This weekend one of the items on our to-do list was turning off the outside water for my mom and mother-in-law. Since Haley needs more freeway driving experience, we decided to do it this morning before church, early-Sunday-morning traffic being especially non-existent around here, so she could drive.

But first we had to stop for gas.

Because Kendell was in the front seat being the driving instructor, he got out to show Haley how to put gas in the car. As they talked about opening the gas cap and which way to slide the credit card, I thought about how I learned to put gas in my car as a teenager.

My parents had this thing: My mom preferred it if my dad kept her car filled up with gas. At least, I remember them having "discussions" about him making sure her car was full. So maybe that's why my dad didn't teach me, because girls didn't put gas in their cars? Or maybe it was just assumed that putting gas in your car wasn't a skill anyone needed to teach you; you just pulled up to the pump and knew what to do. Still, I remember a boy-who-was-my-friend (but not a boyfriend) teaching me. Especially helpful were his instructions on paying for said gas, since I didn't know if you paid first or pumped first. (Remember those pre-credit-card-at-the-pump days? And how you'd have, like, $3.57 of gas money to put into your car, and most of that was loose change you'd pilfered from the couch cushions, the bottom of your mother's purse, or your best friend's pocket?)

It's odd, the times that grief smacks you in the face, but it did then as I sat in the back of the car, remembering the person I was just as as I was beginning to be a person, listening to my husband teach our daughter how to pump gas. He talked about octane levels and making sure to not put in diseal and I realized, once again, that my dad is gone. He's gone, and he took his father's knowledge with him. He taught me to water ski and to love reading and to listen to music and to be a good person, but he didn't teach me how to change a tire, throw a football, mow the lawn. Put gas in the car. Since he's gone I cannot confront him; I can't ask him why, or who he thought would teach me, or if maybe he just thought I could go through life without knowing what a wrench is for or how to use a hammer. I can't ask him what he thought of me when I was my daughter's age, striding out into the world with that unrepeatable blend of confidence and nescience. Did he simply believe I was smart enough to figure it all out on my own?

Because grief has a long trail, I wept looking backward at my old self and how much I didn't know and how perhaps I would have been less deep-down anguished if he had paid more attention. And I wept forward to the future when Haley is the woman weeping for her dead father.

When she is that woman, she will have that memory of her dad giving her a piece of life's basic knowledge. I'm certain that, in those moments, there will be things she questions about her dad's parenting, as there are things I question about my own. But hopefully knowing he involved himself in her life—even in the little things like pumping gas—will give her a certainty that he loved her. I know my dad loved me, and was proud of me, but I don't know if it was me he loved or the idea of me. I also sometimes wonder why he didn't talk to me more. Why we never laughed together at the gas pump, trying to get the numbers to stop right at $36. Why I am, at nearly 40, the woman who weeps in both hope and confusion: hope that my children will feel they received enough love from their father and confusion at why, this old and this late, I don't.

My mom has a theory about holiday quilts: she thinks they don’t have to be perfect because they’re just out for a month or two. Since she’s not especially in love with Halloween, this goes double for Halloween quilts—costumes, too, for that matter. I’ve interpreted her theory in a different way: by "not perfect" I’ve meant "not finished." I have two Halloween quilts in various stages of incompletion.

One is the first quilt I ever pieced. The entire top is finished and has been waiting to be quilted for five years now. I don’t know what to do with it—I hate how it turned out and so spending the time to quilt it seems pointless. But I also don’t want to throw it away. So it sits in the bottom of the box of Halloween decorations and makes me feel guilty every year.

The other one I love. The fabric has these six great witches (witches are my favorite Halloween theme), so I set each one into a big frame, and then freeform quilted around them. The quilting is finished, but I had the great idea of sewing the binding on with a scallop stitch. I got about 1/4 the way through this process, which requires a double needle, when my double needle broke. Every September for the past two years I’ve thought to myself "go! Go right now! Order a new double needle. Order five or six or ten so you’re never in this predicament again!" And then I go back outside.

But! This October, I did something I have never done before: I finished a Halloween quilt. Don’t believe me? See for yourself:

(Kudos go to Kendell for helping me figure out a way to hang the quilt from the fence. The opposite of kudos to me for not waiting until there wasn't a shadow to take this picture.)

Perhaps I managed this because it’s really a simple quilt. I started with the panel and then added strips, frame-style, until it was huge. Then, aside from the panel (which is full of free-form quilting), I quilted in squares. This is a really simple process, sort of the opposite of quilting in the ditch. You start with the right edge of your sewing foot against the seam of the piecing. You use this seam as your guideline. Once you’ve outlined the inside of the seam, you do the same thing for the outside. Here's a close-up of what I mean:

I like the pattern of four long lines it made on the back:

I’m sure there’s a name for this style of quilting, but I don’t know it. I do know it’s what all the cool quilters are doing!

I'm pleased with how the back of this quilt turned out, too:

(Have I said before that I love pieced backings?) (Those little white blobs are ghosts.) Although, that extra strip at the bottom was really a mistake. When I finished quilting I realized that even though I had a good four inches of extra fabric on the top, the bottom edge of the backing was too short. This reflects my impatience with the quilt-sandwich process. I didn’t get it sandwiched straight. So, I straightened up the edge and added the little strip. It’s OK.

But! I’d like to point out the binding, just because it is not, despite how it seems, cut on the bias.

I hate and abhor cutting bias strips on the bias. You end up with 2,857 seams. It makes me crazy. But I love the diagonal-strip look it gives. Enter this fabric, which might just be the perfect Halloween-quilt binding ever  because the stripes are printed diagonally. Brilliant! I would thank the manufacturer except I already threw away the selvage so I don’t know who makes it. Another thing I like about the binding is it’s a little bit wider on the front than I usually do. I cut the strips to 2 ½" instead of the usual 2 1/4", and then I sewed it to the back using a scant 3/8" seam. This made for a little bit of extra fabric to fold up to the top—and, somehow, made all the corners turn out perfectly. (Corners didn’t use to give me trouble, but somehow since the great Hot Pad Sewing Caper of Christmas 2010, I cannot seem to get them square anymore. Or, only half turn out square.)

