Horses and creeks and rocks and sticks and cousins!

This is the stuff Huntsville memories are made of.

Huntsville

I've written about Huntsville before -- this place of childhood and grandparents so dear to the  Davis-McKay family heart.  I hadn't been here in summer for years, and I took some time after the funeral to wander around the property, exploring the ways it had changed and hadn't changed at all.  It's not home, but it is homeland.

The back of the East House (Granny and Grandpa's house) and West House (where I lived when I was in 4th grade).,

The houses sit at the edge of 10 acres of farm-land in the midst of a beautiful mountain valley.
The first enclosure is used for alfalfa cultivation.

The central field is used to pasture horses.

Spring Creek runs through.  So many memories as a kid playing in this creek, catching
tadpoles and finding shells of freshwater shellfish.

Grandpa Davis

One week ago today Jack J Davis, my grandfather and namesake -- the original JJD -- passed away.  He was 93.

His obituary, which I have copied below, highlights much of what he will be remembered for:  His military service, his remarkable medical career, his even more remarkable dedication to caring for my grandmother during her long disability.

The short paragraphs of the obituary are like candles at dusk, bright points of biography around which the countless moths of memory flutter.  I remember so much.

The early memories are impressionistic snapshots:  The delightful antics of dibbee-dee on his knee in the living room.  The dark quiet of his crimson-carpeted Dallin Street study; that palomino horse figurine on the filing cabinet so alluring.  A sleepy nighttime ride in the back of his old Suburban on the way home from Huntsville, watching the play of the streetlamps as we went round the cloverleaf freeway exit.  The flash of blue and red on the bedroom walls the night of Granny's stroke.

Sometime in my late grade-school years (maybe fourth or fifth grade?) I spent a week with Grandpa at the Huntsville house, which he had recently taken (unconvincingly) to calling "Spring Creek Ranch".  It was a week of grandparental bonding -- and by "bonding" I mean "intensive instruction in the metric system and grammar."  We bought a metric converter calculator, which I used each morning to make "metric mush" (Cream of Wheat prepared using metric measurements instead of the imperial measurements). We tromped through the pastures marking out first an acre, then a hectare, and then calculating how many hectares were enclosed by the property. Between crunching numbers, we quizzed each other on vocabulary (what is the difference between "odiferous" and "odoriferous"?) and grammar (a "gerund" has the form of a verb but is used as a noun).  We may also have pulled some weeds or inspected some sprinklers along the way -- I honestly can't remember; what stuck with me was our shared, deep delight in words, numbers, ideas, learning.

Kinship is a funny thing. Family names are given at birth -- my parents chose my name so that I would have the same initials as Grandpa. Children are taught family traditions and values through countless daily practices of their parents, grandparents and extended family. But kinship is a connection that goes deeper than one's name or how one learns to observe the Sabbath. I felt that with Grandpa more than almost anyone else. 

The week of metric "ranching" was probably the longest time I spent with Grandpa. We lived in different states most of my life, and even for the few years we lived in the same state, the busy-ness of life meant that I didn't see him all that much more frequently. And yet when I look at so many of my own qualities (and yes, faults) -- my instinctive love of words and grammar, the intensity of my academic drive, my ability to focus single-mindedly and protractedly on the objects of my interest, my susceptibility to the allure of prestige -- these to are many of the same qualities (and yes, faults) that defined Grandpa. I honestly can't say that I learned them from him; our contact has been too brief and intermittent for that. But the commonality is there nonetheless. I am who I am because of the man whose grandson I am.

This feeling of kinship was deepened as I listened to Uncle Julian, Aunt Jennifer, Uncle Dan, and my Dad speak about Grandpa at the funeral.  Many of the stories I knew already from family lore; others were new to me but still charming in the familiar portrait they painted.  Two things, however, stood out to me in a way that caught me by surprise.

The first was a set of remarks by Uncle Julian and Aunt Jennifer.  Julian spoke of Grandpa's care for Granny during the 27 years of disability following her aneurysm and stroke.  He said that Grandpa was motivated by love, certainly, but also by loyalty and a commitment to "the promises he made."  Jennifer also spoke of the lessons she learned from Grandpa about the importance of commitment and keeping promises. I hadn't thought of Grandpa in those terms before -- but it made sense, and as I reflected on his lift I could see this a fundamental quality of his. As I've grown older and learned more about myself, I've realized that one of the things I value most in others, and which I strive most to embody myself, is these same traits of loyalty, commitment and dependability. All of the people I consider closest in my life share these traits, and the idea that they represent a family heritage shared across generations adds a layer of richness that I hadn't felt before.

