Home, Part 2

We've lived in our new Elgin home for a month today. Cozy little cottage. The newness has worn off and it's reality from here on out.

I have to say that this small town's inhabitants are much more friendly. We had more visitors in this month than we had in all of last year, minus family, of which we've seen none yet. The Elders' Quorum in the Elgin ward were extremely helpful getting us moved out of La Grande and into Elgin in a timely manner. All of our belongings fit, though boxes are still stacked at walls and will be for some time until we figure out where else we can empty them. There is a small shed to the left of the house, too, which contains boxes of yet untouched (by me, at least) stuff. And behind the house is a market, which takes me all of five minutes away from the house to be done with shopping. Not too shabby!

This move has gotten me thinking about a lot of different things, one of which is people's perception of me. I don't care a lot about status, but some friends of mine made a comment that made it clear that they think I did. It made me sad to think they thought of me that way, but what can I do about it? I am not particularly proud of my house, but it serves the great purpose of keeping us warm and safe. And the inside of it is cute. And those are great reasons to appreciate this blessing!

I love many things about the house. I love the long tub! It's nearly as long as I am! I love the tile floors in the bathroom and kitchen, and the tile on the counter in the kitchen. I love all the windows. I love the winding staircase. I love the location. There are so many things to love about this tiny house. And one of the best things about it is that it's available to us so that we can live in the place the Lord wants us to be.

Home

We are moving to Elgin, Oregon, population 1651. We have lived in La Grande for over 10 years. We lived in this beautiful big old house for one year, and now we will go to a new land, make new friends, and make our home in a new house.

It was Saturday night of Conference weekend when we went to the stake center up the road for a baptism. The little girl who was being baptized is a girl from Elgin whose father directs the plays at the Elgin Opera House and who has worked with Sam several different times therewith. The newly-called bishop was a carpenter who had also worked with these men and all had a positive relationship with each other. Throughout the course of the baptism, Sam felt prompted again and again that he needed to speak with the new bishop. An appropriate moment never came up, so Sam dismissed these promptings. On Monday morning, however, the father of the baptized girl called up Sam and told him that he had felt like he needed to ask Sam to speak with the bishop. Sam figured that he should probably just call up the bishop and see why both he and his friend had felt these promptings. The bishop's reaction to Sam's call was that he had felt prompted to speak with Sam and ask him to join the ward by moving out there to Elgin. Since that fateful conversation, everything has fallen into place for us to make the move. I don't know why the Lord wants us out there, but it is obvious to me that He does. We found a cozy cottage close to the church, the schools, and the Opera House. Our landlord has been uncharacteristically encouraging about it, even letting us break our lease without penalty. That in itself is a miracle. Another miracle is my attitude. At first I was so upset that I made everyone's life miserable. I love the home we're in. We have so much room to spare, room for all of the activities we could possibly choose. The home we're moving into is literally 1/3 the space, with no extra room for anything. Not even an office. But for some reason my attitude changed yesterday when I found out that we're in it for reals. I am so excited for the new adventure we're on! Home isn't the house with the most room for all the kids and places for visitors to stay. It's the place where we all love each other and are willing to make our circumstances work, no matter what they are. I have such a wonderful life and the best family I could ever choose. My husband is the coolest person, and his passions make him beautiful. Although my life is on a track I hadn't planned for, I am grateful that the Lord takes care of us in any circumstance.

Best Friends

Having a best friend has been an elusive challenge for me. I had friends as a child who liked me well enough to play with me exclusively for a short time, but “weird” was a word often used to describe my personality. I was sensitive, another term used to describe me.

When I was in 6^th grade, I had a best friend named Hilary. She was a year younger than I was, but we were in the same split-class. We also went to church together, which was nice, since there were so few LDS kids in the town and fewer that lived their religion. Hilary and I played together a lot, even going to each other’s houses sometimes. One day I came to school and she was with a group of 5^th-graders who I had grown to understand were gossipy. Hilary came up to me and told me, in front of this group of girls, that she would no longer be my friend, because I liked Poppy, a less popular girl in my own grade. I was heartbroken. And I was angry, because Poppy was one of the nicest girls I knew because she didn’t care what others thought, and she tried to do what was right despite her less-than-ideal circumstances. I thought that was a pretty lame excuse to stop being my friend. It was a really hard thing for me to get over, too, because I was hoping for my friendship with Hilary to last forever. We had shared so many secrets, so many exciting adventures. But I’m glad I got that opportunity to know Poppy better and to lose my friendship with Hilary before I became what she did.

