Sweets for the...not-so sweet (and sneaky!)

Candy. I have such an addiction to it. I love it - always have. As a child, it was such a luxury to get candy, because we just didn't get it very often (or at least, not as often as we wanted, nay, NEEDED it, which was all the time). Mom fought an impressive battle trying to keep us away from sugar (spraying the holiday candy dishes with hairspray, etc.). She was pretty good at hiding all things sweet, but we were insane for sugar, and developed a type of sugar-radar (a radar that I now see, to a much for powerful, acute, and crazy degree in my own 3 year old daughter, go figure). We learned to scour the house for sugar. We learned all of the usually hiding places: above the mirror on mom's dresser, in mom and dad's closet, in dad's sock drawer, mom's underwear drawer, behind things in the highest shelf of the tallest cupboards, etc. Then there was the freezer. Heh, heh, there wasn't much mom could do about ice cream in the freezer. We became pretty fast at grabbing a spoon, digging out a quick but scrumptious spoonful of ice cream, and gobbling it up before anyone could notice. I remember seeing Wade do it once, and I was amazed. My first instinct was to tell on him, but it was so brilliant, that I just followed suit.

When mom had the locked cupboard installed for the candy, we immediately worked on picking the lock, just lick we did with the lock that mom and dad put on the TV. That was was easy to pick. When mom and dad were out, we'd pick the lock, and we'd take turns standing guard to watch for their car. When we heard it coming, we'd quickly replace the lock and look like we were cleaning up the house or something. Anyway, back to the candy. The locked cupboard was harder to pick, but not impossible. I know Wade figured it out. When we couldn't get actual, conventional candy, we would get creative. We sprinkled straight sugar onto buttered toast (cinnamon sugar was preferred, but we weren't picky), we'd shovel spoonfuls of dry hot cocoa mix into our mouths (something I've been caught doing as an adult. Adam thinks it's disgusting, but sugar is sugar), and do just about anything to get a sugar fix.

Looking back I'm sure we were the kids who other parents had to worry about when we came over. I remember once going over to my friends Sally Steven's house. Right there in the living room was a bowl of candy. I was fixated with it. I couldn't believe that we didn't just sit down and devour it. I was only holding myself back because she might think I was weird if I ate some. How was it possible that she didn't want any - or even seem to notice that it was there?!? I know I managed to sneak some of the candy without her knowing it. Later on at her house we decided ice cream sounded yummy (I don't remember whose idea it was, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I put us up to it). So, with no hesitation, she just went to the freezer and got some, bowls and all, no sneaking! I was nervous. We could get in serious trouble. When her mom came in the room, however, it was no big deal. Smiles all around. I felt like I was in some kind of alternative reality. Wow!

I remember us Olsen kids would go nuts eating cookies and other sweets at missionary homecomings or farewells. I admit that I would eat more than normal amounts of sugar when I babysat at other people's houses whose pantries were loaded with good stuff. We also LOVED visiting grandparents because it usually meant that we would get something sweet, especially at Grandma B's house - what a fabulous cookie jar she had!
Now if you'll excuse me...I need to feed my sweet teeth.

Lessons (2, that is)

The rule for lessons, as I recall, was that we could take two at a time. There were times when I thought my parents were limiting my options by only letting me choose two lessons to take. Now that I know how expensive they are, and think about the amount of kids there were paying for, I think that two lessons was generous! Also, it helped up narrow our focus and learn to stick to things.

Soccer didn't count as one of the two, thankfully! I loved playing soccer, even though I was never great at it. I almost always played defender and could often be caught doing handstands near the goal. I can still hear dad yelling "atta girl, Hol!" from the sidelines. I loved the yellow and blue uniforms, traveling to play against places like Lewiston and Paradise (that seemed to be hours away), and the half time food (usually orange slices and water, and sometimes hot chocolate when it got really cold... and it could get cold). There was one time when, for some reason, I was playing midfield, and the ball came to me. I dribbled to the goal, and was getting too fast to control the ball. My dad was watching. This was my big chance to score a goal (I never had...or did). I gave it my all and kicked it hard, only to have it shot back in my face (more specifically my nose) by the other player. The blood came quick, and I was subbed out. Never again would I come so close to a long-shot dream of scoring.

