"Birthday Party of the King"

Christmas is one of the few times of the year that my family has any real traditions. Even as we have grown and separated, there are some things that will always be an integral part of the holidays. In the forefront of these are our Christmas cartoons. When my siblings and I were all younger, my Dad recorded various Christmas specials on VHS tapes so that we could enjoy them every year. Some of them have lost their place in the pantheon of Christmas necessity, but many of them remain strong in the line up. For instance, just as Christmas could not ever come to a dirty house (my mother's way of motivating us to do our chores), it could also never arrive without the patronage of the fantastic Donald Duck. His Christmas shorts have been a part of our festivities all our lives and we cannot imagine the Holiday season without him. However, I must not get started on Donald, for if I do, I shall be here all night. Perhaps another time. Others with high ranking are Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas, Mr. MaGoo's Christmas Carol, and the focus of my blog today, The Stingiest Man in Town. This last cartoon had to have been done decades ago. It was made by a company called Rankin/Bass, and it is quite obviously old, (my guess would be late fifties, early sixties) due to the fact that the animation is raw, shaky, inconsistent and highly stylized. But, even as my knowledge of animation has grown and I have come to be quite an animation snob, I have always made allowances for this particular piece. Not only for the years of memories associated with it, not to mention the memorable soundtrack, but the message inside as well. The Stingiest Man in Town, is of course, a retelling of that classic Christmas story A Christmas Carol. We all now that there is glut of versions of this piece at this time of the year. What makes this version special is that this one is the only one I've found, so far, that bothers to talk about the real reason for the season. We all know that Ebenezer Scrooge learns about true love and joy from being in Bob Cratchit's home, but this version actually takes a moment to educate Scrooge about Jesus Christ.





Not only do I feel that Tom Bosley does a wonderful job performing this song, but I love the way it is portrayed; it is illustrated in narrative stained glass window fashion, reminiscent of the spectacular windows in a cathedral or church. It's a beautiful technique and it gets the point across. So yes, it may be a silly cartoon, but it fills my heart with warmth due to the nostalgia and peace of the season. Isn't that what Christmas is all about?

And now, because I promised that I would continue on with with my photogenic fauna findings, I present a bird that is very much up with the latest styles of the season. This lovely Adele Penguin is proudly sporting the craze of Antarctica, the glamourous Christmas bathrobe. I'll have to see about getting my sister to make one in human size.

All Things Bright And Beautiful

Imagine my surprise when I logged on to my blog the other day only to discover that my younger sister had made an entry that carried the same theme that has been in my own heart: getting to this point in our lives. I've been thinking about it alot lately; my flight to Houston was spent reliving my past and recounting the steps it took to be where I am today. A year ago this time, I would've told you that I was extremely frustrated with the direction my life was taking. Truthfully, I was convinced there was no direction in my life. I had just spent Thanksgiving in San Francisco, with my younger sister and came back so impressed with her that it made my heart hurt. I knew I wasn't becoming all I could be, and there were some life experiences I needed to have. I promptly went online and researched schools. I liked the idea of going to school in Texas, but there is no doubt in my mind that I've been placed where the Lord wants me to be, doing what he wants me to do. Looking back, I can see that I've been prepared for this road all along.

Before I left, I had people ask me if I had always wanted this; no, not necessarily. There was one point in my life when I wanted something else very badly. As a child, I did have visions of being a beautiful veterinarian who faced extreme danger in rugged landscapes, saving the lives of exotic creatures and having them show their gratitude by living as my personal pets. I was going to be the Dr. Quinn of the animal world. As a girl, I opted to play with stuffed animals instead of the fluffy dolls my younger sister loved. I drove my family crazy because I would stop whatever I was doing, whether it was cleaning my room, or playing at a friends' house and pick up a book and completely tune everything out. My favorite books were Zoo Books, a children's magazine that spotlighted a specific animal and gave all kinds useful trivia about them. I fell in love with dolphins and became a pint sized activist, insisting that we only eat dolphin-safe tuna. (as if there was anything else available at a store in Utah). I have always had a deep love of animation, and ironically enough, that too contributed to my current career choice. The countless hours of watching Ferngully: The Last Rain Forest and Pocahontas filled me with a sense of reverence, not only for my fellow creatures, but plant life as well. I made a goal at the age of eight years old to single handedly save the Amazon rain forest. My parents will tell you that was a passion that has always been present in my life. One of my Dad's favorite stories about me is the day there was a conflict over the T.V. because I was involved in a special on Sea Lions, but my older siblings wanted to watch Punky Brewster.

Yesterday, a gentleman who I can been kinda dating before I left called me up and shared a sweet memory. He and I had gone to elementary school together, so he is always looking for ways to link up our pasts. Apparently he came across an old yearbook page that had all of our responses to a group of questions. He reminded me that when I was in the fourth grade, I had said that I wanted to be a marine biologist and work with dolphins at Sea World.

Then one day, my world shattered. My mother, who was proud that I wanted to be a scientist and work with animals, told me as an incentive to get good grades that I would need to do well on math in order to succeed. It had the opposite effect. I thought anything that meant that I had to deal with math was not a possibility. I let go of my dreams that day. (What a mediocre kid I was!)

When I was fourteen, I grew bored of my friends at the lunch table and went off the library to find something more entertaining, (yeah, I was a live wire, alright. ) as I perused the aisles, I found something that caught my attention. It was a book titled The Work of Walt Disney: Mickey Mouse through Beauty and the Beast. I checked it out and read it through out the day. My conversion was instant. From that moment on, my heart and soul and any children born to me belonged to Walt. I saw how his company has risen from the ashes of cut throat deception and led to a meteoric rise to create the largest and greatest franchise in the world. I drank in the original story board sketches and pictures of the wizards who sketched them. I saw glamorous movie stars posing with stuffed Mickeys and behaving as if he was in their same rank of stardom. I watched how his work evolved 'til there wasn't a child in this world who didn't know who Mickey, Donald and Goofy were. I could go on and on forever about this, and perhaps someday I will, but that is not the point of his installment. The point is, I became truly obsessed with the Disney company and veered off my original path for a while.

When I was in high school, I knew I wanted to be an animator. I took a course that would allow me to take an internship. Originally, I was signed up to work at a company that was developing animation software in CGI, (Computer Generated Imaging. It's all you see today. Not always all that impressive, in my opinion. ) but this company decided they didn't have room for me. My advisor asked me to look into something else. I sighed and said reluctantly that I had always liked animals, so why not try a Vet clinic? She had a much easier time setting me up with a local animal hospital, and it wasn't long before I realized that I was enjoying myself. Dr. DeGering was a wonderful trainer, and he allowed me to actually learn by doing hands-on procedures. Nothing amazing, but I'm convinced I was one of the few members of my graduating class that used needles and drugs not for my own personal use, but for vaccinations and blood draws. I learned how to prep for surgery and dress wounds and experienced for the first time the sobering feeling of watching an animal die in my arms after being euthanized. It was surprising to me how seeing blood and guts didn't faze me, it fascinated me. I loved wearing scrubs and being a healer.

My mother introduced me to a series by James Herriot based on his veterinary work in northern England during the 1930's. I could feel his love as I read his stories, and was so impressed by how he could see the humor in an undoubtedly yucky situation. He was living proof that happiness comes from serving those around you. He was never rich, but he was a fulfilled man.

However, I still worshipped at the Alter of Walter and when I was accepted at BYU, I was certain that attending the college with the best animation program in the world meant that I was on my way. My classes were a lot of fun and I really enjoyed them, but the more I learned, the more I felt like animation was headed in a direction I didn't want to take. CGI had taken over everywhere, and I was and still am a stalwart fan of classic 2D animation. I wanted to do what Walt did, not sit in front of a computer screen all day. As I sat in the lab one day, painstakingly putting together my application for the program, I began to question myself. I ended up walking away from that lab without finishing and feeling a sense of peace in my heart.

