A Legend in My Own Time

by Shirley Bahlmann
I didn't know I was a legend until last Tuesday when I sat in front of Snow College Professor Bruce Peterson at my son's school Christmas program. Between songs, Peterson leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up from my book (which I read between songs) to see him smiling down at me. "Do you know what I remember about you?" he asked.
Now that was a loaded question if I ever heard one! So many possibilities ran through my brain that I was dizzy when I answered, "No. What?" I wondered if there were any other seats I could move to in the jam-packed gymnasium once he revealed some terrible deed of my past.
"You were reading a paperback book in a college class. When the teacher called on you to answer a question, you looked up, answered it, and went right back to reading."
"Oh," I said, not specifically remembering the incident.
"The teacher stood there with his mouth open," Peterson laughed. "I was amazed. The whole class was. I didn't even know the answer, and I'd been listening. So now, every year I tell my students about you, and say that they can do whatever they want as long as they're getting the information. If they can answer the questions, then they can read or draw or listen to music or whatever. But if they can't, then they have to do it my way."
"You tell all your classes about me?" I asked, my eyebrows disappearing into my hairline.
"Yeah. I just thought that was so great when you did that. You taught me that everyone learns differently."
"Cool," I said. "Thanks for telling me." Then I turned around, my eyes falling on the sweet adventure of the written word.
It's really kind of exciting that you never know when you'll do something that impacts someone else. I just happened to find out because I was just being my weird self, reading books in my spare time everywhere I go.
Sometimes I'll sing a bit of song in the grocery store. Sometimes I do high kicks when I'm walking down the street. I don't know why. But if you ever see an urban setting and people on the street break out into a series of random high kicks, then you'll know that Shirley has achieved legend status once again.

Two Ladies in Red

by Shirley Bahlmann
It was with great anticipation that I hurried to get ready for our author visit last Tuesday in Ephraim, Utah. I flung my "Eeyore University" t-shirt on the bed and pulled on a classic black t-shirt and festive red cotton vest. I thought Christmas colors would be appropriate for greeting the author of "The Santa Letters."
When Stacy Gooch Anderson popped out of her car, I saw that she wore a beautiful shimmering red blouse. I love sparkles. She looked gorgeous. I had to have my picture taken with her! (I know it's blurry, but you don't see any wrinkles on me, do you? DO YOU? That's what I thought. Boy, am I ever tall... I hope I remembered my 24-hour deodorant.)
It was delightful to have Stacy speak to my writing group first, and then to the community who gathered in the conference room. (I didn't get to hear that one, since I was rescuing my son from his locked car at work twelve miles away.) Stacy sold 35 books to grateful attendees, and handed out door prizes she brought with special messages on each one, putting us all in the Christmas spirit even though it was before Halloween!
Lastly, she and her husband, Brad, insisted on helping me carry things to my car, even though it was 9:00 p.m. before they left for home. Ho, ho, ho. They live what's in Stacy's book. And I was privileged to meet them both.

The Haunted Dog

By Shirley Bahlmann
Bibs was just four days old, a little black weiner with a small white dot between her shoulder blades, like she'd been touched by a ghost. (Just look at her spooky eyes!) I didn't really want a Border Collie, I was more interested in a cute little whisker dog like my cousins, Guy and Janette Rallison, have. But Bob and the boys would have none of that. We weren't sure Bibs was our puppy until we did "doggy tests" at five weeks old. All three boys chose her from the litter, and that was good enough for me.
When Bibs came to our house, she was too scared to sleep alone, so the boys hunkered down in their sleeping bags in her dog run. When the weather turned cold enough, they came inside and she stayed out.
When she first met our cats, they were all about the same size, but they wouldn't play nice. Sometimes our white-as-a-ghost cat, Dusty, would trot away to find a sunny spot and Bibs would happily give chase. Our black cat, Slick, never turned tail to Bibs. Even though Bibs grew to ten times his size, Dusty's the one who makes Bibs run.
The ghost touch has done other damage to Bibs' bravado. She's afraid to go in our living room, is afraid of the bathtub, blinking lights, and being behind closed doors. But worst of all, she's afraid of her dog feeder.
It's a terrific feeder that holds a whole bag of dog food with a lid to keep it clean and dry. We knew she wasn't fond of pushing open the little hinged door with her nose to get at her food, so we propped it open with a rock and thought we would live happily ever after.
Wrong.
Last month, Bibs was in our house when Bob asked, "Does she have any food?"
"I saw some in her feeding tray," I said. "Why?"
"She acts likes she's starving," he said.
It was true. She was doing more than vacuuming the kitchen floor, she was trying to root in the garbage can and stand up to the counter when she thought we weren't looking and attempting to open cupboards with her nose. So when I took her back outside, I inspected the feeder more closely. I found spider webs woven across the feeding tray. Was she scared of spiders, or had they set up shop there because she never her nose in to eat her food? When I opened the lid, it was chock full of dog food, clear to the top.
"Bibs!" I said. "I can't believe you're scared of your feeder!" She lowered her head between her white-spotted shoulders and wagged her tail in apology.
I took pity on the ghost-touched dog and scooped some food out for her.
I think we're going to dress her up as a werewolf for Halloween.

