It’s November, a time for thinking about giving thanks.

If you’re on Facebook, you may have noticed people listing what they are grateful for in the days leading up to Thanksgiving.

I decided to join in this year, but I wanted my thanks to be simple things. One short sentence of things we take for granted or things we sometimes fail to recognize as blessings.

So I started November 1st:

Day 1: I’m grateful for uplifting music. It has the power to affect you in ways nothing else can.

Day 2: I’m grateful for rain. It rained for the first time in weeks and smelled so clean and fresh.

Day 3: I’m grateful for warm blankets. After a chilly night, it was nice to snuggle up with a warm quilt.

Day 4: I’m grateful for clean socks. Who doesn’t like a clean, snugly fit pair of socks?

About this time, I heard someone say instead of being thankful for our stuff, we should value our relationships.

Hmmm…

Well, of course we should value our relationships, but I’m one who believes “In every thing give thanks” — 1 Thessalonians 5:18.

In every thing. Everything. Including stuff.

I have been blessed with a great family, good friends and a job that I love. But there’s so much more I am grateful for and don’t always take note of, including warm blankets and clean socks. Not everyone enjoys those comforts.

So I continued on with even more purpose to be thankful in all things.

Day 5: I’m grateful for falling leaves. I love watching them float and dance to the ground, one by one.

Day 6: I’m grateful for Grandma Lee’s macaroni and cheese recipe. More than a recipe, it carries with it memories of her making it for us as kids.

Day 7: I’m grateful for hot water. If you’ve ever had to take a cold shower when you didn’t want to, this is an easy one to be thankful for, especially on cold November mornings.

Day 8: I’m grateful for my dog, Nishna. He was missing. He returned home a couple of days later, hurt, cold, wet and exhausted, but thanks to our vet, he’s on the mend and will soon be out once again chasing tennis balls and squirrels.

Day 9: I’m grateful for snow. First of the season. Two inches of pure beauty. If only it had lasted more than a few hours.

Day 10: I’m grateful for toilet paper. Need I say more?

Day 11: I’m grateful for those who serve. 11/11/11. Veterans Day. Thankful to those who’ve fought so we can have all these things.

Day 12: I’m grateful for farmers. It’s easy to forget where all the good food comes from that we buy so conveniently at the store or at our favorite restaurants.

Day 13: I’m grateful for Apple. The influence of Steve Jobs is everywhere in my life. Work computer, laptop at home, iPods and iPhones. I can lie in bed, listen to Miles Davis while checking email, Twitter, Facebook and the weather, take pictures or videos, order a pizza or watch a BYU basketball game. All on my phone.

Day 14: I’m grateful for trees. We’re surrounded by our own little forest at home. More than just their beauty, they protect our home, clean the air and supply food.

Day 15: I’m grateful for the smell of a wood-burning stove. Smells like winter and Christmas and trees and love and warmth and home.

Day 16: I’m grateful for diversity. What a dull world this would be if everything and everyone were the same. I love learning new things about other people, places and ways of thinking and then sharing those with my children.

Day 17: I’m grateful for my fibromyalgia. Gratitude in all things means even the things we struggle with. They help us grow and learn. I’ve learned I’m stronger than I thought and that I have limitations (and that’s okay).

Day 18: I’m grateful for Hunter’s hugs. That kid has so much love for everyone. And he loves to share it.

Day 19: I’m grateful for Hannah’s smile. Her beautiful smiling face makes everything all better again.

Day 20: I’m grateful for Larry’s adventures. It’s been quite a ride. Never a dull moment.

In the days remaining before Thanksgiving, I’ll be grateful for many more simple — and not so simple — things, the relationships I value and even the stuff I enjoy.

One final thought on gratitude from English poet John Milton:

“Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world.”

It’s been a month full of everyday epiphanies that change how I view the world. Who wouldn’t want that? Gratitude in all things.

In olden days a glimpse of stocking

Was looked on as something shocking,

But now, God knows,

Anything goes.

(Cole Porter, 1934)

Modesty.

Do people even know what that word means today?

When I look around, it doesn’t seem like it.

Modesty is defined as a regard for the decencies of or an attitude of humility and decency in behavior, speech, dress, grooming, etc.

It’s the “dress” part that I’ve been contemplating lately. As I walk across campus or patronize a local store or visit area high schools, quite frankly, I’m amazed at what I see.