My official two lessons were piano and gymnastics. Through the years I grew to hate the one and love the other. I am still the only person I know who was fired by their piano teacher. I didn't mind piano at first, but the strict half hour practice a day rule really wore me down. I would stall and stall and piddle, and whine, and do backbends over the piano bench, and pretty much anything else I could think of to avoid practicing. It was rough, and there was no getting around it. At first, I thought there was a way out, but mom kept changing the rules (I could quit after: I had taken for four years, or I reached middle school and chose a different instrument, or after I could play hymns - all of them???,...). The bottom line it that I never was allowed to quit... which is probably why I got fired. It was a tender mercy on the part of Mrs. Harding, I'm sure, but on the way home from her house I cried. I was torn. On the one hand, what a relief! On the other hand, it was humiliating. She was a little mean about firing me (I'm sure she was really fed up with my lack of progress week after week). And what would mom say? I know she was very disappointed, and to this day feels cheated for pushing me and paying for years and years of piano lessons on my behalf with very little to show for it. What can I say? I'm sorry. It was just not my thing.

Gymnastics on the other hand, was my thing. Even though I can admit that I wasn't incredibly good that that either. I was always the oldest and biggest in my classes (all of the girls my age moved up a lot fasted that I did). I wasn't in denial about that. The important thing is that I really loved it. I loved being in shape and having a six-pack. I loved my teachers and classmates. I was painfully shy in middle school, and gymnastics was my safe haven, my refuge from the social nightmare that was middle school. I felt good about myself there (at all of the places around town that I took). It made me very disciplined, and required a good grade point average at school. I liked going to meets for competition, but I never really liked competition itself. I almost always cracked under pressure, especially on the beam. As puberty hit (or didn't hit, depending on how you looked at it), I liked leotards less and less, but that is another story. :) For a long time I really dreamed of being in the olymics. When I realized that I was way too old, and way not talented enough, I dreamed of being on the Aggie gymnastics team... oh well. You all know where my gymnastics ultimately led me... *sigh* ... GO GRIZZLIES!!! WOO-HOOOO!!!

Dirt hills, night games, and sleepovers...

We grew up in an awesome neighborhood. What kids could ask for more than a nearby tree-hut, the dirt hills in our backyard, a trampoline that all the other kids wanted to jump on (and the rules were that they always could, but not with shoes on, 5 kids at a time, and not on Sundays), and a ritual of amazing night-games? It was fabulous!

I really appreciated being able to roam the streets as I pleased. Most of my friends live within walking distance - I just needed to be home for meals. Mom and dad were also amazingly cool about letting my walk long distances (to granparents houses, home from Logana, etc.). As a mom, I have mixed feeling about letting my daughters do that... we'll see.

Sometimes we got to have sleepovers! Oh, these were coveted events. There were only certain weekends that qualified for friend sleepovers, and then you have to wait your turn with all of the siblings. Sleepovers at our house, for each child, were few and far between (although I'm sure my parents felt like we had them ALL the time). Unlucky enough for me, it seemed like whenever my sleepover turn finally rolled around, my friend (Jamie John, in this case) would decide around 11:00pm that she wanted to go home for some reason. When that happened, I knew I was doomed. There was no way I could convey to this poor forlorn and homesick friend that by leaving, she was selling me short of my long-awaited sleepover fun which was supposed to last until at least 10am the next morning, and that the opportunity wouldn't come around again for another eternity!!! She as ruining everything!!! (Sigh) Oh well.

I remember at night we would take turns asking the neighbors if we could play night games in their yard. No one liked asking them, but we sure like using their yard because it had a small hill in the front yard that was ideal for "King of Bunker Hill" and "Kick the Can". And then there was "Steal the Flag", everyone's game of choice, so long as both Wade and Peter Blair were around to be team captains. I had every square foot of the block memorized. I could be so sneaky, army-crawling across the road in front of our house to get near the enemy flag. I liked going for the flag so much bettr than being a decoy ot the front line. Ahhh, those were good times. Then the bell would ring - literally - and the Olsen kids knew it was time to some in.