Chasing Chickens at Days of '47...

By Shirley Bahlmann
It's never too late to chase a chicken...here's a great book review (one of mine, this time!) and interview by funny lady Cindy Beck (I'm the interviewee, whoopee!) CLICK HERE

Under Son

by Shirley Bahlmann
I just finished a week and a half long stint at the Mormon Miracle Pageant in sunny, mosquito-infested Manti, Utah. My routine was pretty much get up at 6:00 a.m., clean the alternative high school in readiness for Summer School classes, feed and water our pets since that's the only way I could be certain they'd remain alive, then be in my Craft Fair booth by 10:00 a.m. (I didn't have to go except when it was my turn to take the till, but more people bought books when I was there to threaten them with paper cuts if they didn't.) I stayed among the paper and glossy covers until it was time to do my part in the Pageant, which started at 9:30 p.m. (I was a wicked Shaman who led people astray from Third Nephi.) Home by 11:30, I was in bed soon after, unless my restless 8-year-old made it later.
Later, rinse, repeat.
I met some interesting people in my book booth. One fellow who appeared deceptively young had a double super hero cape velcroed around his neck. On one side was the Superman symbol, the other side showed Batman. One lady who shared my booth asked the young hero which super dude he was. "Are you Batman or Superman?" was her innocent question.
The boy fixed her with deadly laser beam eyes. "I'm Under Son," he declared, clearly irritated that she did not recognize him by sight. (How could she have known his real cape was at the cleaners?)
"Under Son?" the lady asked, unaware of the mortal danger she put herself in by questioning his identity. Her life was saved by the lad's older sister, who obviously had super powers of her own. She grabbed Under Son's shoulders and held him fast.
"It's like Under Dog," the girl explained. "Only he's Under Son."
Ah.
That boy has a big future. I could tell by his cape-swaying swagger as he left us without a backward glance. (Under Son never glances backwards.)
I'll tell you what... if I'm ever in danger, I'll run to the nearest kindergarten class and call for Under Son, the hero of limitless creativity.

They go potty in heaven, don't they?

by Shirley Bahlmann
We're in the middle of "The Mormon Miracle Pageant" here in little old Sanpete County, Utah. The outdoor spectacle of volunteer actors in period costumes is in its 42nd year on lovely Manti, Utah Temple Hill.
One thing that pageant goers probably don't know is that before each performance is a devotional for cast members. It takes place on Temple Hill behind the costume building. There are some wonderful speakers at those meetings, interspersed with those who do the best they can with the talents they've been blessed with.
During one meeting, my 8-year-old came to me with a frown on his face and said, "The man wouldn't let me use the bathroom."
"What man?" I asked, my protective Mommy hackles rising.
"The one who says when we can go get our costumes."
So I went to talk to the bathroom-maximum-security guard. With a voice that could freeze watermelons, I said, "My son told me you wouldn't let him use the bathroom."
"Oh, I'm sorry, when was this?"
"During cast devotional."
"Oh. Well, you see, if I leave the bathrooms open, then all the teenagers go in there and won't come out."
"My son is eight," I said, smoke coming out of my ears.
"Oh, I'm really sorry. Look, if you could come with him next time, then that would really help with crowd control. I really apologize," the man said, looking very apologetic.
"Okay," I said, my hackles smoothing down. I was glad, too, because raised hackles is not a good look for me.
I walked away, reflecting on the lesson that if you really want to reach your goal, it helps to take a parent with you. And there is One who can get through any barrier, from writing block to basic mortal needs. And if I, as an imperfect mortal, love my son enough to push aside my non-confrontational fun-loving yellow personality to confront Bathroom Security, how much more does Father in Heaven love us? I'll bet he even has a bathroom key right there in his pocket.