Most of it comes from young women, or even young girls, but some young men could also use a lesson in modesty as well. And it’s not just youth, there are plenty of adults out there doing the same.

It generally takes a lot to offend me. But I have no desire whatsoever to see body parts or underwear hanging out where I believe clothing should be covering them up.

Did you know in Albany, GA, you can be fined for wearing pants or skirts more than three inches below the top of your hips which exposes your skin or underwear? Fines range from $25 to $200. Similar ordinances have been passed in Delcambre, LA, and Collinsville, IL.

Now I’m not necessarily advocating government to jump in on the modesty issue. But it’s obviously a concern for many people.

For me, modesty is an outward reflection of my beliefs that my body is a gift from God.

I understand that those are my beliefs. I can and do respect others that are different. I certainly don’t think that everyone out there agrees with me on this. And that’s fine. At issue, for me though, is that a lot of people feel they must look or dress a certain way to “fit in,” even when perhaps they are not comfortable in doing so.

Clothing expresses who we are and sends messages about ourselves to others.

On most days, I’m a polo and jeans or T-shirt and sweats kind of girl. I’m sending a “I like to be comfortable, relaxed, remembering my youthful tomboyishness” message. On other days, when I have to dress up a bit more, I’m sending a “I’m dressed up because I’m going to church or work” message.

What kinds of messages are we sending or allowing our children to send?

I guess what I’d really like is for someone to stand up and say, hey, you don’t have to dress like that to be cool, hip, popular, fashionable or whatever. You’re beautiful for who you are, not how you dress.

Here are a few people who are trying to do just that…

Grammy award-winning Christian singer, Rebecca St. James, has spoken often about modesty and said she loves the “Modest is hottest” motto. She has written a book and a song about it. She believes clothing can and does influence the way you and others act.

Wendy Shalit, raised in a secular Jewish family and author of “A Return to Modesty,” argues for modesty from a feminist perspective. She believes the ‘60s women’s liberation movement actually hurt women because their goal was to be “the same” as men. But we are not the same.

Shalit believes “baring one’s belly button in public may not be as empowering as women have been led to believe” (Rachel Whitaker, “Women Under Cover”) and that modesty in dress (and other areas) is actually a way to reclaim the value of women.

She points out that “women who have rebelled against the immodest dress…have found a new self-respect they never knew was available. In addition to this, these same women have found that they are attracting the kind of men they really desire as opposed to men who approach them for their outward beauty alone” (Todd Kappelman, “A Return to Modesty”).

Christine Wanjiru Wanjala, who writes for Uganda’s The Daily Monitor, said “it is easy to blame someone’s shortcomings on decency and modesty on the way they were raised or at the very least where they were raised.”

In “Teach your child how to be modest at an early age,” Wanjiru Wanjala said with all the images bombarding children today, they can be confused about what is right and wrong. She said parents need to set a good example and teach them while they’re young.

I was raised in a home where modesty was taught at a very young age, and in turn, my husband and I have tried to teach our children about the importance of modesty and showing respect for our bodies.

I remember my daughter, Hannah, being about four or five, and we’d be out shopping. She would see someone she thought was inappropriately dressed and blurt out, “that girl doesn’t have enough clothes on.” It was usually loud enough for the person to hear. I’d smile, a bit embarrassed, and move on. But looking back, maybe it takes the honesty of a five-year-old for people to realize what they’re doing.

So does “anything” go, like Cole Porter wrote? It apparently does. But I don’t believe it has to. I believe you can dress modestly to bring out your best self, be beautiful and influence those around you.

And I have to agree with Jeffrey R. Holland who said, “Modesty in appearance is always in fashion.”

It is, at least, in my home.

Pop. Pop-Pop. Pop.

I was awakened by a noise I’d never heard before. Although at shortly after 3 am, I was unaware of how it really sounded.

I quickly sat straight up (or as quickly and as straight up as a five-months-pregnant woman can do).

The unfamiliar sounds were coming from outside. Or down the hallway. I couldn’t quite tell.

Someone is stealing our stuff, I thought.

“Larry, did you hear that?” I asked, nudging him in the side.

Not saying a word, he got up out of bed and walked into the hallway as I peeked out the window.

Fire. Fire. F-I-R-E!

He started shouting it as I saw it. Red and orange flames shooting high up into the air above the garage.

***

In early July of 1998, we were staying at my in-laws’ house up in the foothills of Tujunga, CA. In less than two weeks, our plans were to move to Missouri to be closer to my family. Pregnant with our firstborn, I wanted to be closer to my mom.