At any rate. This quilt is based on a pattern called "Russian Shawl," from Jane Brocket's book The Gentle Art of Quiltmaking. Her quilt is assembled as a giant log cabin; I assembled mine as a giant frame square: start with the middle square/rectangle; add the top and bottom strips and then the left and right strips and just keep building. I don't think it matters which way you go! If you wanted to make something similar, here are the measurements: 

• Fabric A (the middle piece): Mine is a panel about 15" x 18". If you don’t want to use a panel, you could start with an 18"x18" square. Use a fabric with a big, bold print for the middle!
• Fabric B (the narrow strip around A and E): ½ yard
• Fabric C (the first wide strip): ½ yard
• Fabric D (the narrow strip around C and F): 3/4 yard
• Fabric E (the second wide strip): 24"
• Fabric F (the third wide strip): 28"
• Fabric G (the fourth wide strip): 1 yard
• Fabric H (the binding): 3/4 yard

(You will have bits and pieces left over; use them to piece the backing.)

The narrow strips are 2" (cut, not finished) and the wide strips are 5 ½" (cut, not finished).

Happy {Halloween} quilting!

A few years ago, a friend paid me a compliment I still think about. She said that she admired my ability to set a goal (running four half marathons in a year) and then to carry out and accomplish it. I loved that she told me this, of course. But it also made me feel a little bit disappointed in myself, because there are so many goals I have yet to carry out and accomplish. The one I've been thinking about most recently is my long-held goal of becoming a writer. I've carried this goal with me since I was sixteen—more than twenty years—when I promised myself that one day, I would be able to support myself and my as-yet-just-imagined children by writing.

Before I had children, I worked hard at this goal. I subscribed to (and read!) literary magazines; I studied (after purchasing!) Writer's Market and Poet's Market; I wrote and wrote and wrote and then I submitted my work (without much success!). I collected form-letter rejections and tracked my submissions and gnawed anxiously at my work, wanting to improve, knowing I had much still left to learn.

I did two years of college at a community college where I took every literature and creative writing class they offered, and then graduated with an associates of Humanities because they didn't have an English degree yet. And then I had Haley. Writing still happened—because it is, like running, one of the things I need for my sanity—but I felt a lot like my former student Heather does in a recent blog post, that while writing was important to me, my family needed to come first.

A few years later, when life brought me to the accomplishment of another long-held goal (earning my Bachelor's), I attended my college convocation, where I had the privilege of listening to Madeline L'Engle speak. (I KNOW! It was seriously one of my life's best moments, especially as I had no clue she was speaking until I read the program.) She spoke of wanting to become a writer, but feeling like her children needed to come first when they were small. She realized how both fleeting and demanding those small years of childhood are, just a small portion of a mother's entire life. So she promised herself: she would continue practicing writing, and once they were in school, she would start her writing career.

As I listened to her speak, her words hit me with one of those "these words are being spoken simply for my benefit" sort of crash. I knew, without question or doubt, that that was what I needed to do, too: continue writing, of course, because how would one live without writing, but to not focus on becoming a writer until all of my kids were in school.

This took longer than I expected because of that five-year gap between Nathan and Kaleb, but here I am, arrived at that time I labelled "start writing" on the day of my convocation. Here I am, still: not yet daring to take the plunge. Not yet working on writing as a career. Completely and utterly bound by fear. Because, really: what if I fail? If I don't start, then "become a writer" is something still in the future—as yet untried, yes, but also still possible. Starting carries with it the very-nearly-certain possibility of failure. As well, I feel like perhaps it is too late—that I am too old to begin. Those 20 under 40 New Yorker issues will never contain my work. I have a family relying on me so I don't have time to waste or lose; if I am going to do it, I need to do it successfully.

I have thought a lot about this goal while carrying out my other one (the marathon). A few non-running friends have said some variation of "I could never do that," to which I always respond "yes, you can." Unless there is a physical reason (like Kendell, who doesn't run because his hips won't stand it), everyone can become a runner I believe. It doesn't require you to be an extraordinary person. It just requires a plan, dedication, and willingness to adjust to changes and adapt around injuries and your body's own peculiarities.

But writing? Writing something that is good and also successful? That seems to require an extraordinary person. Someone far more amazing than me.

On Friday, I was at work at my usual library reference desk when one of my fellow librarians asked me if I could do him a favor. He had been scheduled to ride with another co-worker to Salt Lake; they were driving our visiting author back to her hotel. He needed to leave earlier than they would get back, though, so he asked me if I would go in his place.

Ride in a car with Marilynne Robinson? Twist my arm!

She was visiting because we'd read her book, Gilead, for our city-wide book group called Orem Reads. As I did with every. single. Orem. Reads. event, I missed the reading she did the day before—hard as I tried, something came up that prevented me from going. I was thoroughly disappointed as I love her writing. She's won tons of literary prizes—the PEN, the National Book Critics Award, the Orange Prize, and the Pulitzer. More importantly, her writing is beautiful and moving and important. She looks at things through a spiritual lens that never fails to bring clarity to my perspective.

I fairly skipped down the hall and out the door to the waiting car. You know: the car waiting with Marilynne Robinson in it.

But once I got in the car—my mind went blank. What sort of casual conversation do you have with such an esteemed person? I either didn't know what to say, or added random and vague tidbits to the conversation. I wanted to come across as sparkling and memorable; I am certain that I seemed like an idiot. Maybe "idiotic" is memorable, but not in the way I expected. I did, I think, manage to sound fairly intelligent when the discussion turned to poetry, but I'm not sure it mattered because I don't think she is a great fan of poetry.