The cartoonist in me did not give up easily, and I switched over to Illustration. I decided that I would like to create a comic strip or two, the main one being based on my family, and centered on my brother, who is the only boy among five sisters. What are the odds of that? Especially outside of Utah! I thought I had a hit on my hands and worked toward getting into the illustration program for the next two years. The first time I got the rejection letter, I remember being surprised at how okay I was. I tried a second time, but when the letter came, I didn't even have the courage to open it for about a week. When I finally did, and I got my damning 'no', I felt sick at heart. What did the Lord want me to do?! Surely someone who watched cartoons religiously belonged in the world of other such nerdy people!

Then I recalled overhearing a conversation my aunt had with someone at a family gathering. She was talking about how her son had recently enrolled into a Vet Tech program and loved it. It was like a light bulb lit up over my head. I thought hey, I could do that!

Then something happened that truly changed my life. I decided on a whim to join my sister and her current room mate for a summer working in Alaska. It turned out to be a hard experience; management was corrupt and we as the housekeepers were treated poorly. Eventually I did get the chance to have a day off, and I knew exactly how I wanted to spend it. One of the benefits of my job involved free tours with a local sled dog kennel. My only experience with Huskies before this was seeing Balto, so I really didn't know what to expect. The first thing that struck me was happy these animals were. The musher pulled up in his trailer with the dogs in their separate compartments and I could hear them making that loud, beautiful husky bellow. He let them out one by one and hooked them up to an ATV (you don't use sleds in the summertime.) and explained what each part of the team did. The entire time the dogs kept yapping and leaping into the air like NBA all stars, unbelievably excited that they got to run! We followed the team in our shuttle and arrived at the kennel in time to see them pull in. I cannot describe the excitement I felt! I was truly in the presence of greatness. The musher then explained to us about the Iditarod, and the equipment, training and feeding used for the dogs. He gave us each souvenir of a homemade doggie bootie to take home with us, but I took so much more with me that day. I felt God's love pour over me as I suddenly knew undeniably and irrevocably that this was something I needed to be a part of.

I was so glad to come home from Alaska, but I won't pretend that I didn't take part of it with me. My zeal to get involved with the sled dogs led me on a frantic job hunt at all the local vet clinics. I ended up getting hired at two of them. At the end of the first interview, when my boss asked me if I had any questions, I asked her if she knew of any sled dog kennels or shelters locally. She thought a minute and had her secretary give me information for a Maren Gibsen at Arctic Rescue.

As it turned out, my jobs at both clinics was a dark experience. Both clinics had vets who displayed bad tempers and were constantly upset at me. It's a stressful environment as it is, but to have your boss undermining your intelligence at the same time makes it unbearable. As was inevitable, the strain of traveling from both clinics on bus and balancing school work became too much for me both physically and emotionally and my employment ended with a big BOOM. Feeling lost once again, I opened my heart out into prayer and asked the Lord what he wanted me to do next. I felt the impression to fish out the phone number for Maren Gibsen and call her. She was delighted to have a volunteer and I was delighted to discover that headquarters were two blocks from my apartment. Coincidence? I think not.

So there it is. Like a cheesy Rascal Flatts song, God blessed the broken road that led me straight to ... Houston. But to be honest, I shouldn't be surprised. In a blessing that shall remain unnamed, I was told that I had been born into a family that would prepare me for my life's work. I don't know if working with animals is the Lord's idea of my life's work, but my family has always been ultra supportive. My parents never complained when I'd bring home sick and injured animals from the pet store I worked at, including the memorable One-Eyed Willie, a parakeet with a leg injury so severe she looked like she was perpetually performing ballet. And who could forget Dickie, the bullied mouse with testicles the size of half his body? My mother instilled the idea of respect for all living things when we were young and she refused to kill a spider that was scuttling across the room. She'd tell us stories about the home that spider had to go home to, and how he would tell his wife and kids about seeing us. Knowing more about spiders today, I'm fully aware that any spider coming home to his wife is more likely to be served with a side dish of fries then have his family listen to what his day was like, but it still keeps me from smashing most insects I see. Cockroaches are an exception.

My siblings have been nothing but supportive of me as I've made this decision, and I hope I can make them proud. One of the major driving forces in my life is making my loved ones proud of me. I know I'm happy doing what I'm doing, and now that I've left home, I can see that there is truth in that old hymn James Herriot borrowed for the titles of his books:

All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all.

On a lighter note, because it seems my sister and I are on the same conscious plane (you'd think we're related or something...) I wondered about what would happen if our careers collided. The results are not pretty. I'll start off easy at first, and put a new picture up for every entry, but be prepared it gets pretty gruesome:

DUCKS IN TUX

Here we have our latest in waterfowl evening wear. The brazen colors of the plump bow tie are meant to accent the debonair mallard as he sets out to romance his mate. These cool and sophisticated ducks have not a care in the world as they are herded along the slick floor at the sheep dog trials, because they know that no matter what happens, they are wearing Armani. (What the H?)

I Gotta Get Out More.

School is great, and my ward is fun, but I have yet to establish a true social life out here. I felt lonely and neglected before I even came out here, and as a result, I've become involved with some habit-forming activities and now I am a addict. Yes, folks, I am here to admit that I, Danielle McKinlay, have a Netflix fixation. It started out innocently enough... I was reading a book that took place in Arizona and it made reference to John Wayne movies. Knowing that he is one of Cinematography's greatest historical icons, I wanted to see if I could understand what the big deal was. I tried to find some Westerns at Hollywood Video, but the slovenly franchise had a grand total of two whole John Wayne movies, one of which takes place in war-torn Vietnam. I have no time for franchises that do not appreciate the classics. So I started up a subscription with Netflix. A whole new world unfolded before me. Soon I was getting a different John Wayne movie every other night. I fell in love with 'The Duke', and became further obsessed with Western culture. After I discovered that I could watch movies instantly on my laptop, there was no going back. Netflix unfolded to me a wealth of cinematic treasures; jewels from my childhood long lost were suddenly available with the click of my fingerpad, as well as exciting new viewing experiences.

Now that I was hooked, the sky was the limit. I was grateful to find a distraction from the hurt I felt when my friends stopped contacting me and spending time with me. One night, when I feeling particularly low, I stumbled across an old memory. A few years back, when I was lot less driven in my career choice, I took an anthropology class, just for fun. (The vast majority of my college experience entailed taking classes that had nothing whatsoever to do with animation; I simply took them 'just for fun'. I'm curious about just about everything, and I wanna know it all!)

Our lesson that day was about rituals and my teacher showed a clip about voodooism from an old, but memorably popular t.v. show. It was the X-Files. The episode intrigued me and I'd often thought about it since. But it was at that moment, when I found it on Netflix, that fate intervened and I found myself adding the first season to my queue. Later on, when I was looking forward to a night of simply relaxing, I gave it a try. At first, I giggled at Mulder and his straight- faced accounts of his experiences with the paranormal. But he and Scully soon won me over, and by the third episode, I was an avid fan!

At this point, I would like to point out that I am not a fan of sci-fi. In the past, I have held it in deep contempt because of all my nerdy high school friends who allowed it to make them socially awkward. But, like I said, there was intrigue. I read Harry Potter and became a fan because of J. K. Rowling's marvelous craftsmanship, not because I'm a fan of the genre. Such is the case with the X-Files. I found myself cheering for the heroes, booing and hissing at the villains, laughing at the clowns and feeling heartbroken at every tragedy. It amazed how incredibly well written it all was. Characters that seemed to have no consequence before were coming back and thickening the plot. And the tension...! I must've been living under a rock when this show was in it's hey-day, because I had no idea that there to be a romance between Scully and Mulder. But the show built it up beautifully- he would occasionally touch the small of her back gently, or she would reach out and touch his hand for split second-AUGH! It became too much! I had to keep watching! They didn't just throw each other against the wall and embark in the overpowering throes of passion in the first five episodes like they would a smutty t.v. show of today. It took years before Mulder finally kissed her, and it never showed anything further then that.