I remember, after this huge disappointment in friendship, looking through my older sisters’ yearbooks with wonder at the ads in the back. There would be full-page spreads dedicated to some glamorous girl proclaiming her to be the most wonderful daughter/sister/girlfriend/whatever, or a similar one for a guy expressing how manly and fabulous he was for being a great boyfriend/son/sports player/etc. Those ads were interesting, but the ones I was most fascinated by and spent the most time studying were the ads dedicated to a best friend. I saw pictures of two friends as preschoolers and then again as seniors in high school. It was mind-boggling for me to imagine being so close to someone for so many years.

I had a group of friends in middle and high school and, for an unexplained reason, we all clung loosely to each other. We really didn’t have much in common. We all looked different, practiced various religions, came from all manner of family situations, and had few similar interests. We had classes together and really didn’t fit in to any clique. I wonder now why we were friends. I didn’t hang out with any of them outside of school. We shared personal things with each other and became excited for each other when the boy we liked spoke to us or looked at us, but we didn’t have sleepovers or hug each other or anything like that. I didn’t even have a relationship like that with a sister. My journal was my best friend. I wrote many times about how I wished I had someone, male or female, who would listen to me and share my innermost thoughts. How I wished I could post a picture in the yearbook my senior year with someone who cared to declare that we were BEST FRIENDS!

Sam and I have been married for over eleven years. We have shared so much and I can honestly say that he is my best friend. Our secrets are shared, and there is nothing that can break that strong cord binding us together. Sam is the most amazing man I have ever met, real or fictional. He has taught me more about myself and about the world in the time I’ve known him than all I learned in the 19 years I lived before. I have learned to forgive myself and others, to speak up for myself, to love people and understand why they make certain mistakes (including myself), and among many other things, how to just be myself. Also, he has taught me to realize that “men are that they might have joy,” and that joy can be found in all things.

It seems like a recurring theme in my life is that whenever I make a close friend, she has to move away. I don’t understand why this keeps happening, but inevitably, it does. I am still trying to be a good friend. Having a best gal friend is still a goal in the future. Sam encourages me to make friends and try to find people who will enrich my life, build me up, and give me happiness. I can’t imagine a better friend than that.

Violinista

I have played the violin since 4^th grade. My father taught orchestra in the schools and I got no preferential treatment. I didn’t even really care for playing an instrument, to be honest. I just copied whatever Jenny did. She was the girl who sat next to me in class. And playing in orchestra was not an option, it was just what we did. The end. No discussion. I didn’t even know that people got to choose whether they played instruments or not.

So throughout my years in school, I played in orchestra with Dad as conductor. In middle school, I branched out to the bass, because there wasn’t one in the orchestra and I wanted to try something really new and exciting. It was so easy, and I got a lot of attention whenever I’d carry the bass around. I didn’t really like standing out like that, but it sort of goes with the territory when you play the biggest instrument in town.

In eighth grade, I discovered competition. I went back to the violin because I wanted a smaller instrument again. It wasn’t important to me to sit in first chair, though for some weird reason I was always there. It wasn’t a priority for me to practice and I rarely did, when I couldn’t find a good book to read. But there was a Korean boy who had skipped a grade or two, and he could play beautifully. I know he spent a good chunk of his days practicing the violin, and it seemed to him almost disgusting to have to play in a group with other kids. He had amazing intonation but absolutely no expression, like he was a machine spitting out the data he read on the sheetmusic page. There was no way I was letting this punk be concertmaster. Somewhere inside me I felt a motherly, protective irritation towards him. The rest of the kids in the class needed someone older and wiser to be their example, not someone who didn’t even care to be their friend. I’m no great leader, but the quiet example of someone with respect to the rules is something that inspires me. So I practiced and practiced and practiced the piece we were going to play to compete for concertmaster and got that song down so perfectly that I almost felt sorry for my competitor when he lost. I could clearly see his disappointment, because he genuinely felt like he was far above everyone else in skill. As for me, there was no feeling of victory or smugness, I just felt lame. I felt like I had pushed a member of the group away in order for me to rise to the top. Competition stinks.

