of years, however, Montana has passed clean indoor air acts which have eased the problem, if not entirely erased it. And while you still see smokers, it truly is not as common as it once was.

But before you think that my work here is done (because obviously I have so much to do with Montana legislation) I must tell you what I viewed on my commute home this evening.

Going down Broadwater, one of the sort-of main thoroughfaires in our little city, I noted that several cars in my lane (the right) moved over to the left slightly as we approached a certain street. From a distance, I could see a bicyclist waiting at an intersection, and thought to myself that the other drivers were simply being polite as to ensure his safety.

As I came upon him, however, I saw why they were affording him wide berth. The gentleman, who appeared not to have been to a Great Clips in quite some time (or, for that matter, a Bath & Body...or just Bath) was perched upon the seat, smoking. As one might presume, I did not support his life choice, but as his bicycle was not edging out into the traffic lane, was not exactly compelled to pull into the left-hand lane in order to avoid the appearance of him. Until I also noted that in his hand was a red plastic gas can in which liquid was easily discernible...

Yep. Let it sink in.

And people wonder how we keep our population so low here...

License Plates

All right, so as “followers” of my blog (gosh I feel popular) you know that I live in Big Sky Country.   And there are many fine things to recommend it—lovely wheat fields, nice folks and generally clean air (unless the sugar beet factory is running or some acreage has fallen susceptible to a wildfire).   It’s also, for those of you who haven’t visited, home to the biggest variety of license plates this side of…well…everything.

It’s true.  I think that there are something like 58 different license plate designs from which you can choose promoting everything from your alma mater to you favorite past time (yes, there is one for quilters).   And as if that isn’t bad enough, it’s also ridiculously cheap to get personalized plates and virtually everyone has one—including my dear husband, whose Cadillac bears the plate “LNDYCHT”.

Now some of them are rather humorous; my friend Ginger, for instance, has plates that say GOB4ULV…as the mother of 5 it makes good sense, too.   (They wouldn’t let her have PB4ULV at the DMV.)  And I have no problem when people use that kind of humor on their plates. 

But for some unknown reason, about every other personalized plate bears some sort of bible verse reference.  In fact, I’m starting to think that there’s not a verse in the New Testament that doesn’t have its own Montana license plate and that some are starting to make up their own books.   Or there’s the ever so clever “MEANDJC”, “PRY2GOD”, “IBLIEVE” etc. etc. etc.  

Hopefully everyone reading this knows that I’m a Christian, that I pray, and that I’m a fan of the scriptures.  But seriously—do I need to have it on my license plate?  And what really drives me el-nutso is that these are generally the people, along with the “God is my Co-Pilot” folks, not only most likely to suffer from bad driving, road rage and middle-finger issues but also to have their cars dinged from who knows how many accidents.

I think I’m going to get personalized plates that say JULIE1:2 which, if you’ll look it up means “be thou not so stupid as to think thyself so holy that thou needest to advertise it on thy license plates when really thou art a bad-driving dork.”

So…can anyone guess what’s happened to me on a recent commute?  Hmmmmm….. 

On Prayer and Pretzels

First of all, let me say that it's not that I'm ungrateful for the opportunity I have to provide ecclesiastical leadership to children. It's just that there are times that I wonder what exactly it is that they are hearing. Take today, for instance.

Teaching sharing time during Primary is a little scary for me. Okay, it's a lot scary. All of those little eyes looking up at me, waiting for me to give them the answers they seek on a variety of rather important topics. Indeed, I'd usually prefer to set myself on fire than have to do sharing time. I'm a total coward.

Today's was on prayer. It's a fairly broad subject, to be sure, and one of significance. I'm a fan of prayer, having offered roughly 8 billion in, say, the last month and a half or so. So I crafted my message in hopes that the children would grab on to a nugget or two that they would remember for at least the next 12 hours and hopefully put into use at bedtime.

So I talked about Prayer Rock--of significance to those of us from the Big Horn Basin. It's a cool story, what with a rock splitting straight down the middle and falling into a hole without any visible force behind it. The kids were pretty impressed, and I must admit that I was feeling pretty darned impressed myself, having held them captive for a whole three or four minutes. Then there was the requisite board presentation, with handy-dandy wordstrips that kids got to draw from a bag (ah, the joy of keeping little people busy) and a musical number which included a solo from yours truly. And, as kind of an offhand thought, I gave each child a bag with pretzels in it which told them the story of how and why pretzels were created (they symbolized arms folded in prayer) and some scriptures on prayer.

We got home, at which time I proudly asked Ethan to tell Daddy what we'd talked about in Primary. "I don't remember," he said. "Family?"

Not a bad guess, given the crowd with which we hang on Sundays.

"No," I said. "Try again." Certainly, I thought he'd get it this time.

"Um...heaven?'

"No," I replied. "Think really hard."

"Oh, I remember!" he exclaimed. "Pretzels!"

So, in case someone ever asks you what you know about the Mormons, you have an answer. We believe in the power of pretzels.

Amen.