The second thing that stood out was in Dan's talk -- he spoke of Grandpa's incredible motivation and drive to accomplish things.  He said that in recent years, Grandpa had confided in him, saying "I have a motivation problem -- I'm too motivated!"  Dan related the story to humorous effect, and everyone chuckled with recognition at the punchline.  For me, though, all I could hear was my own voice -- How many times have I said that to myself, or had others say that to me!  In good times, it's exhilarating; in bad times, it's a burden -- why can't I stop caring, stop wanting to achieve?  For all the lightness of Dan's story, I could well imagine Grandpa, his health and strength waning, aware of his shortening time, looking at his lists of personal goals and ambitions -- all of the things he was so motivated to do -- and thinking, "I'm too motivated!"

The effect of these reflections over the past week as I've mourned Grandpa's passing has been to bring him closer than ever. I see in myself deep similarities to this father of my father, an influence on my life more profound and personal than perhaps I ever realized. I'm more intimately aware of his legacy than I ever have been before -- each time I sign my initials and give unsolicited grammar lessons and feel the power of kept promises, I think of him and am grateful.

The family plot in the Huntsville cemetary.

After the pallbearers placed their boutinieres on the casket, each of the great-grandchildren placed a flag there too.

The military Honor Guard presented military honors, and my cousin Ryan brought the riderless horse. Bagpipers played.

Dad, Laurel, Jennifer, Dan

Jack J. Davis, M.D.
1923 – 2016

Dr. Jack J. Davis, beloved father, brother, grandfather, great-grandfather, colleague, and friend, passed away peacefully in Ogden on August 12, 2016, after a brief illness.

Dr. Davis was born January 20, 1923, in Ogden, to Monida Emily Hunsaker and John Ira Davis. The oldest of four children (two brothers and one sister), he spent a busy, joyous youth in the distinctive and beautiful house on Marilyn Drive. From there, it was easy to walk the as-yet undeveloped foothills and to hike and ski the canyons and Mount Ogden. Jack attended Ogden City Schools and graduated from Ogden High. He excelled academically, was active in the LDS Church and Boy Scouts, and was a classically trained pianist. He attended Weber State College and then the University of Utah, where he earned a Bachelor of Science degree.

After ROTC at the University of Utah, Jack joined the Navy in World War II, destined for a PT Boat. Instead, the Navy sent him to medical school at Northwestern University in Chicago, where he earned a second Bachelor's degree and a Doctor of Medicine. He served an internship at Wesley Memorial Hospital in Chicago, followed by a residency in Radiology at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City, eventually becoming board certified in Radiology. He returned to active military duty during the Korean War as a Captain in the Medical Corps, serving at Camp Chaffee, Arkansas.

Dr. Davis' civilian professional career spanned 40 years as a radiologist with the Salt Lake Clinic, as well as service to the 75th Medical Group's Department of Radiology at Hill Air Force Base. During this time, he was active in several medical research and professional boards and organizations.

Jack met his future wife, Janice McKay of Huntsville, in 1948, while she was teaching at South Junior High in Weber County. They were married on June 13, 1949, in the Salt Lake LDS Temple, with David O. McKay performing the ceremony. They settled in Salt Lake City to raise their four children, with frequent trips to Ogden and Huntsville to visit family. Their homes on Roosevelt Avenue and Dallin Street were busy and full of neighbor kids and cousins. Treasured times were the family's regular road trips, with mandatory stops at every historical marker and the occasional "roadside chat" to explain acceptable behavior for children in a car.

Jack served many positions in his LDS Wards in Salt Lake City and was a strong supporter and leader in Scouting. Along with his own Eagle Scout rank earned in his youth, he received the Wood Badge and was honored with the Silver Beaver Award. He served as Scoutmaster for 13 years in Troops 243 and 71 in Salt Lake City.

