This little computer program
+
this messy desk
+
this patient husband
=
a delightfully happy me!
And it’s only March 7. Truly amazing.
Butler Family: latest edition
We’ve come to know and love this girl over the last several years. In fact, she already seems like a member of the family. . .
Thanks for making it official!
Where my heart is
God has given us no greater blessing than that of belonging to a loving and loyal family – and it will be so, always and forever. — Richard L. Evans
[Buried] under construction
You can find me here:
This week’s project is painting the basement hall – which includes a lot of woodwork (five door frames – including one very large closet door area and the baseboards), inside the game closet, and some wall area. Don’s comment that the hall would be easier than a bedroom because it has so much less woodwork was way off base (board). Note the five door frames previously mentioned.
And before I could even start the sanding, priming, painting process, I had to deal with the closet contents.
Does this mess make me happy?
Actually, not at all.
But the thought of the finished project, complete with the clean and organized closet creates excitement and enough enthusiasm to keep me motivated.
Besides, Mark and Kate have planned a quick Greeley getaway. We have to have access to the hall and bedroom . . .
Creating a spectacle
I love his new look!
Iranian Born Boy
As I look back at the years of my adult life, I am kind of amazed at some of the things I have experienced. Some might call me brave and adventurous, but others will consider my choices irresponsible and stupid! And at any given time, I could agree with either of those opinions.
On February 2, 1977, I added another item to my list of adventures when I gave birth in the foreign (and I mean FOREIGN) country of Iran. Call it crazy or call me courageous, we were thrilled to welcome a new little boy – even if he was considered a dual national for about 16 years.
This was the view from my hospital room – very foreign as were some of the procedures.
About two weeks before Nathan was born, Don and I went to a pharmacy, prescription from Dr. Shams in hand, and bought all of the supplies and medication I would need for labor and delivery. We left the pharmacy with a bag filled with shots, pills, and IV materials, having spent only $9.00. What a bargain! Upon my arrival at the hospital, I handed over my bag of goodies to the attending nurse, and we were set.
Inside the hospital, my room was very typical and was cleaned regularly – like at all hours of the day and night. However, the communal bathroom designated for my use was wa-a-a-a-a-y down the hall, and the broken toilet seat and blood on the floor made me question my sanity. Why exactly did I decide not to return to Colorado to have this baby?
My doctor looks rather foreign, but was very competent. And I just look bad!
Thousands of miles from Colorado and with no telephone service available, the only way to announce our newest arrival was with a telegram.
We wanted all the family to see how cute our little boy was. So we sent lots of pictures and wished the grandmas could adore him in person.
While we were doing all the paperwork to be discharged from the hospital, Nate reached his limit and began crying almost inconsolably. As I had made it very clear from the time I was checked into the hospital that this would be a bottle-fed baby, I asked one of the nurses to bring me a bottle for him. Her response in broken English, “Oh, no missus. You feed.” I replied that I was not feeding, and hadn’t they been giving him bottles in the nursery? Again the response, “Oh, no missus. You feed.” When I insisted, one of the staff finally showed up with a bottle that was so dirty it looked like it had been rolled through the “jube” or gutter. The hole in the nipple was so large that when I tipped the bottle, the milk ran out of it in a steady stream. Horrified, I set the bottle aside and decided that listening to Nathan scream was a far better alternative. I refused to allow myself to wonder what he’d been fed in the nursery.
We were relieved to leave the hospital for the security of our own home, and felt that the Lord had truly taken care of both Nathan and Mom.
What a sweet welcoming committee awaited us.
Happy Birthday, Nate!
Not without our daughter
. . . so we took her with us. To Iran in 1976. I know – what were we thinking?
With these fresh-from-BYU faces
. . . . . . . . 
mounted inside these official documents
we began our 10 year Middle East adventure on January 27, 1976 .
We said good bye in Pueblo.
We said good bye in Greeley.
We were off to make a home in a country that I had only been able to locate on a Bible map.
Yes, that’s a leisure suit Don is wearing. What else would match my faux fur collar? It was 1976, and we were at the height of fashion.
Don had accepted a job teaching English to Iranian Army helicopter pilots and mechanics in training in Isfahan, Iran. The salary was $1000 a month plus a 40% cost of living allowance – an incomprehensible amount of money to these married college students who had been living on about $270 a month in a basement apartment in Provo, Utah.
We landed in Tehran and spent a few days in the capital before traveling to Isfahan – the city that would be our home for the next three years. The first day in Tehran, I forced us to be up and awake in an attempt to win the battle against jet-lag. When I pulled back the drapes in our hotel room and was greeted by this sight, I wondered if lack of sleep had caused me to hallucinate. Was that really the hotel laundry drying on the roof?