After the poetics discussion, I lapsed into silence and watched the freeway instead. I thought of the great question burgeoning in my throat, which was this one: tell me, is it too late? Am I too old to start a writing career? Am I good or talented or smart enough? I think I wanted to ask those questions of that particular writer because her books are both good and successful. Quite a few "literary" novels are duds in terms of financial success, but not hers. Hers are well-written and widely read. (How many authors show up on Jon Stewart anyway?) And that is exactly what I hope to accomplish.

Maybe I should have asked the questions of her. What stopped me? Again: fear. I didn't want to come across as taking advantage of her time. It's very nearly a cliche, a desperate writer hoping to make a connection with a famous one.  And I was in the back seat of a car driven my another librarian—and no one in the library knows of my writerly ambition. Somehow it feels slightly embarrassing, like wishing you were an astronaut or a movie star or a ballerina. A child's ambition.

So I watched the freeway, and I looked at the back of Marilynne Robinson's head, and then I noticed: she wasn't talking, either. The car was silent and she looked out the window. I wondered: is conversation difficult for her, too? Or was she just tired from the long days of public and private speeches? A little bit of something seeped into my thoughts. She was just a person, sitting in a car and looking out at the freeway and, probably, the mountains. A talented and brilliant person with opinions and ideas and stories to tell, but still: a person. Not a demigod. Not a prophet or a magician or a caster of spells.

Just a person who writes books.

Even though I didn't ask my writerly questions of Marilynne Robinson, I left her at her hotel with some of my fears calmed. Perhaps, just like running a marathon requires nothing superhuman other than a willingness to set the goal, make a plan, and carry it out—maybe writing is like that, too. What I need is a plan, a way to move forward with my goal, to make it specific and achievable. Small steps, like you take while training for a race, that build endurance and stamina, only I'd be building chapters and narrative instead.

Hanging out for an hour with Marilynne Robinson taught me that books are written by no one else but people. It calmed my fear that I am not extraordinary enough. Perhaps the extraordinariness comes through the process and its results. Perhaps—it's highly likely—I wouldn't achieve a career like hers. But, perhaps, since I am also a human being with ideas and opinions and stories to tell, I can achieve something as well.

What? You are also wondering why nothing is getting done around here? Why we desperately need groceries and everyone's wearing mismatched socks? Well, I’ll tell you, it’s all my job’s fault. ‘Cause one day a couple of weeks ago, I was pulling some books to put on the nonfiction "crafts and hobbies" display, and I found a quilting book  I couldn’t resist thumbing through before I set it out, and within its lovely pages I discovered a quilt pattern I had to make right that very moment. The quilt called for big prints and there was a big Halloween print already calling my name. So I wrote down the measurements and I went to the fabric shop that very night and then I let the fabric age for a little while, as I am wont to do, but after the marathon I decided to work my quilting muscles instead of my running muscles, and my quilt is very well nearly almost done.

Except for the actual quilting part.

I’m only freeform quilting the center panel, since I’m really pretty bad at freeform quilting. If you look closely at my stitches you’ll notice they go something like this:
... ............ ....... – ----- --./ .'....- --- - --    -------------- -..~~

(They are really supposed to look like this - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

except for in a beautiful swirly pattern.) Probably I am bad at freeform quilting because: A. I’m bad at it so I don’t do it very often, and B. I need much more practice but I don’t want to spend my fabrics on practice and C. My machine is really not equipped for it; I mean, I have the darning foot and all, but the throat is so small there is just no place for all that quilt to go.

And this is a BIG quilt.

But, for your pleasure and my future (and similarly doomed-to-be-embarrassing) attempts at freeform quilting, some Notes to Self on the topic:

1. Feed dogs DOWN. Feed dogs DOWN. Feed dogs DOWN!!!
2. Stitch length is zero.
3. Before you start stitching, you have to bring the bottom thread up to the top. You do this by holding the top thread, dropping the needle down through the fabric, and then pulling the needle back up, still holding the thread. Pull up and a little loop will come up through the fabric—this is the bottom thread. Here’s the trick though: you have to cut the bottom thread from the last place you stopped quilting or you can just never ever stop pulling it. At least, not until you’ve pulled the entire contents of the bobbin out through the top.
4. Fast speed on the sewing peddle, slow movements of the fabric. Try not to rush.
5. Your wrists are bound to hurt. Be strong!!! Push through the pain!!!
6. Try not to stop and start—go for as long as you can. If you have to start, don’t forget to readjust the quilt’s bulk. Otherwise when you start again, the quilt will shift and you’ll have an inch-long stitch to deal with.

Until this quilt is finished (which hopefully is soon)...a little peek:

Aside from scrapbooking and quilting, I'm not really a crafty sort of person. (And...I'm not even sure quilting and scrapooking count as "crafts.") Every once in awhile, I'll start some sort of crafty project, but unless there's a gift deadline associated with it, I generally don't follow through and actually finish the project. I am quick to admire craftiness, but slow to accomplish it.