Jack and Janice had a wide circle of friends in Salt Lake, as well as a closer circle who formed their decades-long study group, meeting once a month at one of their homes for dinner and discussion. He supported the arts and for decades was a season ticket holder for himself, Janice and two other lucky friends or relatives at Pioneer Memorial Theater. Jack always loved the outdoors, and in adulthood became an avid horseman. Trail rides with his father-in-law and brothers-in-law and later with his children were special activities. In his later years, Jack became a fun and witty grandpa and great-grandpa, known for his clever conversation and gentle teasing. Perhaps his greatest achievement was his devoted and tender care of Janice for the 27 years after she suffered an aneurysm and stroke, until her death in 2009. Surely, theirs has been a joyous reunion.

Dr. Jack J. Davis' 93 years have truly been a life well lived, with many accomplishments and service to family, country, church, profession, and community. He has touched countless lives in so many ways and will be greatly missed. Preceded in death by his parents, brother Ben H. Davis, sister Carol Lynne Davis Paul, wife Janice, infant son Mark and a grandson Nicholas D. Lamborn. Survived by his brother Julian Ira Davis (Becki); his children Jennifer Sorensen (Cliff), Dr. Jack M. Davis (Cindy), Laurel Lamborn, and Daniel M. Davis; 9 grandchildren and their spouses; and 15 great-grandchildren.

Friends and family may pay their respects at Myers Mortuary, 845 Washington Boulevard, Ogden, UT, on Tuesday evening, August 16, 2016, from 6 until 8. Services at Huntsville 1st Ward Chapel, 277 S. 7400 E, Huntsville, UT, at 12 noon, with visitation from 10:30 until 11:45. Interment at the Huntsville Cemetery, with military honors.

Utah!

Oh man.  How can it already be February?  This year is going by way to quickly.

And of course I've written about basically nothing that's happened so far.  A lot of it's just going to need to be water under the bridge, but I did want to capture a great little trip I took a couple of weeks ago to Utah.  It was one of those weekends where I flew in on Friday night, back home on Sunday, and in between managed to see way more awesome people than I ever thought possible.

I left for the airport straight from work and got into Salt Lake City a little after 10:00pm.  Salt Lake doesn't have the liveliest of downtowns, but that suited me fine:  I just wandered among the buildings, soaking up the cold mountain air and noticing the things that I recognized and the things that had changed.  I ended up in front of the LDS temple and paused for as long as I could without freezing to death.  I was the only one there, and it was tranquil and beautiful.

The next morning I got up early to meet Peggy and Mary for lunch at Lamb's Grill.  It's an oddly divey place downtown that we've used for the past few years as our rendez-vous spot of choice.  The food isn't delicious, but it's never crowded and they let us stay there talking and laughing for as long as we want.

Peggy and Mary, we go all the way back to Brussels!

After breakfast, I went straight to lunch with Dad and Lady, who had just driven in from Reno.  We met at Hires Big H drive-in for hamburgers and fries, and then headed out in search of (i) new temple clothes for the parentals (they've just been called as temple workers) and (ii) all the things on Lady's list of Things To Get From IKEA.  Why, you might ask, would I fly all the way to Utah and spend the day shopping for white polyester suits and halogen track lighting with my parents?  Because this is part of my whole "Moving to Seattle" plan -- for the first time since I've been an adult, I live close enough to see my family easily and relatively inexpensively and without client demands looming over me.  The fact that I've seen my parents now three times in the last three months means the plan is working!

I did, however, abandon my parents mid-way through the IKEA adventure.  Another priority of mine for this trip was to spend time with Grandpa Davis, whom I hadn't seen for years.  He's the original JJD, and I figured we needed to catch up.  So I drove up to Huntsville and we chatted for a while in the living room of the little house I remembered so well.  He asked me about my job and my life, and I asked him to retell stories that I remembered from when I was a kid.  After a while I helped him into the car and we drove down to Ogden to meet my parents for dinner (where we got to hear even more stories).

Next morning I got up early and met another good friend of mine, Anna, at the house she recently bought in one of the historic neighborhoods of Ogden.  Anna is a historian and museum curator -- and much, much braver than me -- and so perhaps it's not surprising that she bought an old victorian house and doing a complete renovation.  As in, she's got the place stripped down to the bare boards!  She had told me all about it when we met in Seattle last fall, so now I wanted to see it in person.  Talk about grateful lessons!  I was suddenly so pleased that all I needed to worry about was fixing a couple of sconces and buying some furniture.