Cow Pie Pancakes

by Shirley Bahlmann
As I was sitting at the table eating raw vegetables, my stomach complained that those green and leafy things surely weren't the only thing I was going to give it, were they? My stomach added that there was some pancake mix in the kitchen, and pancakes were so gooood. Then my stomach teamed up with my mouth and I heard myself ask my 14-year-old son, "Will you please cook me some pancakes?"
"Sure," he said, and walked into the kitchen. That's when I should have been suspicious. He protesteth not enough.
He came back in the dining room stirring a bowl of pancake mix with a fork. Then, looking in the bowl, he said, "Ew, what is that? Oh, well, I just stirred it in. I'm sure it's fine." Then he went back in the kitchen and I soon smelled the delicious aroma of browning pancakes. A minute later, he brought me a plate with his hand cupped around the edge. "Now, don't panic," he said. "This is supposed to be Mickey Mouse, but his brains squished out when I turned him over." Well, I could eat a mutated Mickey Mouse, and I did, and my stomach cheered.
Then my son brought me a glass of milk, only it was strange because there was a blob of bright red color spreading through the white. "Sorry, but this is the only milk we had," he explained. "George the Farmer was milking the cow when the cow stepped on his hand. George's finger popped off and flew into the milk bucket. Now his finger is in your glass, so when you drink it, leave a little on the bottom to preserve the finger so we can take it to the hospital when you're through and sew it back onto poor George."
After hearing that story, I couldn't make myself drink the milk, even though somewhere in my heart I hoped it was just red food coloring.
Then Brian brought out another plate with his hand cupped around the edge. "I made a culinary masterpiece," he announced solemnly. "I hope you enjoy it." Then he set the plate down with a flourish and announced, "Cow pie pancakes." Four pancakes of varying diameters stared up at me from the plate. They were stacked with the largest on the bottom and the smallest on the top, and by gum, it did look like a cow patty that some bovine had casually dropped in the corral. But I ate it anyway. After all, I couldn't let a masterpiece go to waste.

Floods or Clamdiggers?

by Shirley Bahlmann
Now that the weather is gradually growing warmer, my pant hemlines are rising. Yesterday, I pulled on a pair of nice, comfortable stretchy pants and walked out in public. But something felt wrong. With the hemline hitting me just above the ankles, I was an awkward, too-tall teenager again. Halfway through the day, I bent over and rolled the hem up twice. When I stood up, I felt comfortable, fashionable, and, yes, even suave.
I began to wonder what the difference is with pant lengths. I mean, if I feel like a clumsy adolescent in pants just above my ankles (reminiscent of junior high school taunts, "Hey, Noah, when's the flood?") Then why do I feel like I could step into the school lunch room and turn every head with two rolls of the hem? What makes the difference? Is it social conditioning, or are women born with pant-length sensors inside their calves that signal when the him is just right?
And how many names do we need for shorts from the knee to the ankle? Exactly what is a clam digger, in cote hauteur terms? What about capris? Knee shorts? Bermudas?
Excuse me, I need to go put on a skirt.

The House of Two Toilets

by Shirley Bahlmann
As we drove down Main Street in our historic little town of Ephraim, Utah, my 8-year-old son pointed to a sandblasted rock sign in a front yard and asked, "What does 'House of Seven Gables' mean?"
I shifted in my seat. "Do you see those little pointy roofs?" I asked, aiming my finger at a gable jutting from the old house's roof line. He nodded. "Those are called gables," I explained. "That house has seven of them."
"Big deal," my husband said from the driver's seat. "I think we should make a sign for our house and stick it in our yard."
My interest piqued, I straightened in my seat and looked at him. "What would our sign say?" I asked.
"House of Two Toilets," he intoned.
"WHAT?"
He shrugged while our son giggled in the back seat. "That's every bit as important as seven gables, if no moreso."
What else could I say? He was absolutely right.