In fact, I could say that this autumn craft I'm posting is a quick, easy, and painless one. I'd almost feel certain I could say that, except for the fact that I intended on making these three years ago, when I read about them somewhere online—I can't find where! I bought the batting and the fabric for them back in 2008. I ended up using the fabric for something else and then being annoyed by the big bag of batting every time I opened up my coat closet. Still, once I finally got around to actually making them, they were really fairly quick, easy, and nearly painless. (Another reason I don't craft very often is I tend to burn myself with my glue gun. Often.) Let me introduce you to the squishy pumpkin:

The thing I love about pumpkins and leaves is that, unlike skeletons and witches, they are autumn-long decorations. Put them out in September, put them away to make room for Christmas decorations. Plus I think these are just cute! To make one you'll need:

Squishy Pumpkin Supply List

• Autumn-esque fabric. If you are making a pieced pumpkin, you'll need about 1/3 yard of 4-5 different fabrics; for a solid pumpkin, 1/3 - 1/2 yard, or a fat quarter if your fabric store will cut one for you.
• Stuff to embellish the stems with. I used ribbon, autumn greenery from the craft store, and a little raffia.
• Wooden stems. I made Kendell cut these with his saw, as a saw and I do not get along. They came from a branch he'd pruned off our apple tree. Cut these about 4" long, one for each of the pumpkins you want to make.
• Packaged batting. This isn't in the picture because the bag was too tall and it threw off the balance.
• Something else to fill with. This is so your squishy pumpkin isn't too light and fluffy. I used two bags of beads that were left over from Haley's princess birthday party, the one she had when she turned nine. (Further reinforcement of how often I actually do crafts.) You could also use rice, or beans, or even clean pebbles if that is easy for you.
• A glue gun.
• Something to cut with. I used my quilting supplies but you could just as easily use a pair of scissors.

Now for the instructions. There are more steps for the pieced pumpkin, so I'll list those first, and then combine the instructions when they merge with the solid pumpkin.

Pieced Pumpkin:

1. Decide on the size of pumpkin you want. My pieced pumpkin is about 24".
2. Cut your fabric into 1 1/2-3" wide x 24" long (or however big your pumpkin is) strips. It's good to have a variety of both widths and fabrics.
3. Piece the strips together so that they make, roughly, a square, alternating sizes and fabrics. It's best to have each end be a wider strip.
4. Iron open the seams.

Solid Pumpkin:

1. Decide on the size of pumpkin you want.My solid ones are 18". I wouldn't go much smaller than 10".
2. Cut a square of fabric to the size you picked. (This is why a fat quarter is perfect: You'd only have to trim off 4" from the wide edge...and you'd only have 4" left over.)

Here's Where the Instructions Merge:

1. Fold your pieced or solid square in half lengthwise and then in half width-wise, making a smaller, folded square
   
   
2. Draw a quarter circle against the two raw (NOT FOLDED) sides. This doesn't have to be perfect. If your pumpkin is on the small-ish size you could use a plate or a bit lid for a template. I just freeformed it. Use a thin-tipped Sharpie for this step if you don't have a fabric marker, because the line won't show when you're finished.
3. Cut out the quarter circle:
   (When you open it up, you'll have a circle!)
4. Take this circle to your sewing machine and stitch a gathering stitch all around the circle. (A gathering stitch just means the widest stitch your machine will sew.) Make sure to leave long tails of thread at both the start and the end of the stitching.
5. Start gathering the fabric by pulling very gently on one of the sets of threads left over from your gathering stitch. Slide the fabric in bunches towards the other sides of the circle. (I wanted to have a photo of this step, but I learned it's impossible to photograph yourself at 1:00 a.m. gathering a circle. You definitely need a photography assistant for that, and as all mine were sleeping...no gathering-the-circle photo.) Your goal here is to make the opening of the pumpkin, the spot where the stem goes, and the smaller you can make this opening, the easier the gluing will go. If you break one of your gathering threads, use the other set.
6. Once you've got a good gathering built up, but before the opening is too small, stuff the pumpkin. First put a handful of batting at the bottom. Pour your filling items (beads, beans, rice, pebbles) on top of the first pouf. Then fill the pumpkin the rest of the way with batting. You sort of just have to guess at how much to put in; you might have to take some out or put more in before you do the stem.
7. Continue gathering until you have just a small opening left.
8. Adjust the batting as necessary.
9. Stick the stem into the opening, and then rev up your glue gun. Try not to swear as you glue the gathered edge of fabric to the stem.
10. Embellish the stem as desired. If you're using floral picks, make sure to stick them between the fabric and the wooden stem while the glue is still hot.
11. Once the glue is cooled off, scrunch your pumpkin and adjust the fabric as necessary. Then stick your pumpkin(s) in a spot that needs a little cuteness.

And...if you do make a squishy pumpkin or two, link me up! Happy crafting!

PS...this is a good craft to make with a friend, because you'll generally have enough fabric to make two pumpkins from one cut. (Unless, of course, your fabric store will cut fat quarters for you. The ones around here won't.) Split the cost of the fabric and make them together. An added bonus: you'll have someone who can take a picture of you gathering! ;)

This was the message the Athenian Pheidippides carried on the day in 490 BC when he accidentally created the marathon. It was an astounding message: an army of 10,000 (the Athenians) had conquered one of 100,000 (the Persians, who were the time's reigning terror). "Rejoice, we conquer!" he announced.

Then he died.

This death wasn't necessarily due to the twenty five miles he'd just run. (The marathon became 26.2 miles in the 1912 London Olympics; the 1.2 miles were added so the race would go past the royal spectator box.) Pheidippides was a runner, as in, running was his job. He delivered messages, and he'd run plenty of miles before his last great stretch. Probably he left Marathon, running towards Athens, already exhausted; perhaps it was the joy of his message that carried him through.

I thought of many things during my own marathon on Saturday; Pheidippides and the history of the marathon was just one way my mind went. But I kept going back to his message: rejoice, we conquer! Because there must be some message other than the one made by your own legs and heart and lungs that pulls you along your own great distance; the effort is physical but also mental. Your mind keeps you going just as surely as your hamstrings and quads.

Sort of like that long-ago Athenian, I became a runner this summer; a runner in the sense that running felt nearly like a part-time job. I had a printed schedule I kept on my desk, and five times a week I crossed off another distance. I wanted to arrive at the race prepared; I didn't want to cheat myself out of being ready. And honestly: I felt ready. Until, that is, the second week of my tapering. ("Tapering" is the time during your training when you drastically cut back on the mileage you're running. You do this so you are rested for the race and recuperated from the long runs you put in.) My longest run that week was only 8 miles; the others were 4, 5, and 3. Cutting from 40+ miles down to 20 made me feel like running long distances was something I only used to do. I was a little freaked out.

