Thursday, April 21, 2011

Observations from the future

I wonder if my friends over at the time travel blog noticed this:

Remember when Bill and Ted (from the past of 1989) traveled to the future and met these wise judges who decide everything?

But then remember how now we are their future and there is this show called ANTM with wise judges who decides everything*:

But then also remember far in the past there was a wise woman who could answer your question, but she was also a puppet?

but then there was also an angel that answered your questions.

I guess what I am saying that it's not that truth is stranger than fiction, it's that they are the SAME THING!!!!

*Well at least one of them is on ANTM, the other is the devil wearing Prada.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Appendix Jokes: a Limmerick?

As many of you know, I am a HUGE fan of Ogden Nash. Also, I am a fan of appendix jokes.  So you can imagine how surprised (and pleased) I was to find this, 

but which he sadly titled:


Asked a patient before appendectomy
"What kind of fee d'you expectomy?"
Said the doc, "If your pulse
Indicates the results,
Anything but a post-dated checktomy."

Many of you (my fans) come here for appendix jokes. This is a far better thing, for an Ogden Nash poem is a thing of gold. So in his honor I have written a poem.

Ogden was a poet  for the man on the streets.
If he was on twitter I'd follow his tweets.
He could take words and twist them and bend them.
If he was on Facebook, I'm sure I would friend him. 

thank you.

Thursday, April 07, 2011

Holy Ground

My Grandmother passed away last night. She had just turned 101, and was still surprisingly sharp. Her hearing had mostly gone, she couldn't stand on her own, but she could still smile weakly and offer words of wisdom. Most of our conversations lately revolved around how she wanted me to be happy.

I remember a time when I went to LDS General Conference with her. Elder Richard G. Scott, on of the 12 apostles and most senior leaders in my church saw us sitting together and came up to us. He spoke briefly to my grandmother and then turned to me. He said, "I want you to know that I have stayed and your grandmother's house, and because of that I can say that I have slept on Holy Ground." I can think of no finer compliment to pay her, no more apt description of her character, and no grander accomplishment than that. Here a servant of the Lord, a man that I honor as a special witness for Christ, who has traveled the world and sat in sacred ceremony as deep matters of doctrine and church policy was discussed and yet he noticed that the humble home of this fine woman was Holy Ground. Being around her, I just felt loved.

If you knew my Grandmother, Lois Dayton, you probably felt this too. You have felt welcome in her home, you have felt her reverence for love and beauty and for her faith and Savior. My Grandmother was not a very complex woman, but how deep was her simplicity.

So deep that the ground soaked up the simple goodness around her. She wasn't the greatest piano player, but there was always music in her home. She wasn't necessarily the most elegant entertainer, but always a warm hostess. You could probably count the number of times her front door was actually locked. Whether I showed up for a planned visit, or simply stopped by passing through I was met without pomp but with an open door and an offer of whatever was in the fridge. My grandmother came from a place where "storebought" was almost a cuss word and usually followed an apology. "Can I make you a sandwich, I'm sorry all I have is storebought bread". She always offered what she had and never made a big deal of the meagerness of the offering nor the overabundance. Her offers were always simply just that, an offer. There was no pretext, nor expectation.

It's possible for a person to have a bad word to say about Grandma, but you'd have to try pretty hard, and it would probably tell me more about that person than it would about Grandma. She left literally hundreds of progeny behind her, each one recognize their best and most kind traits have roots that stretch back to that holy ground in Cokeville in a little rambler whose door was always open.