A Tribute to My Heritage

Recently our family genealogist discovered that my sisters and I are the descendants of Margaret Stephenson Scott.

Why is that so interesting? Mrs. Scott, it turns out, was convicted of being a witch and was hung at the Salem witch trials of 1692.

This qualifies me and my sisters for membership in the exclusive Associated Daughters of Early American Witches. In order to join you must be "at least sixteen years of age and able to prove descent from an ancestor or ancestress who was accused or tried or executed for the practice of witchcraft prior to 31 December 1699."

And guess what! For only $100 we can get a life membership!

Thrilled at the thought that I had a witch for an ancestor, I immediately wanted to test my witching skills, seeing as they have lain dormant for several generations. The best place to do that? My kids elementary school!

Naomi, me and Dan Dan the Skeleton Man.

With my supernatural powers I convinced a good friend of mine to join forces with me. She brought along Snow White. (Still not sure if either of them are qualified to be a member of the Associated Daughters of Early American Witches, but not everyone can be so lucky.)

From the wart on her nose to her fish net hose, I knew I had chosen the right person.

We each have two other children attending the elementary school, so we had four classes to visit.

Here is Angie, putting the trimmings on our poison apple wagon.Angie says the skeletons are kids who didn't do their homework.

The school children were thrilled to see us and even more thrilled to try our poisoned apples. Sorry I don't have any photos of all the action, but we were very busy witches.

Sometimes we had to wait for the appropriate time to enter a class.

In between classes my witch friend tempted little Snow White to take a little bite.

The effects were immediate:This is me and my apprentice witch whose birthday happens to be today. Happy #5, Naomi!

This is Dan Dan the Skeleton Man after the third class room:

I wish we had photos of the classrooms we visited, cause the kids were a lot of fun, and they enjoyed the apples very much. It appears I need some work on my poison apple recipe since I believe all the children are all still living.

(Actually the apples were part of the "Smart Snack" program that New Hope Elementary gets to participate in. Every day the school gets fresh fruits and vegetables to give the kids. How great is that? We were lucky to be able to hand them out.)

My friend made an excellent witch. It is just a hunch, but I wager she has brew in her blood. If she doesn't have a witch ancestor I must find a way to make her an honorary member.

Thanks, Angie....that was a lot of fun!

Strange Mormon Customs #3

Britney and me in London

Mormons believe in being modest at all times and in all places. With that said, let me tell you a story about my bikini.

I was ten years old and shopping with my mom when I saw it there, hanging on the rack. I have a vivid memory of what it looked like: it was white with a purple and turquoise palm tree print and purple piping around the edges, and it was darling. I asked my mom if I could have it. What do you think she said?

Before I tell you, let me give you some history on my mom. When she was a child, she was tended on Santa Monica beaches by the famous stripper Gypsy Rose Lee while my grandmother mowed the lawn in her swimsuit. When my mom was a teen she became Miss Malibu. Though she grew up to become a devout Mormon, at heart she was still a Californian.

So I got the bikini. It was a while before I could wear it since we lived in Jackson, Wyoming, where it is warm enough to swim outside for only two hours of the year. But one weekend my family went to St. George, Utah and stayed at a motel with a pool. I was so excited to finally try out my cute suit.

There was only one problem. We got there late Saturday night and the next morning was Sunday. (Another Strange Mormon Custom: Mormons don’t swim on Sunday.) I looked longingly out at the pool.

Hoping that rules could be bent, I asked my mom if I could go swim for just a little while, even though it was Sunday.

This time my mom paused for a moment. But she still said yes.

Gleefully, I peeled off my clothes, strapped on my bikini and pranced out to the pool.

It was morning and I had the pool all to myself. I splashed around, having a great time, looking down at my body every now and then to glory in my cuteness.

Before long another person entered the pool area. It was a boy; chubby boy who was a little older, maybe 12 or 13. He watched me for a while and I toned down my frolicking. He eased himself into the pool continued to watch me with a strange smirky smile on his face. His expression gave me a weird feeling I had never felt before; as if suddenly I was wearing nothing at all. And even though I was young enough to have a chest so flat you could iron your shirt on it, I could feel that somehow I crossed some mysterious boundary of decency, and that by crossing this boundary I had let myself become prey for a wolf in fat-boy’s clothing.

I left the pool and never wore that bikini again. Since then, I never had any desire to wear a bikini. Not once. If you are trying to teach your children about modesty, I don’t recommend this strategy, but it definitely worked for my mom. I often think back on my mom’s willingness to let me dress like that and wondered if she knew what she was doing all along.

The unfortunate reality is that men have always been, and will always be, more influenced by a woman’s appearance than what comes out of her mouth….for better or for worse.

But that isn’t the only reason I dress modestly. As a Mormon, I see my body as a temple. Have you ever tried to enter a Mormon temple when you haven’t met the proper requirements? Sorry, buddy, you can’t get in.

It is the same with our bodies. This is the reason Mormons don’t smoke, don’t drink…our bodies are temples. Protecting the sanctity of our bodies is just as important to us as protecting the sanctity of our temples.