And then the week of the race arrived—and with it, fall. Gone were all the long, gorgeous, sunny and warm days I'd trained in. Back were rain, wind, and cold. And I am the first to admit that I am a fair-weather runner. I hate being cold. And while I've done several rainy runs, they aren't my favorite. The weather increased my freaked-outedness. I kept trying to picture myself slogging through 26.2 wet miles, my legs covered in goosebumps, my hands freezing, but I couldn't even imagine it. I couldn't decide what to wear or how to cope. And as Saturday grew closer, the weather only got worse. It turned positively Decemberish. My anxiety built and built.

The course I chose to run for my first marathon started on Antelope Island, which is about seven miles into the Great Salt Lake. A causeway connects the island to the city of Layton. Even though I've lived in Utah my entire life, I've never been to Antelope Island, which was one of the reasons I picked this race. And although every single "you can run a marathon" book I read suggests picking a big urban race for your first marathon, I knew this one would be my style: small, and run in a wild landscape. And while I've admittedly never ran through miles of cheering spectators, I'm not sure they would bolster me as much as nature does.

The morning of the race, when my alarms went off nearly simultaneously at 4:00 a.m., I peeked out our hotel window. The worst thing I could imagine was cars coated with snow; luckily, that didn't appear, but the parking lot was slick with rain. Somewhere in the night of troubled sleeping (does anyone actually sleep well in hotels?), though, my anxiety had at last melted away. As I got ready, I thought of the other cold, wet experiences I had not only survived but learned something from: my night Ragnar leg, the pioneer trek, the Provo half marathon. They had prepared me, and they gave me a sense of calm strength: I survived those experiences, so I could survive this one, too. Even if it rained. Even if it snowed.

The starting line was about nine miles past the causeway. I was so grateful when I saw that there was a tent-like pavilion with a heaterfor the runners to stand by while waiting to start. After a quick trip to the porta potty, I stood under that blue pavilion and did not budge away from the warmth of the heater. My only movements were to get myself ready: I pulled on my argyle leg warmers, stuffed the pockets of my running skirt with my two Clif shots, twelve Bloks, eight Advil, and one Neutrogena chapstick (the kind with sunscreen!), adjusted my shoelaces, got my headband in the right position and centered my sunglasses right on the top of my head. Five minutes before the start, I reluctantly removed my sweats, shoved them in my sack, and left the warmth of the heater to take them to the truck that would return all the bags to the finish line.

This is when my resolve faltered just a bit. Away from the heater, in the still-dark dawn, it was freezing. So I pulled my long sleeve running shirt—the one I'd brought just in case—out of my sack. I couldn't imagine heading out with that cold on my arms. Then, even though I only had three minutes left, pulling my long sleeve over my head, I raced back to the tent—weaving back through all the runners facing forward—to the heater. As if I could stock up on warmth. I didn't leave it until the gunshot and the cheer announced the race had started. Then I took a deep breath, left the heater, and started running.

I didn't turn my music on at first. It was still dark. There aren't any street lights on Antelope Island, of course, and the sky was cloudy, so the only light came from the lights attached to the bikes of the occasional passing support volunteer, who pedaled up and down the course checking on the runners. These first three miles felt like running does when I dream about it: completely effortless. Quiet and calm, except for when I passed the two mile mark, checked my time (18:12), and couldn't help myself: I whooped. It hit me: I was here. I was doing it. I was finally accomplishing this goal that I have carried for so many years. I whooped, and I gave a fist shake of triumph, and some of the runners around me whooped back, and then I settled into the run.

Before this, not even halfway into the first mile, I realized I'd made a mistake: despite the cold, I didn't need my long sleeves. In fact, they were bugging me. At the first chance I had—the first water station, at three miles—I took off my outer layer and my little stretchy disposable gloves, and dropped them in the pile of other's mistaken clothes. I was pretty sure I'd get my shirt back at the finish line, but I was willing to exchange not carrying the jacket around my waist for 23 miles with the risk of losing it.

I turned on my music just as the world started to lighten and I could see the landscape. I think that appreciating beauty in the Great Basin takes a certain sensibility. It's not a grandiose beauty. It's not flashy and startling. It's subtle: the shades of pale colors and the shapes of greenery twisted by wind and tautened by drought. It is a gorgeousness made of sereness, of the brittle external forms of things, a beauty defined by want and struggle and occasional pauses of lushness. Emerson said that beauty is God's handwriting; here His penmanship straggles and wanders and gets a little avante garde—but its very subtly made those miles on the island some of my favorite I have ever run.

At every water station—every two miles—I took a cup of water and swallowed a blok. This is sort of how I had trained during my long runs, except my water breaks were spread out more. By the water station at mile 7, I realized I was drinking too much (or maybe not sweating as much as I usually did in the heat of summer) because I had to do something I've never done in a race: stop at a porta potty. I tried to do this at mile 7, but after waiting for three precious minutes for the man inside to get out, I gave up. I didn't want to lose the momentum I had going, so I pushed on to the mile 9 station. Where there was a line  at the porta potty. Foiled again, I thought, but by then it didn't matter; I needed  that porta potty. Luckily the girl in front got tired of waiting and headed off into the bushes (braver than me), and the next girl was super fast, but still: the bathroom thing had added 4 1/2 minutes to my time.