That is not to say that this show was all purity; Little House on the Prairie it ain't. The sceenplay writer used ample amounts of gore and squirmy creepy crawlies to keep the audience thoroughly grossed out. Between yelling my unheeded counseling at my computer screen ("No! Mulder! Don't let her go!...Love her, Mulder! You must love her!... The liver-eating mutant is going to grab her! AUGH!... listen to him, Scully! The Cigarette -Smoking man is lying to you! AUGH!") I'd find myself disgusted at the wounds and offenders of the supernatural. But it was fun, and I was impressed that it could invoke such a strong emotional response from me.

I watched the X-Files faithfully for about three months. But when it hit the end of the ninth season, I found myself not wanting to finish. I had become friends with Scully and Mulder. It was like the Never Ending Story: I went through everything they went through. By day I was online looking at X-File paraphernalia, and by night my dreams were filled with conspiracies that centered around huskies. I was officially a nerd.

Soon, I finally built up the courage to watch the last episode and decided that no matter how disappointing it might be, I would still love them anyway. It turned out to be harder then that; the ending wasn't disappointing per se, it was just wishy-washy, Gone with the Wind-esque. But, in the same way we all have to tell ourselves that Scarlett will in fact get Rhett back and save her marriage, we have to believe that Scully and Mulder will find a way to save the earth from alien colonization. That's just how it has to be. (sigh.)

I'm sure it has become apparent that my feelings toward a t.v. show are not quite healthy. I've never felt this way before... I decided I needed to cool down and watch something a little more low-key. That's when I found All Creatures Great and Small. It was a British sitcom made in the 70's based on the books by James Herriot. I couldn't have been more pleased! James Herriot is undoubtedly one the largest figures of impact in my life. His books brought me where I am today, and the show isn't all that far off. They did an amazing job getting the characterization just right, and because I've read the books and remembered every story, watching an episode is like greeting old friends.

It's a little dull by today's standards; no laugh track or steamy love scenes or gratuitous situations, but that's why I like it. I make it very clear that I don't like watching modern t.v. I don't trust it. If someone tells me I need to see something, I'll give it a try, I just wait 10 years. In the mean time, John Wayne is still coming to my house several times a week, and All Creatures Great and Small continues to entertain me. That is, when I'm not going back through the X-Files.

Welcome to The Jungle

My first week here in Houston has been one of those great stories of the strength and capacity of the human spirit. I half expect Hallmark to contact me any day begging for the movie rights. It might be called " Midget in Metropolis" or " The Bug that Shared My Bed". Heaven knows I could use the cash.

All joking aside, Houston is lovely. It's surprisingly landscaped for one the nation's biggest cities. There are trees and flowers everywhere, even the medians of the roads. I'm loving the warmth and the sun, and while I feel like skyscrapers and concrete buildings are more of eyesore than any desert landscape could possibly be, the city here seems to be composed of glass, and it reflects the loveliest colors at dusk.

I live in a part of town that seems safe enough and I am surrounded by a plethora of fine dining establishments boasting foods from all nationalities. ( In fact, I passed up an Ethiopian restaurant the other day. I thought they didn't eat in Ethiopia.) I've been told more then once that I needed to try something called Tex Mex. It's Americanized Mexican food in it's purest form, and according to the natives, It's to die for! I'll try it, as long as they don't put anything on it.

However, being in such an urban setting has taught me to appreciate several things that I once took for granted. For instance:

Insect life:

Maybe the arid environment of Utah is not as conducive for the insect world, for while we have our share of creepy crawlies, something about the humid air down here seems to bring out the hostility in the etymological world. My first brush with bugs happened one lovely afternoon, when I sat on a soccer field waiting for Alena as she coached her girl's soccer team. I settled myself under a tree and pulled out a book, just like I used to do at home. But it wasn't long before I noticed a dull stinging sensation on my pinky. I looked down and saw an ant. It was gnawing on me! What cheek! I flicked it off, but I noticed that it left a faint rash. Soon I was assaulted by others. At one point, I even found one trying to burrow underneath my fingernail! It was later explained to me that these were the famed fire ants, and they didn't take kindly to people treading on their territory- which is all the grass in Houston. I happen to be a big fan of lawn lounging, so this came as big blow to me. Soon I came to discover that it wasn't the same here anyway, because the grass isn't green and soft. It's prickly and yellow, and follows you every where. Maybe that'll change in the spring; I hope so. Otherwise it'll be at least a year and half before I get to lay out in the sun on the glorious grass again.

Mosquitoes are the bane of human existence no matter where you go. But in Utah, we actually have seasons, and one of the few things that makes fall acceptable is the fact that these blood-sucking brutes go away for another year. Not here. I examined my legs the other day and discovered I had become a larval blood bank. I was so annoyed, because I had big plans of walking into church on my first Sunday looking absolutely stunning. So stunning in fact that the whole ward would burst into song at the sight of me, and I would have to remind everyone that Church wasn't about me, and they needed to pay attention. Oh, and p.s., I'd be available every day after three. Instead, I spent the three hour block feeling self -conscious about my calves. Boo.

But the worst culprit of all has to be that black hearted scoundrel : the Cockroach. I don't recall ever seeing a live one back home, but I remember all my buddies telling stories that included various levels of violence they extended toward these winged vermin while they were on their missions. I'm a live-and-let-live-kind of girl. Unless an insect molests me, I'll let it scuttle on it's merry way. So when I saw the first one, I thought, I'll tell the office about it tomorrow, but I didn't worry about killing it. Well, word must've got out that I'm a Mormon-Buddhist, because where there once was one, now there was six. The breaking point finally happened when one night I lay on my modest air mattress, and I felt them scuttling into my sleeping bag. It was one of the most miserable nights of my life as I found myself startled out a semi -consciousness half a dozen times by unwelcome creeping all over my body. I am not that kind of girl! You better believe I started killing them after that. I think they must have some kind of broadcasting system, because they don't come out as often anymore. I've also had the exterminator come. I don't tolerate pestilence.

Another adjustment I've had to make is the bus system here. I was told that it wasn't the most efficient out here, but I don't have much of a choice; I don't have a job and therefore can't buy a car. When I looked up bus routes from my apartment to school, it was an hour and a half to get there, with at least one transfer. Initially, I took cabs to get to school; but the sick, sinking feeling I got when I realized I had spent $32 to get to school that day became unbearable. In desperation, I kept checking back on the metro website, to see if there was something, anything else I could so. Last Wednesday, I found a route that would drop me ten minutes away from the school. Yay! So I woke up at 5:30 in the morning and found my stop and caught my bus without any trouble. But when it reached my stop, I realized I was in a strange, dark neighborhood I didn't recognize. I thought if I just walked forward, I'd find some kind of landmark to help me find out where I needed to. It was only ten minutes away, right? Well, my fantastic sense of direction got me horridly, hopelessly lost. For four hours, I scoured the streets of Houston, looking for some kind of sign and praying like I haven't done since I was a child. But this time it wasn't a pet that was lost, it was me, and I was in HUGE trouble. I cannot emphasize enough the size of Houston. Yes, it is a large American city, but unlike most American cities, it is vast, and spread out. Take all the area from Salt Lake to Provo, and you still wouldn't have a city the size of Houston. I took all kinds of risks, hugging the concrete wall of the freeway where pedestrian access was no more, but eventually, I hit a point where it just wasn't even humanly possible to get by on foot. I stopped at a local Best Buy, and had to admit defeat. I knew I was near the school, but I told myself that I would never call for a cab again. However, I didn't have anyone I could call, and I didn't have another alternative. Just when I was ready to break my promise to myself, a police man walked by. He seemed to know I was distressed, and he was right because when he asked if he could help, I burst into a flood of helpless tears. He went in and bought an NBA x-box game and drove me to the school. On the way there, he asked me where I was from and I told him "Utah". He said he'd never been out there, but that he'd heard there wasn't much out there. I was too grateful and tired to correct him, but I thought in my mind " I know one thing that's out in Utah. A bus system" Harrumph!