By the time Anna and I had frozen to death in the unheated (shell of a) house, it was time for me to meet up with my parents again for lunch -- only this time Heather's family joined us!  I was so surprised and delighted to see them.  I had known my parents would be in town, but I hadn't known Heather's family was coming.  So this was a real treat.

Brynn, Moi, Shae, Adri, Heather, Jordan, Jaron

Yours truly as "The Favorite Uncle"

Selfie with the Grandlady!

Lunch was prelude to an even larger family gathering.  My cousin, Wilson, was about to leave on a 2-year mission for the LDS church in Cambodia (!!) and this weekend was his "farewell".  For those who don't know, a traditional LDS mission farewell consists of the missionary speaking to the full congregation in church, and then having a big family/social event afterwards.  In an effort to keep the cost of these things down, the church has been encouraging folks to scale down their farewell celebrations, but my aunt Laurel went all out.  She had rented a giant barn and filled it with tables and centerpieces and delicious barbecue -- and friends and family turned out in droves.

The Red Barn

Wilson and me.  He's off to Cambodia for two years!

I loved everything about the event.  Not only did I get to see Wilson and Laurel and the other aunts, uncles and first cousins, but there were also many members of the further extended family whom I hadn't seen for years and who I had no idea would be attending.  We hugged and talked and laughed.  I met new spouses and expressed dismay when I saw children who were once so little now all grown up.  People asked me why I was there, and seemed surprised when I said, To see you!  But I meant it 100%.  Like I said, part of the deal I made with myself when I moved away from everything that I loved on the East Coast was that I was going to fill the gaps in my heart with different things that matter just as much to me, but which had been neglected for so many years.  I want to be part of my family and to feel more deeply connected to them.

But of course I still had my flight to catch, so I made my way quickly through the party and then bounded out into the winter sunset to find the airport and head back home.

Brunch with the ladies (and the Great Waffle Taste-Off of 2013)

There's nothing quite like last-minute travel changes to make for fun adventures. 

Take yesterday, for example.  The original plan was to fly out to Salt Lake City, where I would spend a few days helping to care for Lady (who just had total knee-replacement surgery) and, during the down time, catching up with some mission and school friends who are still in the area.  Well, about a week ago (well after I'd purchased my airline tickets), we learned that Lady was going to be discharged sooner than expected.  In fact, she would be back home in Reno before I even got to Salt Lake!  Fortunately, we were able to find a flight out to Reno the next day -- which was the main point of the trip -- but I admit I was a little bummed when I sat down to write to my friends, saying that I wasn't going to be able to see them after all.

Only I didn't actually say that I wouldn't be able to see them.  What I said was something to the effect of, "I'm going to be on the ground for 12 hours. You all should abandon your spouses and children and come have breakfast with me; and if we start early enough, we'll be able to have breakfast AND Belgian waffles." 

To my great delight, Peggy and Mary understood that the obvious right answer to this invitation was, "Yes, what time?" and then moved heaven and earth (and an awkward family party in Park City) to make it happen.

We met at the crack of dawn (and by "crack of dawn" I mean 9:30am) at Lamb's Grill, which, having opened in 1919, claims to be the oldest continually operating restaurant in Utah.
 

moi, Mary, Peggy

We were quickly seated in a cozy, leather-upholstered booth in the back of the restaurant.  The menu had the typical, all-American breakfast fare that you might find in any diner in this country. 

 

Corned beef hash; two fried eggs over hard, English muffin

I wouldn't say it was cutting edge or particularly delicious, but it was good, down-to-earth food over which we were able to chatter and gossip and catch up on each other's lives:   Mary's son just got accepted into an excellent school for autistic children, and she's in the process of applying for another degree program at the University of Utah.  Peggy is making soap and lifting weights and traveling around the country with her Basque dance group (and also trying to navigate her in-laws and the politics of family time shares).

We saved room -- both in our stomachs and on the clock -- for waffles.  All three of us, you see, had served LDS missions in Belgium and knew the unspeakable joy that is a freshly made Liege waffle.  Last time the three of us had brunch in Salt Lake, I had picked up some waffles to share from the Saturday's Waffle.  While Mary and I were perfectly happy to munch on the delectable sweet dough, Peggy declared them to be less good than the waffles on offer at Bruges Waffles & Frites downtown.  We hadn't had time to settle that score back then, but now we did.