I tried to break the race into three parts: the island, the causeway, the back streets of Layton. When I got off the island and stepped onto the causeway, the sun was finally up, though still covered by clouds. There were birds swimming in the water, casting little wakes behind them, and the air was fully of that fishy smell that comes from shallow water; quite immediately I was not there running my race, but danging my legs off the bow of our yellow boat with my dad in the captain's chair behind me. The water lapped my heels and I turned to smile at him. It was just a few seconds, that memory, but so intense it was if I really was there. Or, perhaps, that he was there with me and told me by bringing me the memory. I couldn't think on it too hard, because it made a lump start to form in my throat; crying is never conducive to running. But it stayed on the fringes of my thought, just as the expansive view of the water was on the fringes of my sight, as I crossed the seven miles of causeway. I talked to a few runners, passed some others; I stopped at the water stations but drank much less; I felt a surge of energy when I reached the 13-mile mark. My hands were so cold that, at 13 miles when I wanted to take my first Shot, I couldn't tear the package open and had to ask one of the volunteers to do it for me. But the second third still flew by.

One of the runners I talked with after we both passed the 16 mile marker. He talked about how a half marathon is a distance almost anyone can run; you almost don't have to train for a half. But once you're past the first half of your marathon, that's when things start hurting. "My muscles are stiff," he said, "and my gait feels awkward." I didn't feel any of that yet; I still felt energetic but calm. We talked for a few more minutes, and then he fell behind me or I sped up and I was alone again.

But, admittedly, getting a little bit anxious. I knew the last third of the race would be the hardest. It would take me to a distance I had never traveled into. It would test me. And it would wind through uninspiring back roads, away from any vistas. At mile 19, I had my other Shot and I felt OK. The landscape was a little uninspiring, but now there were people cheering us on. Well, some were cheering. Here's a suggestion if you're ever at a race as a spectator: cheer loudly. For every single runner. There is nothing quite so dispiriting as running past a group of silent spectators. It saps your energy as if their silence sucked out part of your soul. I know: we're complete strangers! But, if you're going to stand there, give me a little cheer.

From 19 to 20 miles, what kept me going was the runner in front of me. She had on a bandanna and I'm not sure why, but the bandanna made me nauseous. It was the print on it, and the way the ends flapped around her head, but I couldn't stand watching it anymore. So I worked on passing her. Then, from 20 to 21, I just concentrated on making it to the next porta potty, as my decreased drinking had not done the trick and I had to stop one more time. Luckily there wasn't a line, but I have to say: the only thing worse than stopping to pee during a marathon is having to stand back up and start running again. The rude girl who was waiting outside for me—the one who banged on the door and shouted "could you take any longer?" (I really didn't take very long) might have been the only thing that got me out of that porta potty.

I don't know. Was it the stopping? Or just that I had reached my limit? Whatever the cause, the last five miles were excruciating. I don't think I could tell you exactly what hurt. But I was in pain. Five miles seemed like an eternity. I could see, off in the distance, Bandanna Girl, who had passed me while I was in the bathroom. I was surrounded by the last runner/walkers of the half marathon, which seemed like a discouraged group to run with. I kept trying to picture the five mile routes I'd run so often in my training, reminding myself that I'd run five miles literally hundreds of times in my life. I could do five miles.

Then Braid Girl passed me.

I'd passed her when I left the porta potty, as she was walking. But she started running again, and she passed me. This gave me just a little bit of energy; I wanted to catch back up to her. I pushed my legs as hard as I could. I sang random snatches of songs out loud. I kept my eye on her flopping braid, and slowly pulled closer to her, and then she started walking again, and I passed her, and my competitive edge flowed away, and perhaps half a mile later she passed me again.

We frog jumped each other for the rest of the race, one passing the other and, in the passing, trading off a little bit of energy. The world reduced down to the bare minimum: moving my legs, ignoring the pain, catching Braid Girl or watching her pass me by. The one message I had left to carry was only this one: keep going. Don't stop.

And I didn't. Didn't stop. Kept going. At last, I passed the 25 mile marker. This led me into what felt like familiar territory, as Kendell and I had driven down the night before so he knew where the finish line was. I knew I only had to make it to that light, and then the next light, and then past the golf course, and then I could turn at the corner and I would be able to see the finish. Just as I could see the corner of the golf course, the sun came out and the way lit up. I even had to put on my sunglasses. I don't know where Braid Girl was—in front of me or behind—but I knew I had it.

I turned the corner. I spotted the finish. And I found one last little bit of energy, enough to help me both speed up and smile.

 
Despite the pain and the exhaustion and the feeling of being completely empty right down to my mitochondria, I was smiling. I was conquering. I was rejoicing.

I turned the last little curve of the road and I saw Kendell, and Becky who came to see me finish too. I couldn't look at them because they made me want to weep. It's not "rejoice, I conquer."  It is "we."  I ran it, but they helped. Becky encouraged me, Kendell supported me, and I was so grateful to see them at the end. I pushed, I ran, I smiled.

 
I finished.

And despite the fact that my time is probably dismal in comparision—4 hours, 31 minutes, 8 seconds—I allowed myself to feel proud. To know that I had set the goal, and done what I needed to do to accomplish it. Like Pheidippides in Athens, I died when I crossed the finish line. But only a part of me. The part of me that wasn't sure I could do it? She's gone. In her place is a new person carrying a new message. 

This Thursday, October 6, I have a new class starting at Big Picture. It's called Textuality. Here are the top ten questions I get asked about this class, which I'm sharing just in case you happened to ask me one of these questions and I spaced emailing you back. Note: I NEVER space emailing someone back on purpose. Usually I just think I've replied, I'm certain I have, and then I realize with horror two weeks later that, no, I only thought I replied.

Anyway.

Top Ten Textuality questions:

1. Why should I take this class?    Because it will help you look at your scrapbooking supplies in a new light. It will help you get more of your supplies onto your layouts (where they belong, in my opinion!). It will give you new answers to the perennial "how should I embellish this layout?" question. And because it will be a fun four weeks!

2. What kind of word is "textuality" anyway?    It really is a real word. Literary theorists use it to describe the qualities a piece of text has that make it a piece of text. I chose it as the title for my class because all the learning in the class revolves around ways making text in any scrappy form (journaling, words, titles, letters, alphabet supplies) visually interesting. In fact, it was that word itself that sparked the class.

