Why the Red Desert Has My Heart

I wrote this as an assignment for a class I took as I contemplated going back to school. I wasn't really sure how I'd do since I haven't taken an English class since 7th grade, but it didn't turn out too bad. 

June 29, 2020

English Composition 1

Narrative Essay

Why The Red Desert Has My Heart

   As a child, some of my favorite memories are vacations with my Dad in the red rock country of Moab, Utah. He was a gruff looking man with a full beard and a volatile temper but when we were on vacation, his gentle, mild side showed through. It was almost as if the wild of the desert calmed his soul and gave him the peace he needed to be able to enjoy the moment and the people he was with. I have other good memories in my childhood, but our vacations to the red desert he loved are definitely the best. 

   The six hour car ride to Moab from where we lived in Salt Lake City was always hot and sticky with not enough air conditioning reaching to the back of the van where I inevitably had to sit. As the fifth child, there were plenty of people taking up the seats in front of me and air conditioning in the old van just wasn’t able to keep up in the blistering heat. I didn’t care though, vacations seldom happened and a little heat wouldn’t ruin the chance to go.

  As volatile as Dad’s temper was at home, he seemed to relax on vacation. The one exception to that was that we knew we better be ready to leave for the day’s adventures each morning when he was ready or you might just get left behind. He was happy to take us on vacation but nobody was going to ruin his by dawdling and wasting time at the hotel when there was a desert to see. I think that is partly why I love the red sandstone rocks and desert so much, because I associate it with him being calm, kind, and carefree. 

   One of Dad’s favorite places to go near Moab was the overlook at Dead Horse Point. The road was long and seemed to stretch on forever as it wound up to the top of the mesa. Once we were up there you could count on eating lunch because Dad wouldn’t be ready to leave for hours, and I was okay with that. I remember feeling the breeze on my face and the sun beating down as I looked across the myriad of canyons that stretched out from Dead Horse Point across to the Needles Overlook miles away. Far away from traffic, lights, sounds, sirens, or playground noise, it was just you and the desert with the occasional hawk windsurfing in the distance and lizards basking in the glorious sunshine. 

   Being alone at the edge of a desert canyon drop off is where you might begin to understand the phrase “the sound of silence.” It is one of my favorite places to be. Dad, true to his reclusive character, would be off on his own looking out over the canyon, becoming one with the stillness. He was home. I often wondered what he might be thinking as he stood there looking across the expanse for what seemed like forever, and one of my regrets is that I never asked. 

   Once when I was fifteen, my two uncles, Richard and Allan, brought some of their family with us on one Moab trip. My older brother Jason brought his new 4x4 truck and they all decided to go offroading on the slickrock trails. I remember they tackled Elephant Hill, or at least tried to. Dad wasn’t driving or tackling the offroading trails but I think he enjoyed watching his son and brothers playing in the desert he loved. Within just a couple years after that trip, Dad was gone. 

   When I had kids of my own, I took them to Moab to see the desert I had grown to love. Off to the right, just as you come into town, there is a big red hill of soft fine sand that is perfect for jumping in. I held the baby and watched as my older kids climbed to the top and then laughed as they jumped down into the warm sand, falling and rolling down the hill just as I remember doing as a child.  

   We went to Delicate Arch and stood there in awe of the beautiful asymmetry carved and worn through winds of time. I was grateful that I could share my happy place with my kids. Warm tears filled my eyes, and yet a lump formed in my throat. I missed my Dad. I often wonder what the winds of time would have carved with his weary soul given the chance, but I’ll be forever grateful for the time I had with him in the red deserts of Utah.

B. Think About Your Writing

Below your completed narrative, include answers to all of the following reflection questions:

1. Which narrative techniques did you use to bring your story to life? 

The six hour car ride to Moab from where we lived in Salt Lake City was always hot and sticky with not enough air conditioning reaching to the back of the van where I inevitably had to sit.

Far away from traffic, lights, sounds, sirens, or playground noise, it was just you and the desert with the occasional hawk windsurfing in the distance and lizards basking in the glorious sunshine. 

I held the baby and watched as my older kids climbed to the top and then laughed as they jumped down into the warm sand, falling and rolling down the hill just as I remember doing as a child.  

2. How did your purpose and audience shape the way in which you wrote your narrative? The narrative was written with a hypothetical audience of my kids and anyone interested in my life while still being interesting to a random reader. Considering the audience to be people connected to both myself and my Dad, I provided more details about my Dad’s personality as part of the narrative. I feel the interaction of my love for the desert and my Dad’s personality are intertwined. 

3. Provide a concrete example from your narrative that shows how you have written specifically for this audience and purpose.

A concrete example of how I wrote specifically for the audience of my kids and people connected to both myself and my Dad, providing a bit about his personality as well as my love for the desert is shown in the following paragraph. 

“Being alone at the edge of a desert canyon drop off is where you might begin to understand the phrase “the sound of silence.” It is one of my favorite places to be. Dad, true to his reclusive character, would be off on his own looking out over the canyon, becoming one with the stillness. He was home. I often wondered what he might be thinking as he stood there looking across the expanse for what seemed like forever, and one of my regrets is that I never asked.”