In high school, I was happy to go to the bottom of the totem pole. A few older musicians were very talented and inspired me to practice more than I had ever done before. Not that it was very often, but it was still better. By the time I reached my senior year, I was the only senior in orchestra. No competition!

There was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I can’t believe I saw happen to me that year. The Seattle Symphony did a program where they traveled to different areas and performed with one musician selected from high schools in that area. I was chosen from our school! I was given some impossible music to play along with them, a practice or two in their rehearsal room in Seattle, and a final performance at the college concert hall in Aberdeen. I will never forget that experience. I was surrounded by the most perfect music imaginable. The musicians were ONE. They blended and moved together without a blemish. I played quietly so as to keep the perfection as intact as possible in order to experience the moment as long as I could. I honestly think the Lord made it possible for me to be there as a sparkle of hope, so that I could visualize Heavenly music at a dreary time in my life when the future was hazy. I wasn’t taking my life seriously. I didn’t know what I was doing or what I would be doing after high school. Nobody sat me down and had a talk with me about my future. It didn’t seem like anyone really cared very much about my life or how I should be spending my time. But this moment was unreal. I didn’t fully grasp its significance at the time, but it meant a lot to me then.

Throughout my time at home, I played in quartets or groups put together by my dad. Sometimes we made money, sometimes we just played, sometimes we played too long and annoyed people. It was all good, character-building, experience-enhancing fun.

In college, I (miraculously) passed an audition to get into the symphony. We played some challenging pieces and some hauntingly beautiful ones. I realized that my practice habits put me farther back in the second violin section than I had ever been before. But hey, when you’re not in front, you can scope out the babes or goof around with your stand partner without notice! Awesome! We played a special concert for the prophet in the Tabernacle. My stand partner ran into President Hinckley, but I missed him. Too much primping in the mirror – vanity ruined my day.

For a while here in La Grande, I had a music group called New Vintage, and it was a beautiful gal named Lisa and me who both sang, she played the piano, and I played violin. We would meet at her house once a week and go through music and mostly chat. She was one of the closest friends I’ve ever had. We played for a wedding and a local business show, but we didn’t get many gigs. We blended well together. She was far more talented than she realized. I think we both benefited from the girl time we spent, using New Vintage as an excuse for it. When she moved away, I stopped playing the violin for a while. I play in church a couple times a year, but that’s about it.

Since getting older, I’m starting to get braver, caring less and less about others’ opinions. I’m not going to let it get out of control, as I’ve seen with other people caring not at all about others’ opinions, but let’s just say it’s a necessary part of my self esteem. Last year I was brave enough to try out my first fiddle competition, which was so much fun because of my cheering section! I love my family! And last night I tried playing in the pit for “Sound of Music.” That was nerve-wracking. I did fine, but I think I’ll have last night be the last of it.

So, I’m a violinist with little ambition. It’s fun to play in church or in small groups, familiar music without having to branch out too much. I don’t like to compete. I don’t like to practice a lot. I don’t like learning new fingerings or tricks. Traditionally, I’m not the typical violinist. I didn’t even start out with a passion for it. Even so, the experiences I’ve had as a result of learning the basics and using them for 23 years have been amazing. I’m no Itzhak Perlman, but I love my beautiful violin (with the Pirastro Obligato strings and rosin – thank you, Sam!) and we’re a great team when we do nice, quiet, unassuming stuff together.

Twilight

So, at the recommendation of cousin Marie Orton, who is in my ward, I read the first vampire book by Stephenie Meyer. Actually, Sam made me do it. He sent the book to me via e-mail, and he knows that once I start a book, it's difficult to put down. This one was no different.

It's set in Forks, Washingon, which is an actual town near where I spent nine years of my boring life. The main character, Bella, has brown eyes and brown hair and is pretty much a boring person like me. She's in high school. She meets up with a remarkably talented, handsome, and mysterious guy who happens to be a vampire, and they are drawn to each other by more than the average chemistry. Edward reminds me in many ways of Sam. For these reasons alone, it was difficult to stop myself from reading the book from cover to cover in a day's time.

The second, third, and fourth books were brought over to me by Marie on Thursday, a week ago. I figured that I would eventually get to them, but I started the next book on Friday...well, I finished them all by Monday night late. The second book references "Romeo and Juliet" and is loosely based on that play. The third book references "Wuthering Heights" and is loosely based on that book. (I hated that book, but this novel made some interesting references that helped me to better understand the point of the original story.)