A Different View of Death

by Shirley Bahlmann
On Memorial Day, my husband asked if we should do our duty and visit my dad's grave. You may think I'm strange, but I've never felt a compelling need to visit the graves of loved ones. We went to Daddy Dell's grave anyway, and washed off his headstone with a water bottle and an old receipt I found on the floor of my car. (Stupid birds!)
It's possible that my non-compelling desire to visit gravesites may stem from the time I first lost someone close to me. I was thirty three, and felt pretty miserable at Grandma's funeral. She had taken me in after I had my first baby in order to watch over my infant son while I rested. (Said infant son, Andy, is in this picture with me at my dad's funeral. Needless to say, he's no longer an infant.) My sister Rebecca, seeing my sorrow at Grandma's death, said, "Hey, Shirley, isn't it nice to know that Grandma will be there to greet you when it's your turn to die?"
All at once, my view of death did a one-eighty. Having funny, loving Grandma there to help me transition into the next life brought me great comfort indeed. That was something I could live with.
I have nothing against visiting graves. I'm fine with anyone who does it. Live and let live, I say. I just have no need to go there when that's not where my loved one is. They're in a brighter, busier place, but hopefully not too busy to meet the bus when I cross over, leaving my mortal body luggage behind.

The Festival

by Shirley Bahlmann
This past weekend was the annual Scandinavian Festival hosted in little old Ephraim, Utah, under cloudy skies. It didn't rain all the time, but enough that I didn't set up my book booth on Friday. On Saturday, there were sunny spots scattered around the skies, so up went my booth. I spread out my books and greeted passersby and handed out some book marks. By early afternoon, I'd sold about half a dozen books.
Then it was time to go do my storytelling stint, so I recruited my 8-year-old son to watch the booth for me. (This took place at the Ephraim Co-op craft store, so there was a cash register nearby for him to send customers to.) While I was at my storytelling station, my sister surprised me. She'd driven an hour and a half to visit, so when I was done with stories, we walked among the craft booths and finally worked our way back to mine a couple of hours after I put my son in charge. To my surprise, he had sold six books in my absence!
So I left again.
No, not really. My sister took my son down the street for something to eat from one of the vendors, and I stayed in my booth, listening to several people tell me what a good salesman my son was.
He actually started out as a preschooler in a cow costume handing out flyers for my pioneer books. Come to think of it, no one ever refused to take one from him.
From now on, he's coming to all my literary events. That boy has some sales magic in him.

Just Ask

by Shirley Bahlmann
I drove an hour and a half to the Cedar Fort author talk yesterday evening. (I went with a writer friend and my writer son, who is 14 and has great ideas but spends very little time actually writing.) When Deen Kemsley got up to speak, I was impressed with his great smile and easy presence. Then he began to tell the spiritual experiences from his book, which were interesting, but I had expected to find the amazing secret to his success of selling 1,000 books before they were even published.
Nice talk, wrong mindset.
Then, in the Q&A portion of the event, I discovered I was not the only one who wondered about his pre-sales success when someone asked, "How did you sell 1,000 books before it was even published?"
Deen gave us a sheepish grin, then said, "I asked a sponsor to buy a thousand books and he agreed."
At first it seemed so deceptively simple, I felt almost cheated. I chewed on his words while he answered some other attendees.
Then, when Deen asked if there were any more questions, I raised my hand and asked, "Will you endorse my next book?"
He laughed, then said maybe, then said he'd have to read it first. When I spoke to him afterward, he asked me what my book was about. I told him about Detours: When life throws you a curve just follow the road, and he said, "You've got me hooked. Send it along."
Well, whattaya know... just ask!