Before joining us at Lamb's Grill, Mary had had the great foresight to stopp off at the waffle truck and pick up a few waffles.  Turns out, Lamb's Grill is also only a couple of blocks from the Bruges Waffles & Frites shop, so when we'd finished our eggs and hash browns, we took our waffle-truck waffles over to the competing waffle shop and had a waffle taste-off.



Option A:  plain waffle from Saturday's Waffle

Candidate B: vanilla waffle from Bruges Waffles & Frites

And the winner?  Candidate B, the plucky little waffle from Bruges Waffles & Frites. 

Now, in fairness I have to say that both waffles were delicious, and the waffle-truck waffle no-doubt suffered a slight disadvantage from not having been eaten directly out of the waffle iron, while it was still hot.  Even so, the waffle from Bruges Waffles had the perfect combination of soft doughy interior with a crunchy, slightly caramelized exterior -- and those wonderful sugar pearls in the dough that made it all the more authentically Belgian.  Peggy was right, it was clearly the better waffle. 

Bruges Waffles and Frites
The line and the wait were both long.  But oh, so worth it!  I can't wait to go back for the frites.

 

After we'd settled the waffle score, Peggy headed off to the mother-in-law's place in Park City, and Mary dropped me off at the airport.  It was a fantastic morning -- good friends, good food, and a little tasty competition.  Can't think of a better way to spend a few hours in Salt Lake City.

This is why they invented dark chocolate

I'm not gonna lie:  today was rough. 

I'm trying to take all of next week off, you see, to visit family and reground myself; pretend like I have roots or something.  And with today being the last work day before I left, I needed to get everything in a place where I could be gone.  I knew it would be a challenge -- it always is -- but today was particularly bad. 

A few things contributed.  First, I came into it at the end of a particularly long and demanding month.  I think I've billed more hours this month than I have all year.  Second, I got only four hours of sleep last night.  That's because last night I went to my class, and then had to do more work, and then had to pack for my trip, and then had to get up at the crack of dawn to do more work -- because it JUST WOULDN'T STOP COMING IN and all the other lawyers I work with had already checked out for the weekend, so I had no one to delegate to.  Third, I had to call Delta.  As with any call to an airline, the purpose could have been anything; the experience was the same as it ever is:  I jumped through hoop after hoop of automated directories, ultimately reaching an agent who told me that I was stuck between one policy that required me to change my ticket or have all of my flights be canceled and be forced to buy new tickets, and another policy that would permit me to keep my tickets but which required me to pay hundreds of dollars as a penalty for making that airline-mandated change. 

And then, THEN, when I objected and pointed out how the airline had created an artificial dilemma where I was damned if I did and damned if I didn't (and either way they wanted money), the woman started interrupting me and talking over me.  I couldn't get a word in edgewise.  And she just kept saying the same script over and over and over.

Remember what the straw did to the camel's back?  Yeah.  Let's just say the call didn't end well. 

The thing of it is, for as annoying as the woman was, it really wasn't her fault.  Her employer has stupid policies and doesn't empower her to make any decisions to accommodate the consumer.  Nor could she have known that I had come into the call tired and basically in a state of controlled panic as I watched the work pile up and the minutes tick by.  And for my part, what I didn't realize is that the acute sense of powerlessness and insignificance that you get when you try to confront a giant, impersonal corporate bureaucracy was essentially going to tap into (and unleash) a month's worth of frustration and stress and feelings of powerlessness in face of my work schedule.  For my sake and the Delta agent's, I should never have called Delta in such a state.  But I did.  And the result?  Well, I think "meltdown" captures it.

I managed to hold it together long enough to finish the call and close my door, but then things got messy and I was grateful the guy next door to me wasn't in, because he might have thought I'd gotten a cold.  Or something.  I sent off some texts -- which were fairly Robespierrian in tone -- to my Dad, and ate all the dark chocolate that I'd brought as a snack for the plane.  Because really, when all is wrong in the world, there's nothing quite like the French Revolution and dark chocolate (mostly the dark chocolate) to make things better. 

