Number 5

I was 7 when Robbie was born. It was the end of July, hot, and the four of us were excited to have the baby come home. But, for a while, he didn't.

I still remember Mom trying to help me understand "A-B-O incompatibility." I was confused as to how they could take all the blood out of a little baby and put new blood in and then be sure that he was ok. The day she and Dad finally brought him home we were all down in the split-level living room of our house on Ash Circle. Mom held Robbie close as she carefully pulled back the light blanket from his face. We started to rush up the stairs, but Dad stopped us. "No, no, not yet. Mommy and Robbie need to rest." We didn't see that baby for a week. I was terrified that he might die - in fact Dad had told me as much when he didn't come home from the hospital right away. When I finally got to hold him, I decided he was "mine."

Of course, that would never be the case. He was - and is - the most independent of souls. I loved to take care of him - he was as full of energy as I was. He would run, play tag, climb on stuff, throw things, and laugh really loud for as long as I did. He had an inner sense of adventure that pushed him along - and made him an eager companion to his older brothers. He was always ready to implement the plan - as long as there was a feeling of either danger or accomplishment - the bigger the better.

My favorite time with Robbie was nap time. Then, I really did have him all to myself. I'd lie on the bed beside his little self and sing songs. Not the lovely lullabies you might expect - oh no. I'd sing about a ghost-girl named Lorrie who came back from the dead to get her sweater. I'd sing about catching brass rings on the merry-go-round, and about a secret place I knew where no one ever goes. By the fourth song, he was asleep. Always the same songs, always the same order.

Things were hectic at our house in those days - 5 rambunctious children in 7 years. We had moved from Utah to California just after Rob was born. Our house in Downey - about 1500 square feet - was full to the brim. We were constantly up and down the street, pushing Robbie in the stroller or giving him a ride on the trike - never a dull moment.

On Sundays, I loved to take him to the "cry room" at church. It was a terrific room where he could crawl around and I could play. Neither he nor I were very good at sitting still and listening, so this was a good option for us. It let Mom and Dad sit with the quiet ones and enjoy the service, and it let Robbie and me not have to "be good" for a while. If we got too loud, Mom would come in and make us go back into the chapel, so it was always a little tricky to have just enough fun without being found out.

Rob still has a strong sense of adventure - just last year he rode his motorcycle to the Arctic Ocean all alone. He took the Dalton Highway. Alone. On a motorcycle. Stood in the Arctic Ocean. He's not exactly fearless - just well prepared. And he doesn't let "life" dictate what he does - he makes his own decisions his own way. Maybe it's because he almost didn't make it to our front door as a baby. Maybe it's because he has different blood. Maybe it's because he's Number 5. I've always been glad that my folks didn't stop at 4. Think what we would've missed.

The Scientist

People would almost audibly gasp when they saw him. "What a beautiful child," they would breathe. And, he was beautiful. Features that were softly sharp, a ready laugh and a gentle will surrounded by - when Mom would let his hair grow - soft, golden curls. We called him Davey; later he would be Dave-Bave, then finally, Dave.

Davey was the second boy, the fourth child, the quiet, smart danger. My parents were almost always on the alert for me and my little brother, Jimmy. My sister, Cindy, was fascinated by our antics. But Davey flew under their radar most of the time, and had a mind of his own with a penchant for dismantling things. He would watch things just to see how they worked. He looked so innocent, standing or sitting there. You had to watch closely to see him mentally taking apart the process of the egg beater or the vacuum. He was fascinated by moving parts.

Davey loved to laugh and creating situations for him to laugh at was one of my favorite activities. I absolutely loved to hear him giggle. It started way down in his belly, moved to his chest and gurgled into his mouth. Sometimes he'd laugh so hard he'd turn red. I inevitably got in trouble for that, unless Mom saw him start to laugh. She loved it too. We'd all start laughing, just because Davey was laughing.