My teachers were kind and reassured me that even though I had missed two classes and my first test, I was going to be okay. Had they been truly humane, they would've sedated me, because I was as jittery and unstable as a wee bunny that had barely escaped the hunt. I eventually calmed down, however, and when my friend in the admissions department heard what happened, she called me down and went over a map of the city with me, highlighting a route home.

So I took that route home, and found my way back again the next day without any problem, but when I went home the next day- I got on the exact same bus I'd gotten on that morning- for some reason, that particular bus changed the route. Luckily I knew enough of the city by this point that I could get off and find another stop to take me home. I was only merely furious when I got home, as opposed to the shock, fatigue and overwhelming frustration I felt the previous morning. I'm a work in progress.

The hardest part for me, however, has been my lack of socialization. My beloved apartment back home was set up so my best friends lived across the yard. But because everyone is so spread out here, and I don't have a car, I haven't been able to be all that social with my ward. I don't need a ton of friends; I like having a set group of people I hang out with every night, but I don't mind my privacy and having space. However, friends would've definitely come in handy when my power was shut off and I was stumbling around in my dark apartment all alone for the past few days. Having someone I could call would've been nice when I got so lost. And to be perfectly honest, I've got a lot coming at me right now and what I need more then anything is someone who I can I talk to at the end of the day when I'm feeling overwhelmed and ecstatic about what I learned in school.

I guess I just need to give it time. My oldest sister reminded me that I've been here for less then two weeks. The things that I need-a bed, a car, some action- will all come eventually. In the meantime, surviving without them is part of the adventure. And for now, I am privileged to be living in a beautiful city and go to a school where I learn things that makes my wee cup runneth over. I get to be a Texan! and as we all know, Texas is God's gift to the Union.

Past The Point of No Return

Well, I did it. I still can't believe I left my home and everyone that I love to travel across the country to go to a school where getting sprayed with guts and heaven knows what else is part of the daily agenda. Good thing it's all for a good cause. Truthfully, Houston is a fun place. It's vast and spacious, and that makes it easy to feel overwhelmed, but I decided to take a step back and catch my breath for a second and I can see why it's such a popular city. It helps that my journey here has been quite fortuitous.

Before I left, I had several arguements with my mother about what I could and could not bring. She said I wouldn't need all my stuff, that anything I'd need could be replaced out there. I didn't want to buy new things. I've spent years driving my room mates to the brink of insanity as I accumulated a vast variety of decor, kitchen appliances, clothing, books, and humorous-yet-useless novelties. I can't help it; I've always wanted to have what I-or anyone else- needed for any reason. I like the idea of being the person people come to when they need something, and being prepared for anything. My vast collection of blankets has more then once saved the day at a ward activity. I provided the ambiance at every dance, and fed countless college students with my random kitchen gizmos. Leaving all that behind was extremely annoying, but because I was flying, I could only take so much with me on the plane.

I spent three days squishing all possible articles of clothes into two suitcases and a duffle bag, and throwing toiletries and jewelry in as afterthought. In the end, I didn't pack an eighth of my wardrobe, but my largest suitcase was full to bursting, so I had to settle for that. I had gone to D.I. and bought the largest suitcase I could find, and as I wheeled it around the store, I was satisfied with it's aerodynam-ability. But only after filling it to brim did we realize that the wheels ran sciwampus, and it was amazingly hard to steer. I will never forget the warmth I felt in my heart as my Dad pushed my suitcase from behind all the way through the airport. Bless his heart. He was convinced that my suitcase weighed more then 50 lbs, and when we went up to weigh it, sure enough, I had managed to pack 64 lbs. of my life into that blasted piece of luggage. I thought for sure I was about to get socked with a huge fee, but the kind man at the scale explained to us that if I were to upgrade to first class, it would save me 60 dollars. Instead of paying $110 for my luggage, I payed $50 and flew first class from Salt Lake City to Pheonix. I couldn't believe my luck. My seat was the first one of the plane, right up next the captain's cabin. I had the whole row to myself, so as the steward passed around drinks and snacks, I was the first to be served. As I sat there sipping my sparkling apple juice with my pinky extended, and wishing I had had the presence of mind to wear a smoking jacket and bubble pipe, I grew excited at the prospect of leaving my home for truly the first time. I felt like it was a good omen.

Living the high life on First Class...

After landing in Pheonix, I found my gate quickly and discovered that it was to be a very full flight. The harrassed- looking agent announced that due to amount of passengers on the plane, carry-ons would be limited, and the rest be placed in the back with the baggage. I volunteered my fat duffle. She gratefully thanked me, but in my mind, I felt like I had gotten the better end of the deal. No lugging that thing on the plane.

My flight to Houston wasn't nearly as comfortable, but I didn't care; We flew right into the sunset and it was breathtaking. The clouds were all piled up beside us and it seemed like we sailing on a sea of marshmellow paste. As we descended into the city, I could see that it went on forever and the lights made it fascinating to look at. It occured to me that this place must be beautiful at Christmas time, with all the extra twinkling lights.

My ex-room mate Alena found me without a hitch, and after struggling for a bit my overlarge suitcase, a kind hispanic man came to our rescue. After he left us, Alena remarked that I was already getting attention from the locals, but I personally think he just didn't see the ring on her left hand. She took me back to her apartment and promptly fed me a full on Thanksgiving feast. No joke. As we all know, Canada celebrates their own Thanksgiving a month earlier. Apparently, a Canadian Elder who is serving her area was really disappointed that he was going to miss an elaborate Thanksgiving that was to be prepared before he was suddenly transferred. Being a Canadian herself, Alena felt sympathetic to this Elder's plight and prepared a complete Thanksgiving meal. There were still leftovers in the fridge when I arrived and I dined on turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, and pies.

For those of you who resent me for my sheer dumb luck, understand that it ended there: It took me a few days before I was able to finally sign the lease to my apartment, and despite the fact that I gave my apartment management a few days notice, I came into my new home only to discover that the fridge wasn't hooked up, and the carpets in the process of being cleaned, (which meant that I couldn't move in), and I needed to order electricity and the internet. It isn't furnished, but luckily for me, Alena had the foresight to equip me with a couple of air mattresses. Since then I have learned that they have run out of keys for the fitness room (the only place on the property with Wifi internet), and they've lost my mail key.

But hey, all is well. This is what I asked for, and if I don't allow my self to think too much, I'll be ready to take this town by storm!...If a hurricane doesn't do it first.

A Bicycle Built For Two

For my French class at my last semester at BYU, I was assigned to attend a lecture about the French way of life. The one I chose to attend featured a seasoned French cyclist who had written a book about how riding a bike was good for the soul. I wish I could remember more of the details, and normally I would, except it just so happened that at the time, I was recovering from a concussion I had procured while dancing with a freshly returned missionary. A lot of things around that time are a blur! Anyway, it turns out that he was a veteran of the Tour De France. He claimed that it is the hardest race in the world. In my mind, I thought. Phhht! No it's not, the Iditarod is! I had an experience this weekend that taught me that we were both right.

Maren always told me that if I wanted to go bikejoring, all I needed to do was ask. In the past, I've tried to make several different appointments to go out with her, but fate proved to be a stumbling block-between schedule conflicts and Kahlua getting killed, it seemed like my training was never meant to be. Finally I gave it one last shot and scheduled with her for this past Friday, and it worked out.