Those three would be complete, in my opinion. I started reading the fourth book and immediately regretted it. When Bella was just about to drink some blood, I put the book down and told Sam I was done. He told me to just keep reading and see if it got better. The book was just a weird, unnecessary addition. Maybe some of the romance novel innuendos and graphic violence could have been cut out and I'd have liked it much better.

Anyway, now I see that they're making a movie of the books. It sort of made me sad to see the cast and how different they are from who I imagined. Aside from "Harry Potter," this is the first time I've read the book and then seen the movie. I can see that I'll be disappointed in the Hollywood version of the books, but isn't that the point of Hollywood? Moneymoneymoney. Regardless of the good original, things must be changed in order to appease a larger audience. It sickens me. I would much rather see BBC's "Pride and Prejudice" than the trite new Hollywood version, even though it lasts much longer. I want to see a full story with realistic characters. That makes for a movie I want to watch again and again. That's what I love about reading. It gives me a fuller view of the thoughts and motivations of each character and lets me take my time mulling it over as to what it means.

As for the Twilight series, it's an interesting concept, but I'm not sure I'll ever read it again. Bella is so stinkin' selfish, and she doesn't deserve what Edward has to offer her. Very romantic and everything, but I'm surprised to hear myself say that what I've got is much more romantic!

As a matter of fact, the name of my blog, "Paige of Pearls," stems from the jewelry. A few years ago, I was encouraged to start selling jewelry. Pictures were taken of my favorite sets and posted on eBay to sell. I had to come up with a name for a store on eBay, so Paige of Pearls was chosen. My favorite stones are pearls, and I used sterling silver findings exclusively (which, by the way, is somewhat foolish, given the tarnish that silver gets after a while...but it is beautiful). The logo seen on the top of the front page of this blog is the logo I made for the store. Unfortunately, after listing the items a few times, I got no bids and few interested customers. So I figured that most people aren't as excited about it as I am.

I told a good friend about the jewelry and she wanted to look at it. When she saw the mauve pearls, she said, "Oh, those are pretty beads. They're heavier than I thought they'd be." I was sort of sad that she didn't recognize them as actual pearls, and I understood then that I am and never will be a salesman. I enjoy making beautiful things and to me they are worth far more than money. I will never be able to crochet or knit clothes or creations like my sisters can (and I wish I could!), but I can whip up a set of earrings just before church to match my mood or my outfit. It's pretty exciting!

Old School

Just a couple of days ago, I joined up with Facebook. Basically, it's a minimal information site, like a picture book of people one may or may not know from the past. I was encouraged to join by my sister, who mentioned that another of our sisters had already joined. With two of my sisters and (unbeknownst to me at the time) my husband and brother already members of this site, I decided to join.

I entered in the information for my high school and colleges. On the first page popped up a bunch of pictures of people I may already know. One of the pictures was of a friend of mine from high school, a girl named Noelle. It was very exciting to see her again after fourteen years! And back to my mind rushed memories of times we hung out together.

In sophomore English, we had class on the first floor of the oldest building of the school. It was my favorite building, in fact, the only one I felt at home inside. I hated high school with a passion, but I didn't mind it when my classes were in the Weatherwax Building. The ceilings were so high, the windows were large and ancient, and the glass was thicker at the bottom of the panes. The stairs were worn in the middle and looked as though they sagged, and I could imagine how many students and educators walked on them. It gave me a feeling of belonging, knowing that I was one of the historical people walking the halls in this great old place. The library was my favorite place in the world. So many books, so much room to study, and the massive windows and high, inlaid ceiling made it seem like a world all its own. I loved that building.

Our English class was only made bearable by the fact that it was in that building and that many of my friends were there with me. We all dreaded Mrs. Bennett's lectures. She used a phrase so many times that it was immensely distracting. "Very definitely," she would say. We, being in an English class, would be critical of anything our teacher said that might be bad English. "Definitely" was already a pretty solid word, but using "very" with it seemed ridiculous. Mrs. Bennett would get after us for being redundant, and we would use this against her - behind her back, of course. English had to be somewhat exciting for us! And since we were all nice kids, we wouldn't badmouth our teacher while she knew about it. Oh, the rebelliousness in us!