Of course, there was a flip side... David was a cry baby. A bona fide cry baby. As easy as it was to make him laugh, it was even easier to make him cry. All any of us had to do was take away a toy, interrupt his concentration or sound cross. Davey loved a peaceable kingdom, and those moments were rare when I was 5 or 6. So, he spent a lot of time crying, which he eventually outgrew.

But, he never outgrew his fascination with how things worked - birds, guns, natural phenomenon, any thing. His mind locked up knowledge and stored it in a "to be determined" file and mentally downloaded it when he needed it. It was riveting to watch him connect the dots on something. He'd cock his head to one side, set his jaw and move forward, eyes sparkling. If you weren't watching for those inconspicuous behaviors, it was likely that you'd miss them. But if you saw them, you knew that something was about to happen. David was frequently the instigator, as well as the culprit. He sometimes got credit for the "assist" without the flourish of the slam dunk. And yet, he was usually able to rally his comrades around some crazy idea and quietly help them implement the plan.

As Dave grew, his fascination with his environment grew. He analyzed, compared, imagined, remembered and scrutinized the things that fascinated him. He started his post-high school career in science. His grad work was law school. Yet, he's not the "lawyer" type, if there is such a thing. He still has the mental energy of that captivated child - just with adult parameters. He still loves to invent ways to do things and to get other people involved in schemes that are especially grand. And he still cocks his head, sets his jaw and moves forward into life, taking that "to be determined" file with him into the next adventure.

The Water Boy

By the time my brother Jim, then Jimmy, was three years old he was in a body cast – okay not a whole body cast, but it covered both of his legs up to his waist and he couldn’t walk. He had something wrong with his knees, or feet, and had to be immobilized for six months.

Since Jimmy couldn’t sit, Mom had to feed him separately from the rest of us. Sometimes Dad would hold Jimmy sort of cross-wise across his lap while I scooped food into his mouth. But I was sloppy so that ended that.

Cindy got to hold the baby a lot while Mom lugged Jimmy around, and I was usually no help at all. Finally, probably in order to give me something productive to do, Dad got a Radio Flyer wagon and I was the chief wagon puller. I’d put Jimmy’s blanket and some toys in the wagon and off we’d go. Going down the sloped street was easy; however, I soon learned that if I wanted to get home in time for supper that I’d have to plan time for getting up the street as well.

The wagon became our dinner table for a while. Since Jimmy could lay on his back and look around, or lay on his tummy and finger his food into his mouth, we all gathered around him as we enjoyed our pot roast and mashed potatoes. Jimmy picked up the peas, one by one, and then loaded up on bread.

Before too long he was in walking braces – a la Forest Gump – and we were all back at the table again. Walking in braces was difficult, since his knees couldn’t bend. To this day, whenever Jim gets startled he gets a crick in his back – just like when he was wearing the braces and rushing stiff-legged to get away from the big kids that were scaring him.

Jimmy was a curious little guy; always interested in things that did something. Like the water spigot next to the front door. All he had to do was open the valve handle while he held the hose, and suddenly he was all-powerful. That stream of water was a great leveler. No longer was he subject to his sisters’ demands. If we got too annoying he just hosed us down.

Then he discovered that water was equally discouraging to his parents. “Jimmy, put down that hose and come here, “ Mom ordered. Suddenly, she was drenched. Not funny. Okay, very funny now, but not funny then. Okay, maybe a little funny then. At least to me.

Then, Mom commanded, “Lorrie, go get that thing away from him.” Not an easy task. See, whether Jimmy knew it or not, he was very tactical in his offensive front. He turned the water on full blast, then stood by the spigot as if protecting his source of power. No one could get near him to turn off the water without getting soaked. But Jimmy underestimated Mom’s strategic counter-attack. While I squealed and ran and dodged and Jimmy tried successfully to douse me, Mom slipped in and shut off his power source. Game over. Mom wins.