I had to wake up 5:30 am so that we could beat the still overly hot temperatures of the day, but I had barely fallen asleep at 2:30. I didn't feel tired at first, I was up and raring to go! My mom dropped me off at the shop where I waited for Maren to meet me. We drove up to the Squaw Peak trail, where Racer already had the rest of the team. We had brought with us one of new rescues, Timber, so that she could be trained to pull. I thought Maren was going to hook me up to her, because she had more reason to actually obey me, but Maren told me she wanted me to choose one of her dogs. Each and every one of them is a racing machine. It sounded very ominous.

I decided I wanted Zilla, Maren's Australian Shepherd/ Husky mix. I've met her before, and she was sweet. I figured that because she had a shepherd's heart, she would have a merciful soul.

I thought I had dressed warmly enough for the occasion, but once we got out there, the very air in my lungs froze. The trees were beginning to change colors and there was a definite autumnal chill in the air. Maren made me wear a helmet and a pair of over-sized biking gloves. I had no idea why I would need them, but I really came to appreciate them later.

Maren hooked Timber up with Sage, appropriately named for her ability to teach the novice dogs of Maren and Racer's team how to pull. I wondered if maybe I should just sit back and observe them for oh, I don't know, a couple of years? Nevertheless, I put on a brave face as they hooked Zilla up to Maren's specially-made mountain bike and kept those thoughts of 'how do I get myself into these situations?' to myself.

It's a very intimidating thing to put your life in the hands(paws?) of animal, especially if you're not it's owner. All Zilla would have to do is stop suddenly for me to be thrown to my death, and she would never have to worry about lugging my carcass around ever again. In theory, I'm supposed to be the one in charge, the one setting the pace and giving the directions, but anyone who has ever worked with Huskies knows that's not always going to happen.

I gave out the shout " Hike, Hike!" and off we flew. (Musher's don't really yell 'mush'. That's Hollywood stuff). I found a new appreciation for all kinds of things on that trail day: brakes, paved roads, cushy bicycle seats, etc. Zilla and I pounded up that dirt trail up in to the mountain like her heart was going to break. I took back the scoffing I had mentally sent that French bicyclist that day; I felt that because the Tour De France was held in temperate July and wound all over scenic France, and wasn't quite the same distance as the Race to Nome, it couldn't really compare to the Iditarod. But that day, on that trail, I learned that bicyclists must have callused fannies, because mine was very unaccustomed to the jolting and bumping of a rocky dirt road. (and I really don't have much padding back there, you know), I also know that bicyclists must have iron lungs and thighs that constantly burn, because both of mine wore out on the way up. Maren was behind me, and she decided to give me a second dog, Sage, to help me finish. I felt like a complete and total wuss.

The real thrill came on the way back down. Maren took Sage back in order to keep me from zooming off into oblivion, and she told me that this was the easy part. I figured I'd be okay. Zilla was totally compliant with me and was responsive to anything I said. She is the most mellow of the dogs on the team, and I was right, she has an understanding heart. I felt like I had had a grasp on the idea, and was finally in control. But I'll tell you what, as we turned around and went back down the mountain, I think I had the fear of God inside of me. I don't think events that are animal based are placed in the category of extreme sports, but they should be. Anything that involves cooperation between human and animal in order to succeed is a real feat, and I honored mushers all the more that morning. I knew my time had come and that I was about to cross that ol' river Jordan into that giant dog park in the sky, when Maren taught me the command for slow down and how to pump my brakes.

In the end, I arrived back at the trailer shaky, colder then I could remember, my hands numb and my bummy sore. But I felt more alive and more happy then I have in a long time. It was the same feeling I got when I visited that kennel in Alaska. I loved it, and I'm going to see if I can schedule again next week. Only this time I'll bring another pair of gloves. And maybe my bootie pop.

How to Save A Life

A lot of great things have happened for me recently, and I'll write about them next, but tonight my heart is filled with philosophical bittersweet-ness. I'll explain:

Mormons, like all Christians, love parables and have come up with several of our own modern allegories in order to illustrate the ways and workings of God. (speaking of, perhaps I should get in touch with Sheri Dew and ask if she is interested in putting together a book. hmmm... there might be money to be made here...) One parable in particular tells of a man who is walking along a beach and encounters another man combing the beach for stranded starfish and throwing them back into the ocean. The man asks the other " Why are you wasting your time? You can't possibly save them all. It won't make much of a difference." to which the other man replies to the sceptic "It did for that one."

This story became my life philosophy. I decided that to save a life, if only just once would be satisfying for me. That is, it was before I met Evo.

In order to understand why this puppy means so much to me, we need to move back a couple of months. Last April, my family lost our gorgeous German Shepherd mix, Luke. He had been in our family for almost 10 years, and his death was surprising and mercifully sudden. In fact, he died in my arms( so to speak; he was 120lbs. I basically just held his giant head and sobbed as I told him he could go. ) By miraculous circumstances, we were all there by his side when he went, and we all knew that the Lord had given us a great gift. My siblings and I all loved him, but out of all of us, I think I took his passing the hardest. (all though, my youngest sister Allysann has been reported to say that she will "never love[another dog] again." Very Dawson's Creek). As to be expected, there was a huge hole left in our home without him there, and I found myself mourning in a very embarrassing manner...

My mother, unable to cope with the void Luke left behind, convinced my Dad to allow for another dog in our home. Only this one was to be the size of the fur balls Ally used to collect off Luke's shedding hide. To the elitist hybrid breeders, he is a 'malkie'- a Maltese/ Yorkie mix. He's tiny, no more then 4lbs, which makes him 1/25 of the dog we used to have. My mother named him Ernest, after the play 'The Importance of Being Earnest' . This little guy has an endearing way about him, but he has had great difficulty with house training. One day, my mom and I took him to Petsmart for some supplies. She found a dog trainer there and sat down to consult with her about Ernie's little problem. While I waited, I found that the trainer had her demo dog there, waiting patiently and serenely for her attention because that's what Golden Retrievers do. They're basically perfect. I started to scratch him behind his ears and he just fell limp at my feet. I sat down beside him and started to rub his tummy (something I'm very good at, I might add), and I began to realize how much I missed snuggling up to a furry dog with bulk. Before I knew it, tears began to roll down my cheeks. The startled trainer asked me if I wanted her to take him away, and I told her no. I just sat there, like a boobing idiot, petting that animal and wondering where my own Lukie had gone.


Now for the good part. I had made Evo's acquaintance only shortly before Luke had died. He, like all the dogs I work with, had a sad story. His previous owner dumped him at the Humane Society with some lame excuse and left him there to die. Evo wasn't even put up for adoption. He was set for euthanization the moment he arrived because his owner claimed he was 'an escape artist'. This is a ignorant assessment because:



a) ALL HUSKIES ARE ESCAPE ARTISTS! It is part of their breed! They, more then any other type of dogs take after their vulpine forefathers. They're roamers and they're hunters. They're very prey driven and they are not safe with children, cats, or even sometimes small dogs. A lot of people get Huskies because they think they are beautiful or cool, but they know very little about the breed and as a result, the dogs get dumped, and the lucky ones end up with people like Maren. I shudder to think about all those that aren't lucky. Evo wasn't meant to be. He was scheduled to die when he was only 8 months old. I have some choice words for this loser of a owner, but being a Christian woman, I just can't say it! Seriously though, irresponsible people like this are pimples on the butt of humanity.



b) Evo has been assessed by an expert, and we think he might be part German Shepherd. Because of this, he has some very shepherd- like qualities. We learned that when Kahlua got out and was killed, Evo not only stayed put, but kept the other dog in the yard too. He's highly intelligent, and very protective. This is not the making of un-controlable, wild, dog.



But I digress. Continuing on with the story: The head of the Adoption Services at the Humane Society couldn't bring herself to destroy such a beautiful dog, so she contacted Maren and asked her to take him. We didn't have room for Evo at first, so she kept him for about a month before Maren could pick him up.