So we had moved out of our apartment, packed up the belongings we planned to take with us into Larry’s Toyota pickup truck and put the rest into storage.

We had only been staying there a few days when the 3:30 am wake-up call occurred.

And I thought it was someone outside stealing our stuff from Larry’s truck.

***

I like to think I remain pretty calm in the event of an emergency or under trying times (re: the stabbing in Springfield, the gun in my apartment hallway and my recent experience with a man lying in the middle of the street in Maryville… which is a story for another day).

But on this occasion, well, I was five months pregnant. And pregnancy hormones being what they are, I guess you could say I was a little less than calm.

Actually, when I saw the fire, I coolly grabbed my shoes and ran out the back door of the house along with Larry, his niece (who was also staying there) and his mother. My father-in-law grabbed a garden hose and was trying to do his best to combat the flames.

So I was doing okay, standing there in the backyard, listening to the sirens that seemed like a million miles away, winding their way up and down and around all those foothills, trying to reach the fire.

And then Larry ran back inside the house.

And so I freaked. And I screamed, calling out to him.

Not the horror-movie, high-pitched scream that my 12-year-old son has a knack for… but I did scream.

Now I’m usually not a screamer, although I can scream with the best of them — at a football or a basketball game (just ask my brother who had the pleasure of sitting next to me when we saw Jimmer and BYU play up in Omaha last year). That screaming is called spirit.

This scream, however, was different. It was fear. Fear for my unborn child and fear for that child’s father.

L-A-R-R-Y!!!

***

What seemed like hours later, and after the firemen had arrived on scene, I learned Larry had run inside to get keys to the cars parked in front of the house. He was trying to move them so the fire trucks could get closer to the house in the crowded cul-de-sac where they live.

But he wasn’t able to save his truck. It was a total loss. And several things we had packed inside for the move to Missouri were also lost.

The fire destroyed a lot of his parents’ things. But thankfully, no one got hurt. And in the end, most of what was lost was replaceable.

***

Fire changes people. It did for me, at least.

It puts things in perspective — People are important. Things are less so.

Although there always seems to be those few precious things that can’t be replaced, like pictures, which help us keep old memories alive.

***

I walked out of the Nodaway News Leader office just as the morning light showed the harsh reality of the downtown fire earlier this month.

I’d already been out to take pictures when it was still dark, so I was heading out to take a few more when I saw a weary Dave Weigel walking toward me. He’s been a friend of my mom’s for years and my heart sunk as I saw him coming toward me.

His business had been completely destroyed.

And typical Dave, he seemed almost upbeat about forging ahead. That is, except for when he mentioned that one drawer he wished he could get his hands on. Among other things, it included a picture of his father.

But after he took a moment, he continued on his way, smile included.

I have such great respect for those who can suffer through a tragedy, pick themselves up, and move forward with an even greater determination to do good in this world.

That’s Dave.

***

That life-altering fire 13 years ago reinforced two distinct principles (which I was reminded of after the fire on Third and Main) — one practical and one a bit more transcendent and thus a bit harder to achieve, at least for me:

1. Be prepared. Have a plan. I remember as a little girl my parents’ having a fire escape plan which we practiced regularly.

I know that helped me stay relatively calm, that is, at least until Larry went back inside the house. Also, install smoke detectors. Those tiny little machines can save lives. And change the batteries in them every six months.

2. Simplify. And by that I guess I mean refocus on what is really important in life.

All that stuff lost in the fire is not stuff I can take with me when I die. What I can take with me is knowledge and experiences with family and good friends. Treasure those things.

While contemplating these ideas again, I was reminded of transcendentalist, Henry David Thoreau, who wrote “Walden; or Life in the Woods.”

Thoreau spent two years on the banks of Walden Pond where he constructed a cabin, planted a garden to sustain himself and spent his days studying and writing, with no thought of time or worldly possessions.

He said, “Our life is frittered away by detail… Simplify, simplify.”

Surely simplifying means different things to different people. For me, it’s a good purge of belongings I don’t really need every six months or so. Spending quality time with the people who mean the most. And trying to not be distracted by things that really don’t matter.

L. Tom Perry, in “Let Him Do It with Simplicity,” said, “(Thoreau) considered the time he had spent (at Walden Pond) a proper amount of time to accomplish his purpose—to experience the spiritual benefits of a simplified lifestyle.”