And things did get better.  The last few hours of work were furious and intense (and a little jittery from the sugar rush from the chocolate).  I left late for the airport and only just made my flight; they made no promises about my luggage.  But overall the trip went smoothly.  I didn't miss my flight.  The Atlanta airport was comfortable, well stocked with food and WiFi, and the layover was long enough for me to get another meaningful chunk of work done.  We landed early in Salt Lake, my luggage did arrive, and Salt Lake taxis have apparently seen the light and decided to accept credit cards. 

So here I am, safe and sound in a hotel in Salt Lake.  I've brushed my teeth and done a little ironing to relax.  Work awaits, but there's nothing I can do about that now.  Tomorrow will be another day of travel as I make my way to Reno, but along the way I'll be seeing good friends and getting some much needed sleep on the flights.  Time for the vacation to start!

Playing catch-up

So it's been, what, a week since I last wrote?  Argh.  If it had been just an ordinary week, I wouldn't worry about it -- one of the biggest stumgling blocks (at least for me) in journal writing or blogging is feeling like I have to capture all the Big Moments that I missed writing about before I can write anything new.  In fact, that's one of the major reasons I abandoned journaling and took up blogging.  If I were to play catch-up in my journal, I'd have to play the whole "I graduated from college and went to law school and learned Spanish and then was naked (almost) and covered in mud in a Turkish bath" game.  I'd probably gnaw off my arm first.

But a quick summary of a memorable week?  That I can handle.  Here goes:

I.

 

First, my grandfather turned ninety.  Or, rather, he hadn't turned ninety yet but we celebrated it as if he had turned ninety (by eating bison, as one does) which means that for all intents and purposes he is ninety.

Maddox!
Appropriate for the occasion because it is in Perry, Utah,
where the Davis clan first settled after emigrating from Wales.

Bison steak -- tasty but tough

Raspberry cheesecake -- tasty but way too much

Inevitably there was a speech in which my grandfather told us what he knew about old age ("He who has the most birthdays wins!") and the origin of my dad's nickname, Dibber, which my nieces and nephews now call him instead of Grandpa.  Naturally, I took notes:  Once upon a time, my grandfather was a youth and ran with a crowd who thought it was cool to call each other by their last names.  So my grandfather became "Davis."  But over time that became "Daver" and eventually evolved into "Dibber."  Years later, when my grandmother was pregnant with my dad, she decided that if the baby was a boy, she would call him Dibber.  The baby was a boy, and she did call him Dibber.  The end.

El abuelo, mid-speech

El abuelo, post-speech

II.

One of the great joys in life is eating hot Liege waffles right out of the grill.  They're warm and sticky and supremely delicious (what ball of butter, flour and sugar wouldn't be?).  Alas, they also failed to cross the Atlantic as successfully as their more pedestrian cousin, the Brussels waffle.  Sometimes I can find pre-packaged Liege waffles, but I've never found a place anywhere outside of Belgium (specifically, the Gare du Midi) that made them as they should be made.

Until last Saturday.  Turns out some blessed souls (a.k.a. three guys wearing bow-ties) set up a kitchen in an old trailer and sell beautiful, authentic Liege waffles in the parking lot of the Dan's grocery store in the Olympus Hills shopping center in Salt Lake City.  The trailer is called Saturday's Waffle (surely a bad pun on a Mormon cultural reference, Saturday's Warrior) and they're only open on Saturdays from 8am to Noon. 

I got up at the crack of dawn and went out in search of them, determined to (1) find the place, (2) eat a hot waffle, and (3) get enough additional waffles to share with all the friends I was meeting up with later in the day for brunch and lunch.  (In other words, I ate roughly 47 waffles that day.)

The line formed early

Yum, yum, yum

III.

The rest of the day on Saturday was spent eating waffles catching up with friends from college, mission and work.  Sadly, I came away with photos of the food I ate but not of my actual friends with whom I ate it -- my priorities may need some rearranging.

Brunch with Anna at the Oasis Cafe!
Omelete with canadian bacon, mushrooms, onion, herbs, cheddar cheese,
breakfast potatoes, and salsa fresca
 

Lunch with Peggy and Mary
Brunch notwithstanding, I couldn't resist the omelette special:
Crab, avocado, tomatoes, mushrooms, gruyere cheese, with hash browns

Later that night I met up with my family and extended family at my great-uncle's house for the annual Davis Family party.  It was kind of like a repeat of the 90th birthday party -- it was all the same crew as before, only sans the kids -- it's a grown-ups only party, which I really like.  This is always my favorite party of the year.  The Davises are all interesting and interested people -- the sort of people I want to be when I grow up.