Upon our arrival in Isfahan, we worked with a real estate agent and located a brand new building with apartments to rent. We rented the upstairs flat (3 bedrooms) for 28,000 rials or $400/month. The Iranians take the term “unfurnished” very literally – the only appliances included were a water heater and a swamp cooler. No heat, no stove, no refrigerator. . .
Emily and I posing in our living room window
Shortly after moving in to our house, we rented a car from some fellow Americans. At 6,000 rials or $85/month it was a real bargain and renting would give us the chance to see if we wanted to depend on taxis or have the luxury of our own transportation. A couple of months later, we purchased the car , a 1961 Volkswagen Beetle, for $1000 – no extra charge for rust or dents.
The first few months (actually about a year!) were rough for me, as I was desperately homesick and realizing that $1000/month didn’t make anybody rich, regardless of location. However, eventually I came to appreciate the adventure and life experience this move allowed. Some of the friendships we nurtured in that very foreign country have continued over the last 3+ decades, and we have some very happy memories of our years in Iran.
And if these pictures don’t make you laugh, I’ve got more to come.
My happy place
Before:
- Functional – but lacking
Okay – and not really inviting at all. But it worked, and I was quite productive in there. Just think about all those great Halloween costumes that came from this factory.
The first step in the repair required by the failure of the upstairs shower drain and resulting flood. Not just unsightly, but a little unsettling to have a gaping hole in the ceiling. What creatures might be lurking there?
This was as much an adventure as it looks! Don was a great sport about using the highly pressurized can of “popcorn.”
After:
Closet organizers (that we had purchased about 7 years ago) created a great space for all my supplies – and the required stash of fabric. The room was really starting to feel like a creative space.
Emily’s pegboard inspired me to have one of my own.
What a fun place to work!
I’m proud to be an American
Although the campaign was long, ugly, and mean-spirited, and the man I voted for was not sworn in today, my mind has been processing:
Some thoughts on Inauguration Day:
Blessed – to live in a country in which a peaceful change of leadership is normal and expected
Inspired – to be reminded that as an American I can become anything I want
Humbled – to realize that I am limited only by my own lack of vision or hard work
Motivated – to be a better citizen
Grateful – for the circumstances of my birth
God Bless America!
Building Bridges
When Mark was young, he was unusually afraid of bridges. Each time we drove across one, from the backseat we could hear his voice edged with fear urging whoever was driving to, “Hurry, hurry. Go faster! Hurry and get across.” He didn’t look out the car window, but kept his head down or his eyes straight ahead so as not to see the ground fall away beneath. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get to whatever destination was on the other side, he was simply terrified of the process.
Then when he was a little older and began to understand that bridges weren’t so scary, Mark was brave enough to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge on a family trip to San Francisco. He realized it was kind of fun to be up so high and have such an amazing view of the entire Bay area- although still a little nerve shaking to look down.
Last July we were in San Francisco once again as a family. This time we rode bikes across the Golden Gate bridge, stopping from time to time to marvel at the time and effort spent in construction, the view, the distance across, and the convenience that bridge provides. Mark was as excited about that adventure as the rest of us – even sporting 10 month old Charlie in a seat on the back of the bike. We all felt something exhilarating about biking across that expanse of concrete and cables – it was one of the highlights of the vacation.
This week as I’ve been processing seemingly endless pictures and mementos of family members I don’t actually know, a couple of times I’ve wondered aloud why I’m really doing this. I wonder if I’ll ever really complete the project. Tell me again who is going to care about all this stuff. Why am I taking the time to sort, organize, preserve and label pictures of a lot of people who are gone and almost forgotten? Who would really know if I threw some of this stuff away?
“. . . family history builds bridges between the generations of our families. Bridges between generations are not built by accident. Each member of this Church has the personal responsibility to be an eternal architect of this bridge for his or her own family. Dennis B. Neuenschwander, “Bridges and Eternal Keepsakes,” Ensign, May 1999, 83
What a great reminder! The picture albums I am creating, the blog posts I am publishing, and the memories I am preserving are family bridges. This work allows each member of the family – past, present or future – to be discovered or rediscovered. These records are the bridges that connect those of us living today with those who have gone before and those who are yet to come. I am in awe when I consider the time periods these bridges span, the care with which they’ve been constructed and preserved, the panoramic view of family they provide, and the connection I feel to these faces and letters. My feeling of exhilaration returned!
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things that make me happy 