I love that.

Experience the spiritual benefits of a simplified lifestyle.

It took a fire for me to realize that.

Summer is fast approaching, and you know what that means, right? Family vacation.

You know, the week you spend somewhere nice, running around with your head cut off fitting in as much as possible so that by the time you get home you’re ready for a realvacation.

Yeah, that vacation.

Growing up, my parents tried to make a vacation out our yearly trip to the Weese Family Reunion. And since Larry and I have been together, we’ve followed suit.

This year, we’re headed back to New Mexico, so for the last several months we’ve been planning our road trip.

With all of the preparations, I’ve been thinking back on many of my favorites.

The reunion is my mom’s side of the family. My great-great-grandfather, Alexander C. Weese, had 20 children altogether (my grandma, Jo Ann, has a LOT of cousins), so all of us Weese offspring get together at a different location each year.

We’ve hosted it here in Missouri, and in addition to New Mexico, we’ve also traveled to Colorado, Wyoming, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas and California.

The year it was held in California, 2005, my dad decided he wanted to make it a mega-trip. Months were spent in planning where we would go, what routes we would take, places to stay and activities we would enjoy. We’d hit as many National Parks as we could, not only for beauty but also for education. My dad even picked up a second job to pay for it.

In the end, he and my mom had mapped out a three-week trek that took us down to Arizona, the Painted Desert and Grand Canyon, southern California, Hollywood, Disneyland, the reunion in northern California, Sequoia, Yosemite, the Redwoods, up the Oregon and Washington coast, on to Montana and Wyoming to Glacier and Yellowstone, then to South Dakota, Mount Rushmore and the Badlands. There were lots of other little stops along the way as well.

It was, in the end, the summer vacations of all summer vacations.

With all of their extensive planning, however, there were, naturally, a few hiccups. Fighting amongst siblings, car troubles, a couple of less than what we thought we were getting hotel rooms.

Somewhere after the two-week mark of the journey, and after we’d left Yellowstone, we were traveling in northern Wyoming.

Let me just reiterate that my parents had meticulously planned which highways we would take along each section of the trip and how long it would take us to get from one point to the next. And this portion of the trip was no different.

At Manderson, WY, we pulled onto Highway 31. We were, it felt like, in the middle of nowhere.

I will now defer to my parents’ journal entries to tell you, as Paul Harvey would say, the rest of the story:

Dad’s journal, July 4, 2005 – “We had planned on taking this road (Highway 31) on our FACT Club trip, but had missed the turn (then) and just about missed it again – and shouldhave…”

This was a sign of what was to come. But in the meantime, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Mom’s trip journal, July 4, 2005 – “Saw an antelope and baby. Saw two long-legged, long-beaked birds, looked like a stork, brown in color. Hannah is watching a Care Bears movie and singing out loud with it.”

Dad’s – “We’re seeing more oil wells, antelope and wildlife, and lots more irrigation for crops and hayfields. We saw a large herd of sheep. Then had to stop. Some ranchers were moving cattle across the road.”

And then the real fun began.

Mom – “Hyattsville, WY – population 100; 4,457 elevation…”

Dad – “At Hyattsville, the road changed to gravel…”

Gravel?! This is a Wyoming state highway. Yes, we’re in the middle of nowhere, but this is a state highway.

As soon as we hit the gravel, I grabbed the atlas. A closer look revealed that, indeed, the map indicated that portions of this highway were an “unimproved road.”

Mom – “…road changed to gravel. But we are up for the adventure.”

Had we taken a closer look before our journey, we probably would have chosen a different route.

There were a few grumblings, especially from my brother who was following behind us and all of our dust in his car. But the gravel only lasted about 20 minutes and we continued on our way to Devil’s Tower.

I have reflected a lot on this experience in the years since, both because we enjoy laughing about it and also because of what it teaches.

One of the things I gained from it is that we must have a plan for our lives, so that we know where we are going and how we are going to get there.

We need to really study it out and seek which paths will help us arrive at our eventual destination. If I want to become a great chef, it’s probably not a good idea to go to a school that doesn’t have a culinary arts program.

And then, even after we’ve set our course and are closely following our plan, there will be unexpected detours or road blocks along our way. We run out of money to pay for our schooling or we get sick and cannot attend. Sometimes these things are out of our control, sometimes they are because of choices we make.

But once we find ourselves in those situations we didn’t plan on, make the best of it. Don’t get discouraged. Right your course and continue on.