I have so many memories in the dirt hills, I can't possibly list them all. I will say that I recall watching glorious sunsets from our house before the church was built. I remember sledding in the hills, walking through them to get to school (while being attacked my millions of grasshoppers!), buryung dead animals that we found there, biking, and discovering dinosaur bones (I swear, they were real, but when we told Joseph Kemp about them, he "put them to the test" by hitting them with a hammer" I was annoyed because I was pretty sure that real bones would break if you hit them with a hammer, so Joe didn't prove anything. All he did was shatter my dreams of making a famous discovery!). Sometimes we moved on to where the big guys played - the gravel pit. I was certain that there were magical powers to be tapped there. I would spend hours and hours there, exploring, imagining, playing, thinking. It was wonderful.

Reaching out to the Community

One of the things that I am most grateful for from my childhood is that I learned the value and importance of community involvement. Mom made it a point in her life to volunteer at a variety of places - WITH her children! I love that. I have numerous fond memories of playing at the Historical Farm and the Sunshine Terrace. I also remember being involved in the March of Dimes, and the Daffodil drive for Cancer.

Whenever if was time to go to the Historical Farm, we would go choose the time-appropriate clothing that we wanted to wear that day (mom had a large collection of pioneer-type clothes from bonnets to shoes). I seem to remember it taking a while to get ready to go. Mom would put her hair in a bun, we would get braids. When we were ready we drove out there to the familiar faces of other volunteer friends like Connie and Sven. Connie was always making rugs and Sven looked after the animals (at least that's what I remember). I had so much fun on the farm. I liked walking from one building to the next. I liked when visitors asked to take my picture. I loved the smells of molasses cookies that came from the old fashioned kitchen where mom was. I LOVED climbing up to the straw bed and imaging sleeping there (I'd also sing John Denver's, "Grandma's Feather Bed"). I loved looking at the pigs, geese, and other animals there. It was amazing.

I learned a lot from our days at the Sunshine Terrace (there is such irony in that name). I learned tolerance. I never liked the smell of that place. It was always pretty strong at first, but I knew that if I just tried to ignore it, I would get used to it. When I did, I would be surrounded by wrinkly faces of other peoples grandparents. I think that the experiences were so valuable because as a young child, I didn't mind doing it. I learned to care for and feel sorry for the old and the lonely. Some of those old and lonely didn't like us very much. We knew which ones to avoid (Like the lade who told me to leave the piano alone if I didn't know what to do with it after I played my much-practiced recital piece for everyone... I think it was during a little Christmas performance that we put on with the Nativity and everything). But there were others who were glad to see us. I remember Luisa, a cheerful and kind woman. She would always tell me that she was 90, or 92, or whichever age she felt like being at that time. I knew she had lost track. When she died I was not traumatized. I knew it was coming - for all of them. But I missed her because I had grown to love her. I also remember Wally, and when he died. Alzheimer's is a terrible affliction. I'm glad that I had the chance to learn and grow there.

There was always that time of year when mom would become consumed with daffodils. She made many phone calls, kept logs of requests, sales, and whatever else. Then when they came, we would be smothered in almost-blooming flowers until we made the many deliveries to people who had purchased them. I know it was stressful for mom. I was always aware and impressed that she seemed to increase the sales and money for the cancer organization each year. I know she was good at what she did.