3. Is there any writing involved?     Only whatever journaling you bring to the class. Unlike my Write Now! class, Textuality does NOT discuss writing techniques, except for one that's really more a part of the designing of layouts than the writing of journaling. There aren't any daily writing prompts either. So, less writing than in Write Now!, much less, in fact.

4. How much work is involved?     Each week you'll receive two entirely optional challenges via email. These relate directly to the information in that week's handout. The first is called "dig into your drawers" and challenges you to use some of your alphabet supplies. The second is called "use what you've learned" and challenges you to use a new skill on a layout.

5. Is this a "project" class?     Not really. You won't have, say, a finished mini album by the end of the class. If you do all of the challenges, you'll have eight completed layouts at the end. Rather than a project, the class teaches processes and concepts for using text in unique ways. At the end of the class, you'll have a myriad of new ways to approach your layouts.

6. Is this class only for people who've been scrapping for a long time?     Not at all! I think any scrapper could take it, beginner or oldie. If you ARE a beginner, you'll be happy to know that there are lots of step-by-step instructions. If you're an oldie (like me!), you'll rediscover—and use—some of your old, beloved supplies.

7. The description mentions using just your word processor...I don't need Photoshop or something fancy?     No. Word is all you'll need. While there are tons of cool things you can do with text in Photoshop, I wanted to keep this class as non-technical as possible. The majority of the lessons about word processing involve typesetting details—making your journaling look good, in other words. The majority if the techniques involve using your supplies instead of your keyboard.

8. Is this a class for digi scrappers?      All of the supplies I use are traditional ones. The lessons do focus on using traditional supplies. This is not because I think traditional scrapping is better than digital scrapping—I don't! For me, however, one of scrapping's appeals is its kinesthetic happiness. I, personally, enjoy the texture, the mess, the pressure of scissors through paper more than I enjoy using my computer, so that is why my class focuses less on the digital aspect. That said, though, nearly every single technique would translate to digital supplies and approaches. You'd just use, say, digital chipboard instead of temporal chipboard.

9. What sort of supplies will I need?     My scrapping philosophy in a nutshell is this: new stuff isn't better than old stuff. (If you want to read a few detailed explanations, try here or here.) One of the main goals of the class is to encourage you to use your stuff—to not let it pile up in ignored and neglected corners while you're off buying the next new thing. So, the supplies you'll need are the supplies you already have: alphabet anything. Specifically, there are sections on alphabet stickers, chipboard, rub ons, stamps, and papers; journaling cards and stickers; word embellishments; supplies that aren't word- or letter-based used in a textual way.

10. Did you know there's a movie called Textuality?      Why, yes, I did! I haven't seen it, but I can say that about 99% of recent movies. I'm not sure why I hardly go to the movies anymore, especially now that I have two built-in babysitters. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that at least one person on the set of that movie has heard of my class. They totally stole my idea! ;)

So! If you're interested, make sure to sign up soon. It starts on Thursday! And, if you have any more questions, shoot me an email or leave a comment and I'll answer you. I totally won't space it!

I could say that September 2011 was the month of the kitchen floor redo. I'm glad to have it done—but it wasn't my most favoritest-ever experience. It has led to a chain reaction of other things we need to do: repaint the kitchen, which means repainting the hall, which means repainting the front room. As I would almost rather go to the dentist than paint any room—let alone our kitchen with its vaulted ceilings—I am dreading all this painting that will happen in October. In happier remodeling news, Kendell installed an extra shelf in my kitchen closet. While this did mean more painting, it was worth the free space on my kitchen counters created by the new shelf. And, now that I have finished with the painting of the closet, I am happy to report that it looks much, much better. I had given up even trying to wipe down the walls in there, the paint had gotten so grungy.

 So that should give me some impetus to get the painting started.

 Anyway. Some other, less-stressful-and-annoying September experiences:

      A Month of Idylls. I wrote about this a little bit elsewhere, but I have to expound upon it. This has been the most perfect September I can remember. We had a few rainstorms, but none during the day. The days were just long, lovely, autumnal idylls. The mountains are all lit up with red trees, more red than I've ever seen. The red on Maple Mountain (which, for you locals, is the peak just south of Y mountain) is particularly stunning: wide swaths of red curving around narrow bands of pine. I must photograph it! We were so busy with the floor thing that I haven't done any fall hikes or photo shoots, but I am desperately hoping to do both next week. Every time we go somewhere, I can't help commenting on the mountain colors. This is starting to annoy Kendell.

      A Month of Homecomings. Due to our location, about half the kids in our neighborhood go to one high school, and the other half goes to a different high school. This means that Haley got to go to two Homecoming dances, the first at the high school she doesn't go to, the second at the one she does. Two times wearing the same dress (the same perfect, beloved, exactly right dress) = happiness.

 
(Homecoming no1)

 
(Homecoming no2—Haley totally got that corsage pinned on all by herself! they left later for this dance so the pictures weren't as good.) (Also, I just now went and Windexed those fingerprints off the little window in my front door. How embarrassing.)

      A Month of Fast Food. Again because of the floor, we ate a lot of fast food this month. It took two and a half days to finish the floor, but we couldn't put our appliances back in for another four days. After a week of fast food, (and Eggo waffles for breakfast because—no fridge for the milk) everyone was excited for me to cook again. (This excitement lasted exactly two days, until, on the third day, I made something that didn't please everyone. Which reminds me of a story. Last week at work, I was talking to a friend at work who doesn't have kids. She asked me about dinners at my house. How is it, feeding four kids? What do I make for dinner? My answer: I make at least half of my family annoyed and disappointed for dinner.)