I am reminded of a quote by Voltaire: “Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us.”

And like my mom wrote, be “up for the adventure.”

As I was driving down the road a couple of weeks ago, I saw several buses full of high school band and choir students, heading to Northwest for the annual district music contest.

As if right on cue, tears started streaming down my cheeks right there in my car.

Crying? Seriously?

That’s what is has come to these days.

This odd phenomenon has been happening a lot to me in recent years. Getting emotional every time I see a marching band or a busload of students heading off to some competition or when I hear the “Hallelujah Chorus” or someone singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

I know I’m not alone in this, however, as I’ve had friends share similar experiences.

Still, it’s somewhat inexplicable to me. But I guess maybe what it’s really about is four fantastic years at Maryville High School, chock-full of musical memories.

Most people know about my passion for athletics in high school, but I was also very involved in both band and choir.

As students, we were surrounded by greatness, teaching, leading and inspiring us. Lee and Nina Schneider. Dennis Dau. Marilyn Rhea.

Memories of these teachers spark such great fondness within me.

Performing at home football games and at Christmas and Spring concerts, marching in parades and field competitions, participating at District and State Music Contest, playing at events with the Jazz and Dixieland bands.

And then there were the invitations to perform at the “big ticket” affairs…

Concert choir at the music educators’ conference in Tan-Tar-A during my sophomore year. I still get chills when I recall our performance of “The Bells.” I lost my starting position on the basketball team to go on that trip because I missed a practice before a game. But I’ve never felt that was a bad thing because it was such a great experience.

Traveling to El Paso, TX, for the Sun Bowl Parade with the marching band my freshman year. That was definitely a long bus ride. It was also my first time traveling across the border into Mexico. It was so hot down there at Thanksgiving, and we were dressed in those dark green wool uniforms, that several band members got sick while high stepping to “Hi Neighbor” down the road.

And then the biggest one of all, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. It was a tradition that we only go on one big trip every four years, and even though we had just gone to El Paso the year before, it was just too big to pass up. What memories. We also stopped in Chicago on our way back home for the Ronald McDonald Christmas Parade.

Music has not only provided me with so many great memories, but an abundance of opportunities to learn and grow over the years.

It is a way for us to understand and be understood.

Victor Hugo said, “Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.”

I believe it’s also unique in that it can be both powerful and peaceful. I once read that music can “lull a baby to sleep or bring a crowd to its feet.”

It can connect people and cultures all over the world or just down the street.

Music also helps us to feel. That we’re not alone in the world. That other people have felt the same things we have felt. That we can endure.

And it also has the ability to bring about change.

William Congreve said, “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.”

So the next time you see me standing on the street corner of a parade or in the audience of a concert — and I’m crying like a baby — realize it’s more than just memories of what I have experienced. It’s joy and excitement for the current generation of students who are getting their chance of experiencing that same gift of music, too.

Because, as Nietzsche said, “Without music, life would be a mistake.”

I just finished reading “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” by Harriet Beecher Stowe, a book that’s been on my list of “classics” to read for several years.

It left me quite conflicted and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I’ve been reading what others have said and even discussed it with my husband.

Stowe’s book is about a hard-working and deeply religious slave, Uncle Tom. I greatly admire his faith, compassion, ability to forgive and the strength he had to endure an unimaginable hell.

But there’s also the side to Tom that has been criticized since publication, that he was weak, too tolerant, a traitor to his race, which has led to his name becoming a racial slur.

At times, I wanted him to stand up and fight back, to stir up a revolt, or at least try to.

But then I think, maybe he was fighting back in his own way. I could go on, but I’ll save that for another forum.

So I’m still up in the air about Tom, but I plan on revisiting it again soon. And I guess that’s why it’s been on my list of “classics.” It’s kept me going back to it. Thinking critically, sharing my thoughts and learning from others. And possibly changing how I feel. Or maybe not.

A classic work, as defined by Oliver DeMille in “A Thomas Jefferson Education,” is one that is worth returning to over and over because you get more from it each time.

It also, for me, does not necessarily mean that it’s old. There are plenty of books written in recent years that are really great reads. And some of the books classified as classics are not classics to me, although they might be to you. I barely finished “The Scarlet Letter” and “The Lightning Thief” left me wanting more.

DeMille said, “Great works inspire greatness.”

The more classics I study, the more I find myself being inspired and asking myself questions. How would I react in a certain situation? How can I be a better wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, community member? How can I use this knowledge to affect change?