In the beginning, he broke my heart. He was very nervous around people, particularly children, and didn't want to be petted. He would bark loudly at any strangers that came into the shop and would run away if anyone approached him. Except me. I'd like to say that I have a special gift with animals, and that they instantly sense my aura of compassion and fun when we meet, but I'll be honest, I think the reason the dogs are never intimidated by me is because I'm 4' 10'' in all my glory and they can take me down anytime they want. And I'm always equipped with a leash and a treat. No matter what home they come from, they recognize these things as sign of good will. This probably dates back to the Pre-existence.



I learned very quickly that I had to watch which routes I took him on, because when I went into a overly crowded area, people inevitably wanted to stop me and pet him, which he was not comfortable with. I began a routine with him, and took him the on the same path everyday, so that he would become more secure with me and his surroundings. He did beautifully. Soon he had our walk memorized and he was as well behaved on a leash as I could ask for. (although, he has recently displayed a tendency for J-walking...) I began to trust him so much that I our walks went from being a half an hour to an hour and a half. I learned that I could take him anywhere, and I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. I even found a little fenced-park where I could let him off his leash and let him run. Evo would come right back to me the moment I called. He loved it, and he loved me. He was never much of a licker, but he would greet me every day by jumping up on me. He's big enough that his paws would rest on shoulders. I didn't mind it at all. It was like getting a hug, doggie style. He learned that he enjoyed being petted and scratched and came up with a system to let me know when he wanted my attention. I came to love this animal more then any other dog I've worked with at the shelter, past and present. After I would walk him, I would sit with him and cuddle him before I had to leave. He came to expect it, and was all too willing to lay his big furry head in my lap.

Maren was pleased that I was willing to spend so much time with him. She said it was good for him to be socialized and all my work with him was going to help him get adopted. We started taking him to dog shows and demos, and he stopped traffic wherever he went because he was so pretty. She said it was all positive training for him. But what she didn't know is that Evo was doing much more for me then I was for him. My heart still hurts when I go home to a house that doesn't have a loud, hairy beast that's just begging for me to pay attention to him and scratch his bum, but that was momentarily forgotten when I had the chance to focus on another creature who needed me as badly as I needed him. And not just for grieving. These past couple of months have been very difficult for me and I have struggled worse then I have in years. I felt very alone, and socially neglected. It seemed like everybody wanted something from me, but nobody cared that I was hurting. But I'm the kind of person who needs desperately to be needed, and Evo gave me a sense of purpose. People who don't like or understand dogs can't visualize them being self aware, but not only are they capable of feelings, but they are capable of sensing emotions in others. That is why they are so often used in therapy. My mom once said that Luke was her therapy dog. Evo was mine.



I keep using past tense, and the reason for that is because today Evo was adopted. I should be happy about it; it's the whole objective of what I do. Maren was even kind enough to let me meet the people who were taking him and even asked for my input- which she is under no obligation to do. I felt like these people were nice, but twits- the girlfriend in the couple asked me if we 'could train Evo to not kill their cat'. Now, like I said, Evo is a very good dog, and very well mannered, for a Husky. I've seen him by-pass birds, dogs, rodents, bugs, garbage , all kinds of distractions in the dog world. But he's still a dog and cats are his weakness. Anytime he sees one he tries to convince me that it should be on the menu. You can only ask so much from a dog! I felt like asking her if she felt like a lioness could be trained not to kill a weak and sickly antelope.

However, Maren has warned them of the risks and since Evo does have so many shepherding qualities, she thinks it's possible that he can learn to go against his nature. She's the boss. I prayed that she would find the best home for him and this is what she felt inspired to do. At least these people are athletic, active people and judging by their insistence that they adopt him, even at great peril to dear old fluffy, I feel confident that they can love him enough. I just know that when I walk in to the shop on Monday morning to walk the other dogs, I'm going to remember that he's no longer there, and there will be another hole in my heart. For a little while, anyway.



I took him out today one last time and made him sit with me while I took a picture of us on my phone. It's not that great, but in my defense, he was distracted by two stately German Shepherds across the street-which to his enormous credit, he did stay sitting- and I had a hard time fitting both his fat head and mine in the frame. Anyway, the point is, I may not have been the one to take him out of death row, but I dedicated a great deal of time and effort and even some expense to enrich his life so that he would learn what it felt like to be truly loved. But in the end, although I wasn't about to slit my wrists or anything, he gave me a reason for living. Moral of the story: you give a little love and it all comes back to you...

The Dog Days of Summer

Originally, I had planned to title this installment 'Who Let the Dogs Out?', and at first, it would've been a great title for a funny incident. But due to a recent event, such a title is now hurtful and inappropriate. It has also inspired me to post my involvement with Arctic Rescue this summer while I still can. You see, huskies are by nature, clever escape artists; more then any other breed, they feel the need to roam and explore their environment. It dates back to the days when the Eskimos would set their dogs free during the summer and expect them to fend for themselves. When winter came, the dogs returned home, hoping the sled drivers would feed them. This makes them the wildest of the dog world, and they are every bit as prey driven as any hound.

You'd think age would take the edge off these guys, but no! Let me tell you a little story...

Once upon a time I was opening the back door to Racer's Bike shop, the headquarters for Arctic Rescue. I was expecting to find Evo, my spunky yet obedient puppy waiting for me patiently to attach his leash to harness and lead him off for a fantastic adventure around the streets of Provo. Instead I feel rather then see this flash of white zip past me and out into the shop. At first, I was confused. I didn't know the rescue had taken on a new dog; was this Shazaam, the award-winning show puppy that had his pictures plastered all over the shop as shamelessly as the shirtless hotties that grace the walls of Hollister? I wasn't in any hurry to catch this renegade, until I realized that for some unknown reason, the door to the shop was wide open! I watched in horror as this nameless dog I'd never seen before runs out the door and into the street. I race after her as I watch several cars tap their brakes as she crosses to the other side. They are not so polite to me. I have a harder time navigating across the street to reach her, and in the meantime, she decided she'd take up quilting and stepped into the Bernina Fabric Store. When I finally get inside, I see a flustered mother sweep her small son onto the counter and a bewildered shop owner trying to decide what to do with this new customer. I grab her collar and talk to her gently, like it was routine to have boisterous sled dogs come in and check out fabric. The shop owner asked me if this was my dog, and I replied 'no, she belongs to the shelter across the street.' and, not allowing her the time to get angry or ask any more questions, I lead the fugitive out the door and back across the street. Later that day, I called Maren, the shelter's founder, to let her know that she might be contacted. She wasn't too worried about it. She explained to me that Tasha was 10 years old and almost completely blind. I couldn't believe that a senior that could barely see had given me the slip. It shouldn't have been a surprise... I remember learning from the musher at the kennel I visited in Alaska that when a dog is too old to race, he is put to work teaching the pups how to pull. Tasha, despite her disadvantage, has managed to leave her muddy paw prints on a few good natured joggers. She really was such a sweet girl that nobody got mad her. She's like that old lady that gets away with doing naughty things at the nursing home because she's just so gosh darn funny.


Does this sweet little girl strike you as the mistress of mayhem? Don't be fooled by her demure appearance...

So yeah, this story was a great learning experience for me and I will never again underestimate the power of cooped up canine. The problem is sometimes the story isn't quite so funny...

About two weeks ago, I was once again bombarded with a new rescue. She was a wiry, 25 lb. seppela Siberian with gorgeous blue eyes and a genetic make up that mushers would kill for. (They're crossing them with smaller, speedier dogs for a more aerodynamic team). Barely more then a puppy. At first I couldn't decide how I felt about her. Kahlua was strong enough to take on the burlier, routier boys out back, but she was also strong enough to yank me around, as she wasn't half as disciplined as Evo is. But after I took her for a walk and I sat down on chair in the back yard to watch the dogs play, she ambled up to me and put her paws on my knees. She looked up at me with those pretty blue eyes and I knew I toast.