The me I don't want to be

Where once I felt shattered, I don't anymore. Where once I felt broken, I'm not.
And yet, I don't feel whole either.

How is that possible? How does that even make sense?
How is it that I can feel so much healing has taken place, so much recovery, and still feel the way I do?

For a week or two I sailed on golden seas. Everything was possible, anything could be done. I felt great, and it felt so good to feel good.

And then, I stepped into a deep hole. I climbed out, and kept walking forward, but every few steps, I drop back down a deep, deep hole. And just by admitting it, I feel guilty and fall down again. Because I who have been given so much, so much love, so many friends, so much healing, I should not feel this way. I should not be as low as I have ever been.

But I do. And it hurts.

I know part of what I'm struggling with are the food allergies I have and the way that is affecting my life. Each time I eat, I get sick. Painfully sick. Or, I can't breathe, which as you can imagine, isn't any fun either.

That is only part of the picture though, and I know that I can't blame everything on that. Through a lot of work and effort on my part, and some kind and helpful friends, I have learned to dig deeper and find the root of my lows. There is always an emotion triggering a relapse, and usually if I can identify and name the emotion and the cause of it, I can work through it and pull myself back together.

That was so much easier to write than it is to actually do, especially when there is more than one emotion and more than one source involved.

Still, I have to boil it down. .I have to unravel it. If I don't, it chokes me. And I'm tired of choking.

The past week or so has been exceptionally difficult. Yes, dealing with the food allergies has definitely been part of it. After several severe reactions lately, and getting sick after every time I eat, Ryan made me an appointment to go in and see an allergist.  Turns out I am allergic to more than I thought I was and everything that didn't show up on the skin prick test is still making me painfully sick every time I eat.

I'm angry. I'm tired of being sick. I just want to feel good. What is so wrong with that?

I just want butter and sour cream on my potatoes. I want to eat a bite or two of sinfully delicious ice cream. I want to enjoy a mouthful of chewy sourdough bread. I want to take the buttermilk in the fridge and make some fluffy pancakes or tender, flaky biscuits shaped into hearts for my kids. I want to make some tangy Orange Chicken for Amanda and then sit and enjoy eating it with her. I want to dip strawberries in Val's homemade chocolate ganache and in every bite, find more love.

I want to make gingerbread cookies with my kids, and sour cream cookies for the neighbors. I want to make omelets and crepes and have friends over for breakfast. I want to help Mercy make Monkey Bread like we do every year for Thanksgiving, and sit and share the first loaf with her and Ryan when it comes out of the oven.  I want the Reeses Peanut Butter cookies Mom Mel made growing up. I want to be able to bake a birthday cake for my kids without dying.

I'm angry. And I'm grieving. And I'm empty and hollow.  And I feel like I've lost a part of me.

Food isn't just about eating. Not for me. It's the joy of making something good and sharing it with someone I love. It's the memories for my kids as I make a dinner they love and then draw pictures on their plate with sour cream. It's the time I spend in the kitchen unravelling my thoughts as I do something so comforting and assuring as melting butter, whipping cream, folding egg whites, or measuring flour.

Like it or not, my memories are often tied to food. The rye sandwich my brother and I shared in Disneyland, and the hamburger he bought me after they got back from the theatre. It was my first time on a plane, first trip to the ocean, times I'll always remember, food I'll never forget.  The french fries and frosty shakes I shared with Ryan after the dance. The barbecue sauce on the ribs - our first date. The spaghetti that was for dinner the night we first kissed. The steak at Carver's, the lobster dipped in butter while we were in Boston, trying to make things work in our failing marriage.  The loaded potato skins, baked potato soup, caramel apple crisp and heavenly cheesecake we'd share as we repaired our relationship.

Candy sticks from Harmon's with Dad, and sometimes ice cream cones while we shopped for Sunday morning cereal. The dinner he complained about after I made it especially for him. The chicken fried steak I refused to eat after he bought it for me (because I thought it looked like worms). The pineapple shake I hated that he bought in anger because he couldn't hear me as I requested another flavor.

Basil and swedish meatballs are joined at the hip with memories of Danielle. Without her, I wouldn't know what a tomato concasse is, or how to properly blanch broccoli. Paring knives, pomegranates, and orange rolls immediately make me think of Mom Mel, not to mention Pot Pie, warm white bread, and slumgolium. Brenda is tied to peaches, and Debbie - twice baked potatoes and cabbage salad. Jason is forever tied to Banana Bread, and yellow Zingers to Barb, Jared, and Hossie. I know in a pinch, Eliza will always love a well made Homemade Hostess Cupcake. And because I make them, Mercy is proud.

Cooking is love to me. If I bake, you know I love you. If I make something you like, It's almost a hug.

It's not just what I can give to others, or what I remember others for, it's for me too. It's something with constants in a constantly changing world. It's something I can count on when I can't even count on myself.  It's something I know I do well when I feel like I fail at most everything else.