Classics give us crucial questions but not all the answers. They make us seek and struggle, discover and decide, and sometimes even reconsider.

Many times they present an old question and we can answer it in a new and current way.

Does slavery exist today? Yes. Maybe not exactly as shown by Stowe, but it’s still very much a problem today, both literally and figuratively. So what am I going to do about it? The answer may be nothing. Or it may be something great.

Many of them also happen to be some of the most controversial, I believe, because they make us think about real issues. “To Kill A Mockingbird,” “Of Mice and Men,” “Bridge to Terabithia” and “Harry Potter.”

And some of the most meaningful books I’ve read recently were both intriguing and thought-provoking, and yet, horrific and disturbing like “The Giver” or “The Kite Runner.”

Then there’s one of my all-time favorite classics, “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” by Mark Twain.

I was recently shocked to learn that a publisher is going to print a new version of the book, replacing the word “nigger” (all 219 times) with “slave” and “Indian” for “injun.” The change came after an English professor approached the publisher to create a version for “younger people and general readers.”

My husband and I discussed this at length, he being a teacher said he could understand the difficulty in teaching it. He often reads books out loud in class and said he would struggle with saying it.

I don’t believe we can rewrite our nation’s history to make it all politically correct. I’m shocked every time I read it and every time I hear it. It makes me think and remember. We need to teach our children about those social attitudes and how wrong they were, but we can’t do that if it’s not included in the book.

And so we agreed to disagree.

Clifton Fadiman said, “When you reread a classic, you do not see more in the book than you did before; you see more in you than was there before.”

So grab a classic. I guarantee you will see more inside of you, just as I am learning to do.

This time of year is one of reflection for me. Reviewing goals from the last year and setting some for the new year.

In looking back on the past year, I realized I haven’t written a column since August.

I was a little surprised I’d been neglecting it quite so much, but in my review, I realized why… the communication (media) law class I took this past semester. Man, that took a lot my mental energy. So much so that I guess I couldn’t think of anything meaningful to share here.

So I thought I would do a quick recap of a few things I realized or thought were noteworthy over the past few months since this column has seen some ink on the pages.

“the class”

The comm law class was really quite challenging. And I actually really appreciated that about it.

I realized I need that in my life. I mean, sometimes it’s nice to have it easy, to just sit back and relax and let life float by. I’m not sure I remember what that’s like, but I’m sure it’s nice.

But it’s also nice to work hard at something, really stretch yourself and feel the sweetness of success.

“family first”

I had the rare opportunity of attending a BYU basketball game recently. My Cougars were playing up in Omaha against Creighton, so my sister, Amy, (who also attended BYU) convinced our other sister and brother, Christy and Ryan (who both live in Omaha), to go to the game with us, along with Amy’s husband, Will.

They won, I nearly lost my voice cheering them on and it was great fun. But what I realized, more than how much I love it when BYU wins, is how important it is to spend time with family. We all live relatively close, but it’s still a rare treat when we can all get together.

I also realized this with the recent death of a cousin, who lost his battle with cancer a few weeks ago. It was amazing to see the support of other family members and everyone remembering what an amazing man he was and how he’ll be missed.

One of the greatest blessings I have in my life is my belief that families can be together forever. Although we are all grieving, I’m sure there was great rejoicing as he was reunited with other lost loved ones.

“real fans”

I attended a junior high basketball game this fall and was disgusted at the so-called fans at the game, especially their booing.

Who boos? And why do they boo? I can’t stand it. To me, hearing someone boo at a game is worse than walking away with a loss.

I once read some sports psychologist say that fans boo because they want to be a part of the game, believing they have some sort of impact on its outcome.

It reminded me of watching other games, from pee wee to high school, where you sometimes (translation = a LOT of the time) see a parent coaching from the stands, booing at the refs, yelling at their kid…perhaps all in an attempt to relive their glory days – or would-be glory days – of their youth.

This drives me absolutely insane. The less-civilized person in me wants to stand up and tell them to shut up or go home. I’m trying to enjoy a game. Plus, kids need our encouragement. They need us to practice good sportsmanship. And, they need us to be good examples.

I realized it’s the same outside of sports. Who likes to be around negative people, always “booing” about this or that? I prefer being surrounded by people who have good attitudes, no matter what life is throwing at them. We also need more real fans in our lives, who support and cheer us on, regarles of the circumstances.