I realized that she was small enough to meet the weight conditions of my new apartment conditions. Sugar plums began to dance in my head: I could take her with me! She'd be perfect for it! She was small enough to control but strong enough to pull. She would be the most ideal dog to train me to race and rescue huskies. I even called my new apartment complex to see how they felt about it, and they said they'd work with me. She was sweet and spicy all at once, and would do well in the hustle and bustle community I would be moving to.

I made all kind of grand plans:I picked out a new name for her, took an inventory of all the things I would need to buy her(including a dog tag with rhinestones on it- nothing but the best for my girl!) and decided which Vet I was going to take to for her flight certification. It was all going to work out... until last Monday when I got a message on my voice mail form Maren telling me that Kahlua had escaped, could I call her back and tell her what route I'd walk Kahlua on? I tried to call her back, but she didn't answer. I left a message and sent her a text. Our conversation went like this:

D:Any luck?

....

M:She got hit.

D:Where is she?! Should I come over?

M:We have the body.

(This is the part where I exploded into tears)

D:I'm sorry. Is there any thing I can do?

M:No. I'm just really upset.

M:We are still on for the dog show tomorrow in the a.m. Evo will need something to do. He'll be missing his buddy.

And there it was. She was gone, and with her all my plans, and my dream of starting a team in Texas. I know I'll never be able to find another one like her; the fact that her previous owner had dropped her is almost unthinkable. All ethics aside, this dog, with her unique genetics, was worth thousands of dollars . Maren has had a hard letting go of her outrage. Apparently she was let out by a couple of Racer's buddies who expected him to do them a special favor and work on their bikes hours after closing time. I don't know how you can ignore the fact that there were three full grown huskies locked up in that small yard, but they did, and they left the gate wide open. Maren came right before the other two left the yard, and Racer hopped onto his bike and began scouring Provo for the baby. He watched her run straight into traffic.

So now, I just have the one. Evo. As sad as I am that Kahlua is gone, (and trust me, I'm devastated.) I can't imagine what I'd do if it had been my boy instead. Evo and I have been working together for about three months now and we are crazy about each other. He took me on my first bikejoring ride, and we'll continue to train each other until I leave. Which, as it turns out, is much later then I thought. Things did not work out financially as I had hoped, so when Maren offered me a payed internship, I took it. I'll be leaving in the middle of October. In the meantime, I'm going to learn how to race and to rescue. It's ironic because I meant for this to be a short narrative of my work with the sled dogs. But, as is to be expected of a McKinlay, I cannot tell a short story. And there is a lot to say about Evo. I've taken him to dog shows, demos, photoshoots, and bikejoring runs. He's an amazing athlete and a dear friend. So without further ado, here is my beautiful puppy:

An Ode to Red Shoes

I don't how or why it began, but red shoes have always been the stuff of legend. They seem to always be associated with magic and idea that right will always prevail. Examples can be found in many of our favorite fairy tales: It is the legendary ruby slippers in The Wizard of Oz that not only have the ability to restore Dorothy back to her true home, but forge the major plot line of the story. In the Snow Queen, Gerta tries to to sell her beautiful new red shoes for information about her kidnapped friend, Kay. This leads to a series of events resulting in his recovery, adding to moral of the tale, which emphasis love, friendship, and sacrifice. On a more morbid note, the original Grimm version Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, has the Evil Queen paying penance for her cruelty to the young princess by dancing at her wedding in red hot iron shoes. Luckily, no one knows about this ending to the story due to the more popular animated version. (10 points for you, Walt. Having the Evil Queen get crushed off stage by a massive boulder by her own undoing is much more poetic and easier on the kiddies!) The point is, a pair of scarlet shoes can symbolize a time when fantastic things happened. I've come to learn this for myself.

A couple of years ago, my younger sister and I traveled to the strange and remote world of Alaska. It was a hard adjustment for us both, but I came to love it! It was wild and untouched, still full of the courageous spirit that led to it's settlement in the first place. We were working as housekeepers on a cruise line lodge, but it was anything but luxurious for the employees. Kait hated it. She's not the type of girl who likes frontier living. She didn't enjoy the hour and a half drive to the nearest town, and certainly didn't appreciate the occupational hazard of the occasional stray bear in our maids closets. While I was spending my day off venturing off to the local Sled Dog kennels and immersing myself in Alaskan culture, she hopped on the nearest shuttle and traveled three hours to the Anchorage Mall. It's not all that great, but at least it wasn't a place where taxidermy was the decorator's theme.

I had celebrated my 21st birthday out there, and I felt at first that the only noteworthy thing that was going to happen was that all the Bulgarians up there were going to bombard me with requests to get them alcohol. But then Kait surprised me with a present: a pair of red mary janes. They were simple, and hopefully not too expensive, but I fell in love with them the moment I saw them. They were instantly comfortable, and I wore them all over the mountain, and even had them on when I returned home.


For the past couple of summers, they have been my allies in adventure. I wore them when I went clam digging on the Puget Sound, near Seattle, (and dang near lost them to the tide! But I persevered, by golly!)



when I hiked the Mount Olympic Forest, when I danced around Utah lake, and when I'd take my dogs out for a run. They've showed up in art projects and on temple trips, and their range of travel extends from the ocean of the West Coast the Red Rock Deserts of Southern Utah.


It is now with heavy heart that I am forced to place them in retirement. The soles are worn so much that a hole the size of dime has formed. When I toss them out, I hope that I'll be able to retain all the good memories that came with them. I'm not sure to worry about this too much, because as one last parting gift to me, my shoes have given me something I'll never forget:





this totally gnarly tanline.







Sceptics may read my blog and decide that I have nothing but fluff for brains, since this is now the second time I have written about a pair of shoes that have elicited an emotional response from me. What can I say? I love the simple things in life.

Summertime...And the Living is Easy

I made a goal when I began blogging last December that I would post at least one entry per month. At first, that wasn't too difficult. I have a tendency to find adventures in the most obscure places. I'm very aware that I'm young and have a lot of livin' to do, so I do my best to be in the thick of things, no matter what the cost. Last month, however, I hit a road block. It felt like nothing worth reporting happened: no injuries, no brushes with death, no earth-shattering existential insights, no new soapbox to rant on. None of the usual material that tends to fill the cyberspace that is my personal online memoir. However, that cannot be said about this month. I have had many grand adventures within the past few weeks and the only excuse I have for not documenting them is that I have no pictures. I feel that it is my duty as a Mormon woman to not only present an insightful, inspiring blog, but also to embellish it with the most aesthetically pleasing layout, worthy of a true domestic goddess. But, domestic I ain't, so I'll just have to narrate.

My brother made the comment a few weeks ago that I 'thought' I was outdoorsy. I don't know where he's coming up with these conclusions; we speak to each other on average about once a month. However, instead of feeling affronted, I am merely going to present my case with an overview of the occurrences of this season:

Bonfire:

A couple of weeks ago, the first counselor in my Bishopric held his annual bonfire for our ward. I've been told that bonfires in Utah are child's play compared to the roaring infernos that teenagers and college students gather around in other areas of the country. Of course they are! The great state of Utah burns to a crisp like a fatty slab of bacon every summer due to irresponsible practices outdoors. Maybe it's that old adage 'better safe then sorry', but we'd rather keep our beautiful playground for further use. However, this doesn't mean Utahns don't have any stamina. It rained almost the entire day, not just sprinkling, misty light rain, but a persistent, demanding deluge of fat rain drops. And yet, Brother O'Connell's ranch style home out in remote Benjamin was alive with activity as the college students of the BYU 43rd ward buzzed around his property, riding horses, playing basketball, shooting rifles and shot guns, and driving four-wheelers. Where was I? In the thick of it, of course!