Walking Boxes

by Shirley Bahlmann

They were big, they were beautiful, and they were in the dumpster. Two huge boxes, big enough to reach from my head to my ankles, sat unappreciated, waiting for their final journey to the dump. How could I let these building blocks of imagination meet such an awful fate? There were castles and rocket ships and secret clubhouses just waiting to be built!
I recruited my big fourteen-year-old son for project "Save-a-Box." We each hoisted one up, up, and over our heads, upside down, so we were looking through little peep holes that were torn along the bottom. Walking with a big box on your head takes some getting used to. By the time we reached Main Street, we were moving at a reasonable pace, and were glad to find the crossing guard willing to hold up his STOP sign so we could cross without worrying about being blindsided by a turkey truck. I thought the most dangerous part of our journey was over, but that was before I decided to take a shortcut through the elementary school yard. That was real danger.
Curious children started squealing and pushing on our boxes, making me stagger to catch my balance. I don't know about you, but falling down is not one of my top ten favorite things to do, and falling down inside a box where I had no option of putting out my hands to catch myself is an even worse prospect.
"Hey, stop pushing us!" I yelled.
There was a moment of silence, then a small voice asked, "Are you Michael's mom?"
"Yes," I answered, claiming parentage of my third grader. Since I'm a minor celebrity at the school, working with producing social skill skits every month, most students know me. Once they knew who the alien box monster really was, the pushing stopped and we survived crossing a street on our own.
A block from home, a stream of wolf cub scouts flowed toward us, parting around the boxes like rocks in a river. Then I saw my son, Michael's, face through my peephole.
"Mom, what are you doing?" he asked, his cheeks turning red.
"Taking these boxes home," I answered.
"What for?" He tried to sound exasperated.
"To play with," I said.
"Whatever," he answered, and walked on to join his den.
When my son got home from scouts, he spent the rest of the afternoon playing in the boxes. I grinned, remembering all my cardboard box adventures, and marked double time on my walking exercise chart.

The Pioneers - A Course in Miracles

by Shirley Bahlmann

Hey, it's out! My newest book, titled "The Pioneers - A Course in Miracles" is now available! Even though it doesn't have "Odd" in the title, it is the same format as my "Odds" true pioneer stories. Why the title change? Well, when the publisher first suggested taking "odd" out of the title, it was like they were asking me to cut off all my hair and dye my head chartreuse. That would be so odd! But when I thought about it, I realized how many people told me they had some of my books, but they couldn't remember which ones because they all said "odd." So then it seemed like a good tradition to let go, like birthday spankings. (I mean, what's the point of that?)
I'm very excited about this new book. It's slender enough to slip in your handbag and take anywhere to read, and contains uplifting and sometimes amusing stories of miraculous events from the olden days. You can read a sample story and order autographed copies from me at www.shirleybahlmann.com.
Well, I'm off to write another great book! Happy reading.

Mormon Whiskey

by Shirley Bahlmann
Okay, we've all heard it, mothers are entrusted with the care and nurturing of children. That means in good times when they're performing and we watch and cheer, even if they're pulling their shirt over their head or hitting fouls or squeaking on the high notes. We're also in it for the bad times when they're running noses all over the house and coughing on the jello.
My 14-year-old just got over a bad case of the flu. One night when he was getting ready to sleep, I told him to take some Nyquil so he could rest. (Isn't that what they say in the commercial?) He said he couldn't take it because the warning label said not to if you'd been coughing for more than two days.
"Hey," I said, "We've talked to a doctor, it's fine!" But he still refused, until I called my doctor brother and had him tell my son over the phone that yes, he should take some Nyquil so his body could rest and heal.
After I hung up the phone, my son had poured medicine into the little plastic cup that comes with the bottle. He looked up at me and said, "Okay, Mom, I'm ready to take my shot of Mormon whiskey."
All I can say is, we mothers do the best we can. Really, we do.

Mysterious Gravel

by Shirley Bahlmann
I was nearing the end of my half mile walk home when I felt a tiny bit of something tumble gently into my hand. It was too dark to see what it was, but it just smaller than a green pea, was hard and had rough edges. When I got home I examined my windfall in the light. It was a piece of white gravel.
Where had it come from? I was walking under a tree when it landed in my hand. What would a piece of gravel be doing in a tree? Also, there wasn't much hand for it to fit into. I had a tape player looped around my wrist, and my fingers were cupped around the strap. My sons wondered if it had been kicked up while I was walking, but I was on smooth sidewalk.
"It's a magic rock," one son said.
"It's a meteorite," said another.
"You could write a book about it," they both agreed.
So there you go. Ideas for books come from everywhere, even falling rocks.