IV.

The next morning I flew back to DC at the crack of dawn (I have got to stop taking flights that require me to get up at 4:40am), this time without any of the delays that plagued my flight from Denver.  Waiting for me in my apartment were all the Christmas packages that I hadn't been able to open because of my crazy pre-holiday work travel.  I opened everything and had myself a merry little post-Christmas day!

The lady at the front desk was so annoyed with my
accumulating packages that she called me to have me authorize
her to put them inside my apartment.

 V.

After that, it was back to work.  Because the month of December had been dominated by one massive work project in New York, followed by a week's vacation in which I did (almost) no work, I needed to make some serious progress on a handful of other projects that had been neglected.  So I worked through New Year's Eve and fell asleep on the couch at 8:30pm, which was the lamest thing ever.  I salvaged some of New Year's Day by going to an extended spin class and a fondue party at a friend's house, but then came home and spent the rest of the day (and week) working as quickly as I could and struggling to keep the partners and clients at bay and the new projects from multiplying. 

In the margins, I also have been trying to figure out my big travel -- and other -- plans for this new year.  Based on proposals from different friends, I finally decided that I would go to Vietnam and Russia and then buy a condo.  But then all the timing of the proposed trips fell apart and now nothing works and probably won't work and so between that and work I felt very stressed and slept poorly and lost my joie de vivre.

None of which was helped by the fact that I had to go to New York, yet again, this weekend.  Not for work, this time, but because I have opera tickets at the Met for Saturday.  Normally this would be great news -- I had been looking forward to it ever since I bought the tickets last summer -- but after all the travel of the past month (the disruption and the expense) and the current demands of work, it was the last thing I wanted to do. 

Nevertheless, one doesn't miss the Met (especially when you have fancy seats and Deborah Voigt is singing), so this morning I boarded the train and here I am -- caught up!

 

Utah - Roots

What Tara is to Scarlett O'Hara, Huntsville is to my dad's family.  The little brick house where my grandmother was raised remains in the family and has become a sort of spiritual home-base for her children and grandchildren.  My grandfather currently lives in the house (alone, since Granny's passing a few years ago) and my aunt lives next door in the house where my family lived when I was 9 yrs old.  As my family converges to celebrate my granfather's 90th birthday this week, Huntsville was the natural gathering place.  There are kids and suitcases everywhere, a roaring fire on the hearth, and a kitchen full of cookies, chocolates and pots of chili.

Huntsville is a tiny town in the mountains of northing Utah -- population 618.  This morning I went out for a run through the snowy streets.  It was great to stretch my legs, relive memories, and see the place (at least, one of the places) where I'm "from."
 

Granny's house. 
Built in 1928.  Granny moved here when she was 4 yrs old.

Posts delineate the driveway and facilitate plowing during big snowstorms.

The West House (next door to Granny's house).
I lived here when I was in Fourth Grade.

The Angus McKay House (a.k.a. the Rock House)
Angus was Granny's great-grandfather. Granny was born here.

The David O. McKay House.
Next door to the Rock House.  David was married to Angus's sister.

So, two things of note regarding the McKay houses:

First, politics:  When Utah tried to join the United States, it faced two obstacles:  polygamy and political parties.  The polygamy problem was solved when the Mormon church banned the practice.  The political problem was solved when the territorial government went through every community and designated every other house as Republican or Democrat.  The David McKay house was designated Republican (and remains so to this day), and the Angus McKay house was designated Democrat (and remained staunchly so until my parents' generation -- McKay ancestors rolled over in their graves when my parents put up Reagan posters in the 1980s...).

Second, family bloodlines.  I always thought that David and Angus were related and that we were all part of one big McKay clan.  Turns out not.  David and Angus just happened to have the same last name -- the only relation is by marriage!  So my link to Mormon royalty (David McKay was the prophet and president of the church in the mid-20th Century) is more attenuated than I'd originally supposed.

Pineview Reservoir under snow and ice.

Farms and fences and lake in the distance

First Street and the Library
(as seen from the driveway of the West House)

See the elementary school?  Neither do I. 
When I lived here, the school sas in this field across the street from the West House. 
It has since been torn down.