Four wheeling:

Many a friend and loved one has forbidden me from ever touching an ATV ever again, due to an accident I was in last winter. I smashed into a ditch and was thrown off, tearing several ligaments in my wrist and thumb. I personally don't think it was that big of a deal; yeah, if I hadn't landed on my feet, I could very well be dead, but I did land on my feet, so it's all good. After the cast was put on, I was fine. It was waterproof and I didn't allow it to slow me down. There was, however, a need to face that vehicle again, just to gain faith in myself. I asked a gentleman in my ward who I felt had sufficient experience with recreational vehicles to take me out on it. He did an okay job, but I guess that it had been a while since he'd driven a four-wheeler. I did end up getting knocked off again, only this time, I only bruised my fingers. Maybe next year I can look forward to an incident-free ride.

Shooting:

I don't think I've ever disapproved of guns themselves, just what they represent. As someone who is dedicating their whole life to saving lives and caring for animals, hunting is not exactly something that is on my agenda of things to do. I've had the hunting debate with friends a dozen times and in the end, it's always something that we have to agree to disagree about. It's a hard thing for me to handle, and it takes a lot of maturity on both ends to stay on congenial terms. For this reason, I decided to give recreational shooting a try. Hunters are always saying that animal lovers are hysterical, irrational, uneducated, and unfair, as some of the greatest advocates for environmentalism are the sportsmen. I'm aware of this, but I wanted to understand the thrill that comes with firing a shotgun. Quinn owns a couple of them, so when Brother O' Connell told us we could use his property as a shooting range, I agreed to join him when he got a group together for one of their shooting expeditions.

That was last summer. The boys were fantastic about teaching me about gun safety and how to hold it right so the gun wouldn't bruise me into oblivion when it kicked. And kick it did! I felt like I was going to knocked completely off my feet. Quinn said I did okay, though. Since then, I have gone shooting twice this month, first using a 203 rifle and later firing a .22. I'll admit that I'm not a big fan of shooting the bigger guns. I haven't touched Quinn's 12 gauge since that first time, and don't know if I ever will, but there was something satisfying about shooting with the .22-especially after Quinn set up one of his badly made ceramic cups for a target at about 20-30 feet-I pinged it on my second shot! I don't know that I'll ever get enough practice to ever become proficient with a gun, but by stepping out there with a bunch of experienced marksmen, I hope to win points for animal lovers everywhere. I show them I can be open minded- to a point, they in turn show me respect by not destroying anything living. We keep to our inanimate targets: clay pigeons, stuffed animals, water bottles, balloons, bad ceramics, broken appliances, and paper targets. Oh, and we always clean up afterward.

This was last year, and my first time with a .22 gauge. It's nice because it doesn't kick and it's easier to load. Maybe it's wussy that I don't love the big guns, but I am a little lady, after all.

Motorcycles:

I don't believe there is a girl out there who doesn't at some point fantasize about jumping on the back of a motorcycle with a muscular man and riding off into the sunset. I know I do. There was a gentleman in our ward who drives one and I made a joke about how I needed to figure out how to find a way on to the back of his bike. I guess he found out because one night after we were all playing at night as a ward, he asked me if I wanted to go with him, he just so happened to bring his second helmet. YEAH! We zipped along the streets of Provo, weaving in and out of traffic and beating everyone else home. It was a fun experience, but I hope someday I get the chance to do the same thing in the desert, without a helmet.

Frisbee:

If you had told me a few years ago that I would become a frisbee fanatic, I would have laughed and continued picking dandelions. That's how I used to cope when my ward would play ultimate frisbee in the old days. Last summer my guyfriends organized a game of glow-in-the-dark ultimate frisbee and invited me to play. I shrugged my shoulders and thought, hey I might as well be social. It was such a success that we continued to do that every Tuesday night for the rest of the summer. I was pretty pathetic at first, but Quinn and Jason decided to throw a frisbee around one night, and it turned into frisbee boot camp. They ran drills with me and taught me how to throw it straight. By the end of the night, I was hooked. This summer we began the tradition again and have been so die-hard that we played in the rain and hail. On the field, I do okay; I usually make at least one touchdown a game. But I don't allow myself to slack off! Quinn's latest thing has been frisbee golf, and I go with him because it improves my throwing range. We also go out and toss it around several times a week and a hour before each game. It's an awesome feeling to watch people scramble to guard me because they perceive me as a threat. It's also a great feeling to see Quinn and Jason beam with pride at their protege when I make an impossible catch.

Bikejoring:

I actually have intentions of expanding on this one in a future blog, so I won't say too much it here, just know that Arctic Rescue is still a major part of my life. I only have one more sled dog left, and he is a prince among huskies. It's been fun because we have been training each other, me as his handler, and he as my team. See, bikejoring is a Swedish sport in which you hook up your dog to a bike or scooter and fly over a mountain trail. Any kind of outdoor dog would enjoy this, but it's especially ideal with huskies because it's a fantastic way to train them to pull a sled, especially in the summer. It's also more access able for the terrain of Utah; we truly have it all! You just need your dog, a leash, and a bike and you're good to go. I've done a bit of dabbling with this, and it has been AMAZING!

If this is not enough to prove myself to Lynn, the summer is still young and there are several plans in the works. I have to make it to Zion's before the summer ends, because it may be my last opportunity to do so. There's also been talk of hiking, rafting, and cookouts. At any rate, I intend to live it up!

Happiness is...

A while back my Mom directed a play called 'You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.' It's based on the characters created from the cartoon strip 'Peanuts' by Charles M. Shultz. The illustrator in me has always been a fan of his work. There's something amazing about a man that can teach poignant lessons about life through the eyes of a neighbourhood of six-year olds. In the musical, there's a song called Happiness Is... where the children sing about the simple things in life that fulfil them. Recently I've discovered the truth of of this simple song.

About two weeks ago, I learned my future plans were not as secure as I thought. The degree I was working on had it's program changed and I wasn't going to be able to earn it before I left for Texas. Not only that, but I was told that I was no longer eligible for financial aid for the rest of the year. My world was falling apart. It made me sick to think that I was going to leave BYU after six years with nothing but accumulated debt. I went to the art department, financial aid, admissions... no one could help me. Soon it felt like there wasn't anything in my life that wasn't in the hole or out of my reach.

The weather seemed to agree with me. I woke up last week to a drizzly grey morning and thought to my self, well thanks loads, Mother Nature. Looks like you feel like I do. As I was getting ready for the day, I thought dismally about how to best dress so that I could stay strategically dry, when I remembered something. After my latest experience in the horse pastures, I decided I needed to invest in a good pair of galoshes. I found a darling pair online that had horses and horseshoes that I felt were extremely appropriate. They came in a timely fashion, but I was a little sad when they arrived because the sun was shining and I didn't know when I'd get the chance to wear them. When I pulled those sweet little rain boots over my feet, I felt a wonderful, warm sense of happiness wash over me. Who cares if I didn't get a degree from BYU? Who cares if I flunked my math class? Who cares if my laptop is no lying in pieces in it's tomb at the computer repair shop? I had rain boots! I could look cute and stay dry! I ran outside and splashed in every puddle I could find. That day, as I was walking my husky out in the rain, I realized that I had learned a valuable lesson. Happiness is wherever you find it. There is always something to celebrate. Peace filled my heart and I knew that everything was going to be okay. I just needed something to make me stop and think about how truly blessed I am.

As it turns out, everything is okay. I discussed my situation with the Vet Tech Institute of Houston. They will be providing me with funding to clear my debts from both schools, helping me find housing and send my application in earlier, so that I will be able to start my training sooner. They have been wonderful and helpful, and I no longer feel like a major screw-up that has disappointed everyone. Every time I get a phone call from the Institute I feel hopeful and grateful, fully aware that this is the Lord's hand in my life, sending me in a direction that I hadn't anticipated, but I am excited to see what the outcome will be.

So, what ever happiness means to you, whether it's celebrating Beethoven's Birthday, or holding your security blanket, or catching the ever elusive Red Baron, it's in the simple things in life that bring fulfilment. As the line in the song says "Happiness is everything and anything at all". Thanks for that important reminder, Charlie Brown.