“enjoy it”

I had the opportunity to talk to some local high school students recently for Issues and Answers and I asked them about their goals for 2011. Their answers included stuff like doing well in sports and getting their driver’s licenses. Pretty typical teenage goals.

One girl, however, looked at me, smiled casually and said, “Enjoy it.”

I loved it.

I was really impressed by not only the simpleness of her statement but also the wisdom in it.

My life (and probably yours, too) is busy. Crazy, even. I feel like I’m always running from one thing to the next, trying to fit in 25 hours in a day, not stopping to rest or breathe or … enjoy much of anything.

She reminded of something I heard a couple of years ago from Thomas S. Monson about finding joy in the journey, which I guess is the real topic of this abridged column.

He said: “This is our one and only chance at mortal life—here and now. The longer we live, the greater is our realization that it is brief. Opportunities come, and then they are gone.

“I believe that among the greatest lessons we are to learn in this short sojourn upon the earth are lessons that help us distinguish between what is important and what is not. I plead with you not to let those most important things pass you by….Instead, find joy in the journey—now.”

I killed our cat.

It was an accident. I promise.

It’s true that in the past I have hated cats, and I suppose I still do, to some extent. And it’s not just cats. I have always had a general dislike for most animals.

But killing Cucha wasn’t on purpose. Honest. And in the last two years since that horrific incident, my feelings have changed. Drastically.

Case in point: as I was driving home last week, I popped up over a hill and came upon a mama rabbit and her baby bunny right in the middle of my lane. I braked, but it was too late. I hit the mother. And a moment later I had tears rushing down my cheeks, wondering what that tiny baby bunny was going to do now, thinking about poor Bambi and that voice saying “Your mother can’t be with you any more.”

A few years ago, it wouldn’t have phased me in the least. I would’ve thought, Circle of Life, and gone about my way.

But not now. The real beginning of this story, however, actually began during my childhood, when my mom wouldn’t let us have any pets. Not even a goldfish.

She grew up on a farm, surrounded by animals, so I didn’t understand. But I guess I really didn’t care, either, because at a very young age I was terrified of them, especially dogs. I have a vague memory of an incident where one jumped up on me, knocked me over and licked my face.

As for cats, my intense dislike for them has always been because of two reasons. The smell. And the hair. It’s that OCD part of me.

So when the Wood family moved out into the country in 2007 and discussion about pets was held among its members, I began to get a real uneasy feeling growing deep inside me.

The clan had valid reasons. A cat could take care of the mice (which I hate even more than cats but not quite as much as opossums — but that’s a whole other story) and a dog would help protect the home. Still, I wasn’t ready to jump on their bandwagon.

But, one day, unbeknownst to me, they brought home a dog, one that some friends had given to them for free.

And so we welcomed Nishnabotna (Nishna for short, named after the river because I like how it sounds) into our family. And I became a pet owner. An outdoor pet owner.

Nishna started making his personality known right away. Tearing up this and chewing on that. He did it all so playfully, though, and his big dark eyes always got the better of me.

He destroyed the screen on our back porch, ripping it to shreds. He also demolished numerous shoes, one of Hunter’s jackets, a baseball glove, a couple of packages left by the UPS guy, his water and food bowls and a CD case and the CDs inside. He’s gnawed on our backyard swing, the boards on the porch and door, scattered trash mistakenly left out and dug up numerous holes in our yard trying to get at various critters… Just being a typical playful little puppy.

Through it all, though, I found myself still loving him more than I ever thought I would or could. And he and I have a unique relationship. I generally don’t touch him or pet him, although I can’t say that I haven’t ever. I know, that sounds really weird, but remember, OCD. I love to play fetch with him, with frisbees and tennis balls. And I also love to crouch down at our patio door, look through the glass at him and talk to him. He sometimes licks the window, which I believe is his way of showing me he understands how much I care about him.

And then there’s Cucha, the cat I killed.

About a month after Larry and the kids brought Nishna home, they surprised me with another pet.

I wasn’t nearly as happy with this pet. After all, it was a cat and I hate cats. They stink, they shed hair, they hiss, they scratch, they get under your feet, and they are, well, catty. Like girls in junior high. Ugh!

Now I’ll admit that Cucha (which is Chilean slang for cat) was tiny and cute, with her black coat and white paws. She and Nishna, who was a still a puppy back then, were playful together, although sometimes I felt he was too rough with her and I was afraid he might get a little too excited and accidentally kill her.