Why can't I just keep this one good part of me?

But, that's not all. I know it's not. Food and all it represents both in eating and being taken away from me is not all I'm struggling with. It's not the real reason I'm falling into holes with each step I take. It's an extension of the root of what I feel.

It's rejection. Rejection by those I love most. Rejection of what I have to offer. Rejection because I'm not good enough. Rejection because I mess up.

Loss. Of friendship. Of trust. Of hope.

And fear. Fear that I won't be accepted. Fear that I'll be rejected again. Fear I can't even verbalize.

Somehow my heart or brain is saying that since I'm not shattered, I should be whole. Since I'm not drowning, I should be good. I should be able. I should be likeable, at least to myself. But what I see is someone who although not shattered still holds the same hurtful heart within her chest. The one that never sees her mistakes until it's too late because she's messed up again. Hurt someone again. Or ruined something again.

How can I fix it all? How can I get past the me I see? How can I believe that it will ever feel right? That I'll ever get it right? That I'll ever be good enough?

I guess you could say, I'm rejecting me. And everyone I see.
Because I see in them a reflection of myself.

The me I don't want to be.

A Princess Party

It's been a long month without Ry being home... and we sure are missing him.  He was sad he had to miss this birthday. Daisy was excited that his gift arrived in the mail right before the party started.  

We enjoyed having her friends helped her celebrate her birthday -- princess style. 

PS... A big Thank You to Cinderella for making her party awesome!

 

The roses were made from sticks of bubble gum. The beads were Strawberry Whoppers. 

Family

Originally posted June 13, 2010

The photo is of Tyler with my brother Jason when he came down last to visit.  I sure have enjoyed the friends and family who’ve come, but I have to say one of the visits I’ve most enjoyed has been Jason, Eliza, and Eric the last time they came down. Maybe its just that they are the last to have come, maybe its something else. I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but it doesn’t matter does it?  I really enjoyed having them come.  The kids did too.  Jonnie hasn’t stopped talking about the “cycles” every time he hears something with an engine racing by. I hope they come back again soon, and I hope J is able to stop by again before he leaves for Costa Rica. 

Family is a precious thing though. I find myself in tears more often than not anytime I see a movie, hear a song, or anything else having to do with family.  Not always sad tears, more thoughtful and appreciative tears.  Sometimes they are sad though. 

Yesterday we spent time with the Kelly and Sheila Dutton and their family at their place on Kolob. Can we say beautiful?  The whole drive up was lush and green, with wildflowers and beautiful pastures mingled with red rock cliffs and layered sandstone formations. We wound in and out of Zion’s National Park on the way up to their pavilion near Kolob Reservoir, and marveled the whole way up at the beauty surrounding us. 

But the real beauty was seen once we arrived.

Sheila and Kelly had 12 children and their spouses all together to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. Nannette kept everyone in line and organized the entire affair, Daphne and her girls brought in a beautiful wedding cake, a near replica of their first. Camille, Myrna, Jamie, Diana, Brenda, Kelly Sue, Shaynie, Lora worked together seamlessly with Nannette preparing 28 dutch ovens full of cobbler, chicken, and potatoes. Ted, Willie, and Cecil kept briquettes hot, fires going, heaters lit, and had the whole pavilion arranged with chairs and tables for a crowd. Tom, Elliot and Stan rocked the babies. Kevin, Terry, and Steve took care of Great Grandma Dutton and Kevin setup for the slideshow celebrating Kelly and Sheila’s life. Roxie put together salads, and in general, everything was taken care of wonderfully. 

About a million children and grandchildren milled around, going in and out of the camp trailers setup, running around in the loft area, and generally keeping things interesting.  It didn’t matter whether it was my kid needing help going potty, dishing watermelon, or getting the right piece of cake, a baby tottering down the gravel slope, someone else needing another twinkie, the mud needing to be swept off the cement, or somebody else needing a hug... everyone jumped right up to make sure everything, and everyone, was taken care of. 

There was laughing, joking, and smiles aplenty. I don’t remember a cross word being said, an angry glance, or a frustrated look.  It was family. One big, happy, pleasant family working, laughing, and playing together.

When it was time for the slideshow, I just sat with tears streaming down my face as photos of young Sheila as a bride, and young Kelly as a father flashed on the screen. Their family grew bigger and bigger with every shot til all 13 children were numbered. Then the came the grandchildren. Kelly and Sheila know every single one, their birthday, their personality.

The harmony of the family was beautiful to behold. It was a day that my Dad only dreamed about. But they took his dreams, and made them a sweet reality.  It was family, and up there on that freezing cold mountain top with the wind blowing and the smoke from the fire billowing, that sense of family, of love, felt like home.

So a shout out to all of Sheila and Kelly’s family -- job well done. 

And a shout out to all of my family.  I love you all.  Please know that you are all important and special to me, and that you each have a place in my heart. 

Love,  Rachel

PS... here are a few pics of Jason I took while he was down here.  Good looking brother!! You can see a few more on my photography website. www.lifeholdingstill.com