Single Purpose

by Shirley Bahlmann
I once saw a cartoon that claimed to interpret what pets think. The word balloon over the cartoon mutt's head described our dog exactly. It read, "Throw the ball, throw the ball, throw the ball."
Honestly, last week I realized what a waste of time I'd spent feeling all mushy about having Bibs (our dog) since she was a puppy, and how she would be bereft if we ever had to send her to another family. NOT EVEN! As long as her new owners would kick or throw a ball until their legs fell off, she'd be in doggie heaven.
When my sister visited, she thought it was nice that Bibs always brought the ball back. Her dog just runs after the ball, then gets interested in something else. What a relief that would be!
One thing I have to admire about Bibs is her tenacity. She knows what she wants and she makes no apologies for going after it. In a way, we could all stand to be more focused on what it is we really want, dog slobber, ant seasoning, and all.
Okay, so all dogs can't be like Benjy or Lassie or else those shows wouldn't hold so much appeal. We'll keep our mutt, and keep the tennis ball industry in the black.

A Simple Hug

by Shirley Bahlmann
It's Mr. Bahlmann's and my 30th anniversary next month. You'd think after 30 years we'd know each other so well that we could communicate without words. Well, I love my guy, I really do, but human-ness comes in and makes us less than perfect.
I tend to be sensitive to anger. Even mild disapproval makes me want to leave the room and go find the dog to hug. This morning Bob and I had a misunderstanding just before I left for work. But I've recently determined that no matter what, whenever I leave and Bob's still at home, I'm going to kiss him and tell him goodbye. So I walked in to where he sat at his computer chair, said, "Good bye," and bent over to kiss him. That's when he surprised me by reaching up and giving me a hug that told me without words that he still loved me.
So my message to you is to go out and do a simple act of kindness. Don't hug everybody, because even though that's one of my favorites, not everyone likes it, but go ahead and smile at someone, pay them a compliment, or pass along some words of appreciation. It won't kill you, and it might just save their sanity. What power you hold in your decision to simply be kind!

Weird Award

by Shirley Bahlmann
The principal I work with walked into the office, carrying something with extra care. I moved closer and peered through the clear plastic wrap printed with red stars. I could make out some kind of silver emblem in the center, but no details. "What is it?" I asked.
"Our school won the Community Partner Award," the principal answered proudly.
I reverently took the award from him so I could see it more closely. The silver thing inside was sliding around. I hoped I hadn't broken it. Finally, I made out what the blob of silver was. A shiver ran down my back.
It was a disembodied hand.
I was instantly and unwillingly taken back to the night of my youth when my brother's friend told a story on a dark and stormy night about a hand severed from its owner that crawled around choking people. Creepazoid! Now I held in my own two hands an award that had memorialized the nefarious hand in metal.
"I like it," said the school counselor, looking over my shoulder. "I think that free-form art stuff is really interesting."
She'd obviously never heard the same story I did.
I'll admit, I would like to win an award before I die. Or two or three. But if it's going to be the creepy hand award, then I'll pass, thank you!

Don't Kick a Box in Flops

by Shirley Bahlmann
It's nice to have a fresh start; in writing, in clean sheets, and in raking your yard after a winter pileup of late-dropping leaves.
That's what we did last Saturday, we went outside and cleaned our yard - as much as wasn't frozen in the snow piles that clung to the north side of our house. Part of my self-imposed cleaning was moving boxes back to the shed. When I set one down partially in the doorway, I gave it a kick to nudge it into place.
Owowowow!
I neglected to mention a favorite fresh spring fashion accessory. I love to wear flip flops, but they are not good for kicking boxes. It can really mess up your toenail polish, not to mention your toe.
If you don't believe me, I'll peel back the bandaid for you to see for yourself. So wear shoes when you do yard work, and don't forget to get your writing in afterward!