I remember hanging out in front of the Weatherwax building just before class one day, and Noelle complimented me on my clear complexion. I was baffled, because my face has suffered from acne since I was thirteen. I thought I must be doing something right with my makeup application!

That same year, my friend Joann and I would mosey around the block and just chat during lunch. One day, while we were in front of the Weatherwax Building, we saw some unfamiliar kids driving up. We realized they were kids from Hoquiam, a rival school. They began to throw eggs at MY BUILDING. I was so upset that I could barely think, but Joann and I called for help. I don't remember everything that happened, but somehow my brother Aaron (a senior then) showed up and chased down one guy who subsequently gave him a black eye, which he proudly wore as a badge of war.

I also remember that a couple of my friends had a crush on one boy a couple of years later, when I had senior English in a classroom two floors above Mrs. Bennett's classroom. Our teacher was Dr. Carter, a unique man with curious views who I respected very much. The boy in question was a new boy to our school, and he was obviously one who fit in well with our "nice girl" group. When I first met him, I liked him, too, but I didn't say anything about it to the other girls. They proceeded to take turns dating him. One day, as I was sitting outside the building and this boy walked by, I thought, "boy, is he cute." And I realized that he was trouble. He was deliberately playing my friends against each other. They were so taken in by what he looked like that they didn't see who he really was and what his motives were. I wrote my thoughts into a journal that I kept for English class. Each student was assigned to write a certain amount of entries in it for Doc to get to know us better as well as see how we write without a subject. Doc gave me some relationship advice and asked me some questions (via comments in the journal) that helped me to think about how I could be a better friend. What he said was so simple and objective. I think that he was the influence I needed at the time.

Some time ago, and I'm not sure when, some kids broke into the school and burned down my building. I nearly cried when I saw the ashes. The memories and the history cannot be rebuilt. Structures are not built in the fashion of the Weatherwax Building anymore. Only time can make it what it became by the time I got there. But I'm happy that I could walk those halls and sometimes at night dream of climbing the stairs and feel that some old contented spirit was following me around. And I'm happy that I will never have to relive high school ever again.

Nobody Knows

Hey, nobody reads this blog anyhow, so I'm going to just forget about what I thought anyone thinks. I did originally make this page so that people could catch up on what's going on with me, but it doesn't really matter. Let's face it: nobody really cares what's going on with me. So I'm going to make this blog a fun thing for ME to read. Yeah.

There aren't too many things I like very much about my body right now. But I, most of the time, like my eyes. I didn't always, but I'm kind of getting narrowed down for likeable areas. They are brown. They are tiger eye (the semi-precious stone) color in the light. In high school, I liked to wear dark colors to bring out their darkness and to contrast my pale skin. I called my eyes "cow brown" or "poop brown," but now I realize that they shouldn't be compared to such yucky things. They see nearly clearly, and the whites stay white most of the time.

If I didn't have eyes, I couldn't see my children smile. That's something I didn't appreciate in high school, but it makes me grateful now. I can see the beautiful colors of spring, a welcome sight after the gloom of winter. I can see music on a page. I can see words in books and in letters. I can see the emerging writing scrawls on paper and pictures my children draw.

Eyes are windows to the soul, they say. One can read a person's intentions by gazing into those eyes. The best eyes to see are those of innocent children. Sometimes it's heartbreaking to see innocence and realize that someday it will change and the children will have to learn hard truths. When one holds onto youth for too long, eventually one's heart breaks and cold reality sets in. But seeing that innocence in young eyes does bring back goodness.

On our trip to Mexico last year, we came upon a truckful of Mexican army men in downtown traffic. As I looked into one of the men's eyes, I saw something I've never seen before. I smiled at him, and his gaze deepened. I realized something: a young man, no older than 20, sat ten feet from me and my family with a rifle in his hands and murder in his eyes. It was a very frightening realization to me. In contrast to this man, I deal daily with five young children who have never had any thoughts of that sort in their minds, and I'm sure that army man began life the same way. To go from one point of the spectrum to the other in only a few short years seems impossible, but there it was.

As usual, I'm rambly, but it all comes down to eyes. They're my favorite thing about myself, and they are the first thing I notice about people because they are so telling. Since this is my first real blog here, I'd like to welcome myself to this blog and thank myself for putting such relevant input onto this page. Also, I'd like to shake my hand and tell myself to sit down and shut up.