But in the end, I did that.

It had been just a couple of months since she had joined our family. I was outside, getting something out of the car, and Nishna started jumping inside. So while I was trying to get him down with my left hand, I slammed the door shut with my right. And as soon as I let go of the door, I saw a black and white streak out of the corner of my eye heading into the car.

I tried to catch the door. But it was too late.

Curiosity — with a little help from me — killed our cat.

We eventually got another kitten from the same mother, but I mourned her for a long time.

It’s a little difficult for me to admit that our pets have changed me, but they have. I find myself always looking carefully before slamming car doors shut and I’m trying to slow down when I pop up over hills on country roads.

But it’s even more than that.

Anatole France once said, “Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.”

I feel like I’ve finally started to awaken.

My husband was standing in the checkout line this past weekend when he struck up a conversation with the man in front of him.

He quickly learned this guy was from El Salvador and proceeded to speak with him in Spanish.

This caught the attention of a couple standing in the line over, who gave them the look.

You know the one — the if-you’re-going-to-be-living-here-you’d-better-be-speaking-English look.

My husband’s been given that look on more than a few occasions. And I just don’t get it.

First off, though, let me say that I wholeheartedly believe if you’re going to live in this country, you should learn English. We recently met someone who’d lived here for nearly 30 words and still hadn’t learned it. That’s ridiculous.

But I certainly don’t have a problem with people speaking Spanish or any other language to one another. In my husband’s case, he’s a Spanish teacher and likes to practice with native speakers whenever and wherever he can.

“No culture can live, if it attempts to be exclusive,” Mohandas K. Gandhi, Indian nationalist and spiritual leader

What I don’t get when people act this way is that all of our ancestors (with the exception of the Native Americans) came to this country from other lands. And many of those couldn’t speak English when they first landed on Ellis Island.

They came speaking German, Italian, French, Swedish, Polish, Russian and Greek. And they came for freedom, some of them specifically for freedom of speech.

In “The Truth about Immigrants,” Brian Frazelle, Houston Catholic Worker, wrote:

“There is always a touch of irony when a citizen of the US complains about immigration. Except for those of pure Native American origin, every one of us is of immigrant descent.

“The US gained its territory largely through the dishonest and violent removal of the indigenous population. Yet somehow we maintain the idea that this land is ours alone and that it is not only harmful but immoral for other people to enter it.”

I don’t want this to turn into a discussion on immigration – illegal or otherwise – but I do want to give a little history…

From its earliest beginnings, and even before, the United States has been a multi-lingual nation. In the early 1500s and through the late 20th century, the Spanish language was spoken in the majority of the country, primarily through the efforts of Hispanic explorers. Prior to the American Revolution, Spanish was even spoken right here in Missouri. Spanish-speaking militias were called to St. Louis in 1780 to help defend the town from British forces.

When the US was founded in the late 1700s, it was normal to hear as many as 20 languages spoken in daily life, such as Dutch, French, German and numerous Native American ones.

There are 322 languages spoken in the US today, according to the 2000 Census.

“A different language is a different vision of life,” Federico Fellini, Italian film director

What I really find really humorous about people complaining about other languages is that our English language has absorbed so many words from others. Spanish alone has influenced it greatly with words like canyon, ranch, rodeo, mustang, coyote, stampede, vigilante, and even places like Colorado which means colorful and Los Angeles which means the angels.

From French, there’s mayonnaise, soufflé, theatre, naïve, déjà vu, lingerie, cliché, encore, petite and souvenir. And from German: aspirin, diesel, hamburger, nickel, quartz, zinc, waltz — and of course, bratwurst, sauerkraut and strudel.

And while I’m on this cultural soapbox, there’s something else that really gets me going.

All people who speak Spanish are NOT Mexicans and they don’t “talk Mexican.” If you don’t know exactly where they came from, it’s best to say they are Hispanic and they “speak Spanish.” Because they come to the US from a myriad of countries, including Spain, Guatemala, El Salvador, Venezuela, Chile, Honduras, Peru and the Dominican Republic, just to name a few.

And some are actually Americans because they were born here. Crazy, I know, but true.

So the next time you’re standing in line at the store and overhear someone speaking Spanish or French or German – or whatever other foreign language – keep in mind our nation’s history and the history of our own English language.

German writer and philosopher Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said: “Those who know nothing of foreign languages know nothing of their own.”