What's an Emu?

I started to tell my most fantastic emu story to a group of ladies at a young women's activity, but we were rudely interrupted by the program. Darn. So I thought I would write it down. It is actually writing it down . . . again, since I already wrote it down a looooong time ago (BYU called today to inform me that it has been 11 years since I graduated and 13 since I left BYU-Idaho). Hopefully this will be funnier since it has had years to stew in my memory.

Let me set the stage by telling you my family's history with animals. It's not pretty. There were a couple of hampsters - one that I have a distinct memory of my mother calling my grandfather to "take care of" after it had been found severely damaged. There was a dog, Princess, who kept getting pregnant because we didn't really care where she went at night. There was the fish that got forked by my little brother and I'm sure there are others that I'm repressing. We are just not animal people.

Fast forward to the summer before my junior year of college. I was in Arkansas for the summer with my parents and all of my siblings. We were having a leisurely lunch one Saturday when out of the corner of my eye I saw an emu. Have you ever seen an emu? They are huge. He looked purple and kindof prehistoric. The joints in their knees go the opposite direction of ours, and this is what I was thinking when I saw him scamper across my parents vast backyard (background information: my parent's home is on a 10 acre lot, most of which is wooded).

We called an emu farm (it was in the phone book!) and the very nice southern fellow said that many emu farmers bought into the romance of emu farming, but didn't actually like the practice. So when an emu farm went out of business, the emus were just left to fend for themselves. This is what I was learning while my younger brothers were hatching a plan to catch the poor thing. They went into the garage to find some rope and they came out with a long length of orange extension cord. They figured it would do, and hey - we were in Arkansas.

They took the white truck out and came back an hour later with a lasso-ed emu. We called the nice emu farmer and asked him if he would like an emu. He said he would come and pick it up in an hour or so. He gave us some pointers on how to take care of the bird and then said, "Don't worry, emu's are tough. You can't do much to hurt them."

Twenty minutes later we look out the same kitchen window to check on the status of the emu. I don't see the big bird that I saw before. I see a pile of purple feathers and a long neck at an impossible angle. We go outside to face our worst fears. The bird is dead. Waaaay dead. The "tough" bird was either not so tough, or the stress of being caught was just too much for him. We had to call the farmer back and tell him that he didn't need to come. We didn't give him too many details.

The next couple of hours were a blur. Hushed tones between my brothers convinced them they needed to do something with the carcass. One hundred pounds of bird is hard to conceal from neighbors. It's pretty hard to get the cold hard facts from Jack and Jody. They've made a pact to not talk about it. I'm pretty sure they buried it in the woods. It's what any good Arkansas boy would do after the trauma they put that poor bird through.

Summer Daze

Summer is here - and boy is it hot! It seems like we live in our pool. Either that or we go from our pool to someone elses pool. My hair is in a constant state of damp. If it wasn't for the chlorine, I would be growing mold.

I actually love summer, and I actually don't mind the blistering heat. We are blessed to be able to keep our house at a reasonable temperature throughout the day, and both our cars have A/C - so I can't really complain.

And popsicles . . . oh boy do I love popsicles! My mom and dad used to take us through the drive-thru dairy in Chino and get Big Sticks and Sidewalk Sundaes. The Sidewalk Sundaes were our favorites - chocolate coated vanilla ice cream with a streak of dark fudge on the inside. I didn't realize how much I adored the Big Sticks until I moved to the South and couldn't find them anywhere under any name. They are a pineapple/cherry popscicle that I really missed - until I found them at every grocery store in Arizona. The only problem is that they are not quite the same.

The Big Sticks of my youth were heavily flavored and rather slushie-like - I feel like I can suck all the juice out of the imitation Big Sticks and all I'd be left with is a ice-pop. But I'll take them rather than leave them. They still remind me of backyard swingsets, hot porches, burning skin and many happy afternoons. It's those kind of memories I want to pass onto Annie.

This is the reason I will only allow Annie to eat popscicles outside - even if it is 120 degrees. It's not because I can't stand the drips!

Goodbye to the Daniel Shirt

When we were in South Carolina, John was the 11-year-old scout leader at church. He never had more than two boys at a time, but he loved this calling. He took them camping, taught them nuclear physics, and basically endeared a generation of boys to him. Because of the new rules about never being alone in the same room with a scout (a good rule, by the way) - Annie and I were usually in the same room while all this was going on (except we weren't allowed to go camping with them - they had Dads for that). The last 11-year-old that we were involved with was Daniel. Daniel was - and probably still is - an amazing scout. He proudly wore his scout shirt and brought his book and always wanted to learn what John was teaching. Since he was always kind to our little girl, Annie adored Daniel. He would make her laugh and give her hugs and be a remarkably responsible young man with Annie. We loved him and had some fun experiences in scouting.

So we move to Arizona and I get called to be a cub scout leader. I love this calling and get really into it. I bought a shirt and put all the leader patches on it, and every Wednesday night I wear it proudly while I recite the cub scout promise and the pledge of allegiance. I love these 8-year-old boys - but the thing I love the most is when I put my shirt on my daughter calls me "Daniel." She calls it my "Daniel Shirt" and that we're going to "Daniel Scouts," but she also really calls me "Daniel." For example - "Daniel, we need to have supper." and "What are you doing, Daniel?" She calls me "Daniel" until I come home from scouts and take the shirt off. I then become plain old "Mommy" again - without even a nod that I was anyone else.

A couple weeks ago, I was released from cub scouts and put into the young women program. I now am the leader of the 12 and 13 year old girls. I don't have to come up with skits every month or do the funny claps (Who wants a 'round' of applause?). I traded sweaty boys for beautiful sweet-smelling girls. I really like my new calling and I'm beginning to get to know the girls better every time I'm with them - but the one thing that I really hate about being released? I won't ever get to wear my "Daniel Shirt". It makes me kindof sad to think that she'll forget about Daniel. I love that she remembers him when she sees me in the shirt. I love that I remember South Carolina and the good people that were there. I really want her to remember that she was born in a wonderful environment - that there were people there that were as close as family.

So maybe I'll put on the "Daniel shirt" every once in a while and show her pictures of the actual Daniel. Maybe she'll remember a good memory - in the only way a three-year-old can really remember - symbolically in a shirt.