      A Month of Longing. I thought that once Nathan got his butterfly knife, he would cease and desist with the little notes, gentle reminders, and left-open Amazon pages pointing to his heart's desire. Now that he is back in school, his friends have reminded him of how much he really, really, really wants an Airsoft gun. I am even more conflicted about this than I was the knife. I mean, I don't think anyone has ever died from playing with Airsoft guns. But I bet someone has had his eye shot out. ;) On the other hand, probably it is just normal boy stuff, wanting to run around a field trying to shoot your friends. Someone with more experience with Airsoft guns: please, please clue me in!

      A Month with a Day Off. When we had the floor redone, we also had them install wood in our hall. This meant that for an entire 24 hour period, we could only get into our front room. As it was crammed with kitchen stuff, this was not helpful. So we spent a night in a hotel. Haley slept at her friend Nikki's house, but the boys and I had fun hanging out at the pool. Actually—they hung out at the pool while I revived my legs after my last 20 miler in the hot tub. We ate dinner at Red Robin and had candy and chips in the hotel room for snacks.

      A Month of Dreaming Teeth. Kendell had to take the boys to their dentist appointments as I messed up and scheduled them when I was working. No one had any cavities. There were also my two trips to the dentist (check up and filling repair) and Nathan and Kaleb both have wiggly teeth. This overwhelming amount of tooth-related activities meant I also had multiple my-teeth-are-falling-out dreams. I hate that. 

      A Month with Scouting. Jake and Nathan both went to a scouting jamboree where they started working on multiple merit badges. The highlight of that day: I had to work, and we didn't have the fridge back in the kitchen yet (see how the floor thing affected everything?), so Kendell brought them a bunch of McDonald's chicken nuggets. Like...I think he got them the 50 pack. Squee! (I, personally, think the only chicken nugget worth eating comes from Wendy's, but all my children love the McDonald's ones.) Jake also went on an yet another overnight camp out. He is getting to be an expert at camping!

      A Month of Naked Fingers. One of the prongs on my wedding ring broke. Just the very tip, so the diamond was in no danger of getting lost, but all of my sweaters were in danger of being snagged. I finally took it in to get it fixed. It cost less than I expected (bonus!) and came back shiny. I hadn’t realized just how scratched and dinged up it had gotten! The jeweler scolded me for sleeping in my ring—he could tell by how the prongs are worn. I’m not going to stop that practice anytime soon, however. I hate that naked-fingers feeling of not having my rings on. Plus, I’m afraid I’d lose them if I didn’t wear them all the time. Do you sleep in your ring(s)?

      A Month of Brotherly Assistance. In sixth grade on Fridays in Nathan's school, you get what is called STS. This stands for "Sharpen the Sword" which means, I believe, getting out of the classroom to do other stuff than math and grammar, stuff that will help you help other people. Nathan's first month of STS found him helping out in the first grade classrooms—in Kaleb's first grade classroom. I love that he and Kaleb got to be together in such a fun way; it makes me feel like Kaleb got a better start than he could have any other way.

      A Month of Spiders. Actually, just one spider worth mentioning. On Thursday, Nathan came rushing into the computer room where I was wrestling with the American Express bill. "Mom! Quick! We need some spider spray or something! There's a huge spider by the door." I totally thought he was exaggerating. Not so. This was an enormous spider. And while I don't like spiders at all (in fact, they freak me out), I also don't mind squishing them. But this one was so big I was afraid to squish it. I got my big Dr. Marten to do the deed and its sole was covered with goo and venom after i finished. I felt like I had slayed a lion. I can't imagine how a spider could grow this big:

 
(I included the porch railing and a bit of the rug that's hanging out there because I need to wash it, just to give a sense of perspective at just how enormous that spider was. I wanted to hold up something like, I don't know, a pencil or a ruler or someone's finger to help show the scale, but I didn't want to get too close to the giant.)

How was your September?

A few weeks ago at work, the fire department sent a link to a fire-safety survey. In it I learned that laundry dryers cause about 40 fires every day; because of that, you're not supposed to leave your dryer running when you're not home. As I do this all the time—toss a load into the dryer before leaving to run errands or whatever—I was mildly dismayed. And I'm already sort of obsessive about cleaning out the lint trap. Maybe even a bit OCD, as I've been knowing to quadruple check it, even stopping the dryer to do so. But, as I am more terrified of a fire than determined to leave my dryer running on its lonesome, I made a resolution to try to be at home for more of my laundry-drying time.

Not a week later, my dryer started to smell weird. Not that "oh, hell, I left this load sitting in the washing machine for too long" smell. No, an entirely different one: a dry sort of burning smell. Not like a campfire, but a fire-ish smell all the same. I vacuumed out the little slot where the lint trap goes. I scrubbed the inside of my dryer. I checked the electric cord for a short; I checked the outside vent for any sign of a blockage. But the smell continued. It transferred itself onto my clothes and towels. It bugged me and made me anxious, and today, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I asked Kendell to help me.

He unscrewed the front panel from the dryer, and then we stood there for a few minutes in shock. The entire inside guts of the dryer were coated with a thick layer of lint. Coated. An inch thick in some places. Then we commenced sucking all the lint out with the vacuum.

It took us almost 30 minutes to get all that lint out. Despite my obsessive lint-trap cleaning, the inside of the dryer had enough lint to fill up my laundry-room garbage can. We had a service call on this dryer two and a half years ago, right before the warranty ran out, so all that lint had gathered in the space of just 28 months or so.

(I also put 28 pennies and one dime in Kaleb's piggy bank. After I cleaned the lint off of the coins.)

I've since run two loads through the dryer—and the smell is gone! It sort of freaks me out to think about what might have happened if we hadn't cleaned the lint out. One of those 40 dryer fires one day? Who knows.

But I do know this: I hope all of you get out your screwdriver and the nozzle attachment to your vacuum, and clean out the guts of your dryer.

Just so you're not one of those fires either.

(An added bonus: the dryer dries faster now, too!)