Mom won in other ways too. Sometimes Dad would give her the day off. That meant that Dad was in charge all day. Lunch was usually chocolate milk and Vienna sausages, and then we go on an outing. If we were on vacation, the outing was usually to the beach. Dad would bring bananas and a jug of water and off we’d go. Mom always worried when Dad was in charge – if he got engrossed in his Time magazine he’d forget all about us. It was great. We could develop all sorts of projects uninterrupted and uninstructed.

Despite Mom’s warnings that day, Dad got distracted and forgot to watch us. Since Jimmy was a water boy, he just couldn’t stay away from the inviting surf. He also couldn’t swim. As Cindy and I worked diligently on our sand castle, I would occasionally glance up to see where Jimmy was. He was okay. I’d go back to work.

Then Cindy noticed that Jimmy was gone. We headed down the beach to look for him. As we glanced back toward Dad, we saw a wet and sandy Jimmy running toward our sleeping father, who had a Time magazine over his face. We ran over to our little brother just in time to hear him say, “Daddy, yuw not a berry good boy watchew”. Apparently, Jimmy had been tossed in a wave or two and was most likely scared to death. But his accusation was more indignant than scared. And absolutely accurate. Dad was not a very good boy-watcher. He gathered us up and we left.

Sometimes we learned hard lessons on our own. One of the many times our car broke down while we were on vacation; we had to take a train to get home. Dad stayed behind to get the car fixed, so Mom took the four kids on her own. As she was struggling with the baby, Dave, and Cindy and I were playing Go Fish, Jimmy wandered around the train car. He stopped to watch a man smoke. I don’t think Jimmy had ever seen anyone do that before. I guess maybe Grandpa smoked, but I never actually saw him. He seemed to think that if I didn’t know about cigarettes maybe I would never try them. I never did, but I’m not sure that was why.

Jimmy was fascinated with the whole smoking ritual: bringing the stick to the lips, watching the tip glow, the circling smoke, the big puff. It was mesmerizing. The smoking man put his cig in the ashtray on the armrest as he turned the page of his newspaper. I’m sure he never saw Jimmy. Ever curious, Jimmy inched closer to the glowing rod. Carefully, Jimmy picked up the cigarette and put it to his mouth – wrong end in. Yeow! Lesson learned. Don’t put something on fire in your mouth, even if you are a water boy.

Family Ties

I've been thinking a lot about my parent's family. There were six of us - 2 girls and then 4 boys. Mom told me she thought she was pretty smart - having the girls first so they (we) could help with the boys. Maybe it was smart. All I know is that being the first-born of that crew was an all-encompassing responsibility.

In this photo, Spencer wasn't born yet. Rob is the baby, so this was probably about February or March 1961. Look at Jim - the one holding the puppy. The puppy. Five kids, a baby and a puppy. Dave, on the tryke, seems a little unsure of the whole situation,

even though Cindy hovers closely to reassure him. Dad has me clamped down - I was very likely to skitter off. Check out those glasses. The very latest fashion...

Dad earned an MBA from USC a few years later. Mom taught 7th

grade during those years. I imagine it probably felt like a vacation - at least while she was at school. I'm pretty sure she came home to chaos. But, she fixed dinner, did the laundry, helped us with our homework, and waited up for Dad to get home from class. At the time, I didn't realize what she was sacrificing. I know better now.

Here are the boys after Spencer became an Eagle Scout - number 4 out of 4. They each served missions. They each graduated from college. Twice. Rob is the Columbia MBA (left). The other three chose the law. Mom and Dad were very proud of these boys. In spite of their free-spirited childhood, they each became responsible men. Mom and Dad never doubted but Cindy and I did. After all, we taught them everything we knew...

The "Only" Women

I've been thinking about the "only" women in my life - my mom, (my only mother) my sister, (my only female sibling) and my daughter (my only female child). My mom and my sister resemble each other, and my daughter resembles me. We're quite a foursome in my mind - each strong, independent, and probably more stubborn than we're willing to admit.

