Thursday, August 31, 2006

Dear Kids,
      I was hoping to write my letter yesterday, but two of my fingers were superglued together, and I couldn’t type. I couldn’t practice the organ, either, or the piano, or put on latex gloves to do grout in the basement. I taught my piano lessons, using my left hand when I needed to play something. And it hurt! I kept trying to pull my fingers apart, but they were too well glued. It was old superglue, kind of thick, and I guess I got a big blob between my fingers, while I was at the cabin working on the sprinkler bubblers. I’ve had superglue episodes before, but this one was lots worse. I didn’t want to soak my hand in acetone, because it would eat my skin. But this morning, when I first woke up, I had the idea of dribbling acetone on the joint, drop by drop, with a mascara brush. It worked! Maybe 15 minutes of dribbling, and my fingers came apart! So now I’m back to my normal routine again.
      Last Sunday night we drove Donna to Logan, but on the way we stopped at Allen and Missy’s for dinner. Nora and Paige were there, too (her other kids were sick), and we had a great time, and great food. Allen’s grilled chicken is about the best I’ve ever had! There was a belated birthday cake for me, too. It was lots of fun. Then Dad and Donna and I left for Logan, and when we got there, we helped her move her stuff into the same decrepit house she lived in last year. It ought to be condemned! But the rent is cheap. And she’ll only be there one semester, until the wedding. I guess she’ll be OK.
      Meanwhile, Paul is doing OK down in Price. He hung out at Tom’s house last Saturday, where he did his laundry. Tom tried to tell him you don’t cram everything into the washing machine at the same time, but Paul said it would be OK. He forgot about his new dark red sheets. So of course all his white things came out pink. They spent the rest of the day trying to bleach them white again. Tom says it’s ironic that he and Kim moved to Price the same week that Paul left on his mission, and Tom started his new job in Heber the same week Paul came back. But Tom’s there on weekends, so they can talk about BYU football.
      I think I forgot to mention, a few weeks ago, that Monica and Neil moved into a house his parents have bought, there in Tucson. They get to house sit until the parents come there permanently, probably in December. Meanwhile, Ramona is enjoying the fenced backyard. She hunts caterpillars, and jumps up on the adobe wall. (Where in Utah would you ever find a real adobe wall?) If anybody needs Monica’s new address, I can get it to you.
      Tuesday I was up at the cabin, working on the railing on the new deck. It really looks good! When Tom came home from work, he helped me put up scaffolding on the east side, because if I can get some log siding on Friday morning, I’m going to try to put it up by myself on Friday and Saturday. And maybe finish on Monday, Labor Day. Dad will be there by then. (Right now he’s completely preoccupied with a high priests dinner he’s planning, for Saturday night. So he can’t come to the cabin on Friday.) Anyway, Tuesday night, after we put up the scaffolding, I still had to finish my work on the railing and skirting of the deck, and by then it was dark and late. So I decided to stay over. Tom built a bonfire and roasted hot dogs and green chilis from his garden. He wondered how many network supervisors could come home and roast hot dogs for dinner, over an open fire. I roasted marshmallows. And I burned up pieces of the thorny Russian Olive tree I cut down in front. (Those trees were so cute when they were little, but I’m taking them out now.)
      Speaking of Labor Day, Marla says she wants to come and see our cabin. I mailed her a map, so hopefully she can find it. If any of you want to come for Sunday night and Monday, we’ll be glad to have you there. But it sounds like almost everybody has other plans. Oh, well, Labor Day isn’t much of a holiday. Mostly, people work on their yards and houses.
      I hope you’re all doin’ great and lovin’ it! Love, Mom