But that doesn’t mean we go around wearing turtle necks and skirts that go down to our ankles. Our bodies are not barns, not skyscrapers, not supermarkets, not strip malls, not condos, casinos or cabins. They are temples, and temples are exquisitely beautiful. Beauty and cleanliness are a reflection of the respect you have for yourself. I think people forget that that is part of modesty, too. Out of respect for my body I always try to make the most of what I have and be as beautiful to look upon as possible.

After all, I am the daughter of Miss Malibu.

Here are the guidelines our church gives the youth about wearing appropriate clothing.

Check out this great website the church has put together on the dress standards for our young sister missionaries….I bet you’ll like it.

I'll Make a Deal With You

I was very surprise at the responses I received from my last post.

I had no idea there were so many other "closet writers" out there among my friends. Welcome to the party, guys!

It was inspiring to me--and I haven't been able to stop thinking about how great it is that so many of us have stories to tell. I can't even begin to say how important I think it is to stand up for what you believe, and to spread your messages of goodness or hope or truth out into this crazy world in a productive, uplifting way. That is what I am trying to do with my story. Perhaps the world will someday read it, perhaps no one but my kids will read it. But at least they will know where I stand, and that my belief is strong enough that I want it to be heard.

I doubt that anyone would really write a book with the intent to never ever let anyone else see it. If you are writing about something, that means you feel strongly about it. If you feel strongly about it, you want people to know about it. Am I wrong, people? No, I am right!

Now for the deal I want to make with you.....

In one of the many books I've read about writing I learned that when you "pitch" your story to an editor or an agent you should be able to tell them what it is about in one sentence.

I am going to be nice and let you have THREE sentences to tell me what you are writing about (or what you have written about.)

If I get more than TEN responses from people who are working on a novel or have already written a novel, I will tell you all what my novel is about.

You do not have to leave your name....you can post anonymously, if you want, but you have to be truthful.

So who will be first?

I have written a novel

It took me one year. It is 285 pages long, double spaced. I have made it through two official rough drafts, but some sections I have rewritten at least seven times.

Wonder why I hardly ever post anything on my blog anymore and never comment on your blogs? Writing. Wonder why I haven’t come to play-group in the last 12 months? Writing. Wonder why I haven’t read any of the books in bookclub? Writing. Wonder why I haven’t been to Relief Society activities or volunteered at my kids schools or done any of the gracious and good things mothers are supposed to do? Wonder why my children look like malnourished orphans? You guessed it.

Today I realized I haven’t exercised in months. I can’t remember the last time I broke a sweat. My ward split almost a year ago and I still don’t know more than half of the people’s names. I have sheepdog-hair that is constantly getting in my eyes and mouth, but I don’t have time to go cut it because I am writing, writing, madly writing!

You see, I had an idea—a darn good idea—and I was on fire. I had to get it out on paper, or at least out on my computer screen, so that I could publish it and change the world with my lyrical language, witty humor and hidden gems of wisdom.

In some ways writing has been good for me. First of all, I love it. Typing up a scene gives me a little thrill and I actually get the (misleading) impression that I am actually good at this. I am going to be just like J.K. Rowling! How many zillion billion ka-trillion people have thought that before? Second of all, it is the only hobby I’ve had that doesn’t cost anything. Scott likes that part. Perhaps that is why he has been so supportive.

I bet you want to read it, don’t you?

Yes, yes….that is what they all say. But only ONE of the undisclosed-number-of-people I sent my mss to has read beyond page 100. Did I mention this was close to 300 pages long? If the people I love can’t finish it, how would I ever expect Big Scary Mr. Publisher to even open the envelope?

Believe me, I’ve done my homework. I have read Writers Market books cover to cover. I know what I have to do to get my book out there, into the hands of the masses. I know the odds.

I bet you want to know what it is about, don’t you?

The only way you will ever know is if you see it at Barnes and Noble someday, sitting there all pretty and glossy on the center display table….but that won’t happen. Nope. Do you know why? Because I am not going to work on it any more. Do you know why? BECAUSE I HAVE FOUR KIDS. THAT is why.

Now I know mothers need hobbies and all that. Believe me, I am the mother of all hobbyists. (Did that come out right?) Long before I became a "writer" I was a seamstress, an artist, a musician, a dog trainer. But writing a NOVEL? Aye, aye, aye. My own expectations disgust me.

Throughout the past YEAR I have kept my fingers dancing away on my keyboard with the illusion that if I can just keep trucking, ultimately this manuscript will come out of its cocoon and unfold its shimmering wings. I just want to create something special. Everyone wants to do something amazing, right? To accomplish something where everyone will say, bravo, you’re cool now. That was really great. You really changed my life, Steve Jobs.

To make it worse, there is that blasted American Dream mentality which makes us think we really can do anything if we work hard enough. This is what gets me in trouble, because I am a hard worker and so I obsess over sentence structure and plot and word choice, knowing that if I just put in the time eventually everything will come out sounding like Barbara Kingsolver.

But tonight I read my story with new eyes. And you know what? I don’t think that if I wrote for a hundred years I would be able to write like Barbara Kingsolver. Or Dr. Seuss for that matter.

And you know what else? I want my kids to remember me as a face, not as a glowing apple.

Besides, my rear end is huge and I need more exercise.