There are difference as well as similarities: we each married differently, nurture differently,cook differently, and serve differently. Mom raised six kids on one salary (Dad's). She was responsible for the "inside" work - and she had all six kids at her disposal. She and Dad grew up in the same valley, went to the same high school, and had the same values. My sister married a man who grew up in a whole other country - nothing like our small suburb of Brea. I married, divorced, and then really married. My daughter hasn't married - yet.

My mother nurtured by organization - each kid was color-coded into her daybook. My sister nurtured by design - she worked with each child differently, according to their personality. I don't really nurture at all. My daughter nurtures playfully. We have those same kind of divisions in our cuisine: Mom faithfully followed recipes, my sister followed a budget, I follow a whim, and Betsie plays with recipes, on a budget, whimsically.

We each serve - frequently and willingly - but in different ways. Mom served in leadership. She was able to provide a solid example of competent womanhood, piloting women to success. My sister serves by "shouldering" others to their best outcomes - she lets them cry on hers, while she supports theirs. She empathizes, then acts. I act (so as not to say "showboat"). My leadership is shaky at best - I'm far too self-absorbed to be effective. So, my service comes from grass roots - I pay, or play, on a very local level. My daughter serves the greater good. She sees a need a meets it, whether it's cookies or a quilt or a day in the temple each week.

Yet, each of these "only" women in my life are anything but alone. They were/ are each surrounded by people who adore them. Lifelong friends stay in close touch, new friends add texture and variety, and the family just gets bigger and better.

These women are my "only"s, but together we're lots.

Sisters

I have a sister. A real, live, totally mine, sister. Only one - and I was lucky to get her. Mom and Dad went on to have four boys. Consequently, it was her and me against the world - kind of. She was born about a year and a half after me, and I don't remember my life without her. And, she was born on Father's Day. Show off. On a beautiful June day, she made Dad proud, Mom happy, and me ecstatic.

When we were this old, she was Tonto to my Lone Ranger. We were inseparable. We were also different as night and day...

I was rowdy and loud, always bouncing, laughing, kicking something or throwing something - usually a doll. Cindy was restrained and soft, always calm, smiling and cuddling or hugging something - usually a doll. Until the boys got older... then she could beat us all up. Even me.

A friend told me a true story about two sisters, Beth and Phyllis. (Beth was about 10 years older than Phyllis.) When Beth was 8, a wealthy aunt gave her a beautiful porcelain baby doll that had been made in Germany. Beth was in awe of this beautiful doll. She kept it in the box and rarely took it out - she would look at it every day and marvel that she had such a precious gift. When her baby sister Phyllis was about 5, the Great Depression had taken it's toll on the family. There was no money for Christmas. The girls' mother asked Beth to let "Santa" give Phyllis that beautiful doll for Christmas. There was no money for any other gift. Beth struggled with the idea, but finally agreed to relinquish her treasure. The exquisite doll was given to the little sister.

It's a tender story, to that point. But it gets better. About two weeks after Christmas, Phyllis heard her sister crying as she talked to her mom. She began to understand that her beautiful baby doll had really belonged to her big sister. So, little Phyllis took her precious gift and gave it to her gracious sister. Hugs, tears, gratitude and unselfish love.

Sister stuff.

Daylight Savings

Saving daylight.

Congress (apparently) believes that we can save daylight. Maybe we should call it daylight redistribution. Or day down-size. Or, go-to-work-in-the-dark-but-come-home-in-the-light.

I admit I like sunshine at the end of the day. I can go straight from work to the beach.

A perfect way to end the day... watching the sunset on the ocean.

Light is a curious thing... Sometimes beautiful, sometimes harsh, usually useful, occasionally awful (especially when it shines on dark corners of tormented lives). Colored light is festive, low light is calming, bright light is Broadway, flashlight is survival...

Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation, using precise incising, can remove or restore or create or destroy or cook or... many other things. The laser light changes what it touches, whether it's cancer, or cornea, or CD. Laser light has to be carefully controlled by someone who understands it's capabilities. In the wrong hands, it can be powerfully destructive. In the right hands, it can be potently wondrous.

There's other light I'd like to save - the light in a child's face when she gets something delightful, the radiant light of a bride and groom, the glowing light in my grandmother's eyes when she was proud of me... Even photographs can't save that light - I store that in my mind's eye. So in times of personal darkness, I have my own lighted path to the light. And when that fails, I rely on other Light. Let it so shine...

Eureka!

The name on her birth certificate was "Roberta." But, later, her mom decided she was as beautiful as the movie star, Dolores Del Rio. So, she became Dolores Randolyn, the first-born of Vinjennes Delquatro(Jennie, later Jane) and George Randolph (Rand) Sharp, born in Eureka, Nevada. Eureka is not a thriving metropolis - and it wasn't back in 1930 either. But, Rand got a job there - which is a good reason to go someplace - and they called it home for a while.

It's fitting, I think, that Mom was born in Eureka ("I found it!") I think that's what Dad thought when he "met" her. She knew exactly who he was - but he didn't remember her. He defended himself by reminding me that she was only 13 when he used to bring his dates into "Earl's" - the hamburger joint where she worked. A year later he went into the army and served in Korea during WWII. Right after he got home, he went on a mission to Uruguay for two-and-a-half years. In the meantime, Randy grew up and graduated from high school - this is her graduation picture. She wore that same dress when they were married in the Salt Lake Temple on June 12, 1951. And she wore it again on their 30th wedding anniversary - it fit beautifully.

As lovely as the dress and roses are, it's her face I find captivating. I was her first-born, and my dad named me for her - hoping, I think, that I'd be like her. Vain ambition. Mom was long and lean and lovely and I'm.... not. The only way in which I resemble my mom is that I carry -but don't use - her name. Oh yeah - and my mouth. Big. Better to smile at you, my dear...

Mom was a genuine liker of persons. She always had a reason to like someone - even the prickly ones. She rarely denigrated people - although she was very balanced in her evaluation of them. She was a very good read of character - a characteristic I did not appreciate as a kid, but grew to depend on as an adult. She could mine the most mundane mind and find something likeable. You could almost hear her soul whisper... "Eureka!"

Not Invisible

I'm reading a book called The Land of Invisible Women - fascinating. I wonder what it might have been like to have been someone other than my parents' daughter. I've never been the "invisible" type - always out there with a big target on me. But, at least I learned how to take the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.. or of fortune's outrage...

I'm grateful to my parents - especially my mom these days. She was the fortifier of our family. No matter what the issue, we could count on her to help us find a way to prepare for it. She fortified us with practical experience, high expectations, new horizons, and consequences for laziness. Consequently, she raised 6 kids who all have post-graduate degrees (3 attorneys, 1 Columbia MBA, and 2 Masters of Education), all successful in their lives, all happy with their spouse and kids, and all leading productive lives. Dad helped too, of course, but today I'm thinking about Mom. She was not invisible. She, too, was a target. Some women felt threatened by both her beauty and her brains, some felt threatened by her competitive drive, and some just felt that she was "too much." She was an incredible presence.

I remember, after she passed away and I was at the mortuary looking at her body, I was amazed at how small she was. I always thought she was big. Bigger than life, bigger than anything or anybody. But there she was... small. She was 5'7" and 128 lbs. But in death, her leftover body was small. And yet, everything else she left behind was huge. Her impact on people - people still quote her to me, her beautiful image - people still tell me how striking she was, and her magnificent spirit. It's that spirit that is still colossal. She still has that amazing ability to fortify me - and the rest of my family. We still draw on her strength, her smile and her intellect. She could never be invisible. Invincible... perhaps.