Camping and hiking

Between the unique camp-outs with dad, and mom's ingenious camping ideas, I really don't know where to being. I don't remember the first time I ever went camping, because we were camping as a family before my memories began. It was just something we always did, and I loved it! I loved the freedom, as a child, of roaming and exploring the seemingly vast expanses of wilderness near our campgrounds. I loved making huts in the brush. I loved listening to the nearby river, especially at night in my tent or under the stars (perhaps because during the day the river was drowned out by the sounds of John Denver from dad's battery powered tape player). I didn't mind the bug spray (it has always been better than the alternative), and I actually like the campfire smoke smell. I remember having french braids so that I woundn't have to worry about doing or washing my hair. I loved lying in the hammock, collecting treasures, and letting my imagination run wild in the mountains. What a gift it was to grow up near the canyon in a family that took advantage of that!
I remember the lengths that mom would go to to make our experiences there fun. She always brought games and crafts if we ever got bored or exploring. She thought of everything. She was an expert camper. The meals were always delicious. Her kitchen was baffling. It seemed like she really did bring everything but the kitchen sink. It was impressive. I love that she was such a camper, and I remember that it made her think about being a pioneer. She would have been an excellent pioneer.
I remember always wanting to be tough for dad. He was tough, and (in my mind) expected the rest of us to be tough, too, especially in situations like camping. This means that I tried not to complain too much, I tried to help out where I could, I tried not to be too tired on a hike, etc. Although I may not have fooled him, I at least made efforts in the general direction of toughness.
I loved going camping with just dad and sometimes with one or two sibling. I actually only have vivid memories of one such occasion in Green Canyon near a cave with a tiny opening at the top. It was on that trip that dad taught me that peeing would actually help me be warm.
I can't finish this blog without mention of our annual hikes to the reflectors. I always looked forward to that hike! It was steep and treacherous, but awesome! None of my friends could say that they had stood on top of the reflectors! I was cool for having gone there, and for knowing the way all by myself: up, naturally. I love that mom and dad let us get on top of them. How dangerous! But we were so experienced (ahem) that our parent didn't doubt our skills.
Ahhh, good times. They really solidified my love for mountains, nature, family, camping, hiking, and the environment in general.

"Democrat born..."

"Democrat born, democrat bred, and when I die, I'll be democrat dead." That is what the old cross-stitch said. I remember reading it on the wall of our living room wall when I was young and wondering about it.
A couple of years ago, one of my professors asked me to write about my "personal culture". I quote from that assignment: "Being raised in this country I was taught to place my hand over my heart for the flag, pledge of allegiance, and the Star Spangled Banner. I vividly recall attending assemblies in grade school where I was taught that the United States was a great nation (the best), and that I should be very proud to be a part of it, that I should have great respect for it. [...] I grew up very accustomed to a bipartisan democracy. [...] Growing up in this country has helped me to see the value of freedom, individuality, hard work, and many other ideals. [...] On the 4th of July, my parents would decorate their backyard in red, white, and blue all over the place. One could hear my dad's collection of national music (songs like I'm proud to be an American) blasting from the outdoor speakers. My family and invited guests would all gather for an old fashion barbecue as we waited for the sun to go down and for the fireworks at the stadium to begin. We used to have a great view of the fireworks from my backyard, but new houses and trees have gone up, so they are hard to see now. We used to climb onto the roof of the nearby church to get a better look."
I have many fond memories of riding on lonely (though I didn't know they were lonely at the time) democrat floats. I would practice my wave, try to eat more candy than I would throw, and look forward to Popsicles at the end. Those were good times. I didn't know any other kids who got to be IN the parades!
I remember becoming acutely aware of how strange it was to be a democrat in Logan. It was in the 5th grade when the presidential elections were upon us. The school decided to have an election. I was one of only 2 (TWO) children in the school to vote democrat. One of my friends came up to me... for her sake I'll just call her M. Poole ;)... and said something to the effect that I only voted democrat because of my dad. While that was true, I'm sure, I recall thinking that she was doing the same thing by voting republican... and so it began... my life as a liberal.

Forgive me Adam

Hello Olsen's. This is your official reminder of Norma's Christmas wish: to have a collection of stories from your childhood. So I thought we could all just post memories on the blog and do a big reveal on Christmas.

How does that sound?

I'm sure the designer's choice is wordpress or something I don't know about, but at least we can start freeing Adam from incorporating new content onto a regular web-site.

What do you think?