NAME NEUROSIS

Elizabeth Willis Barrett
March 27, 2011


For someone with as many names as I have, I really shouldn’t have a lot of hang-ups with names. But I do. I think I’ve always been strange that way. I called my Mom “Mama” for most of my childhood. Then I wanted to call her “Mom” since that’s what most of my friends seemed to call their mothers. I remember it taking me a long, disturbed while to work into “Mom” and to drop the “Mama” business. I finally made it happen, but now sometimes I wish I could call her “Mama” again. I like that name. But I can’t. Neurosis! Neither could I call her “Mother.” I don’t know why. It would just stick in my mouth funny like a piece of dry bread.

I couldn’t call my Dad “Pops” either or anything endearing. And he was very endearing. I could just call him “Dad.” I’m sure that started out as “Daddy.” I don’t remember getting to the point of dropping the “y,” but it was most likely quite painful.

I should have known that the inability to use names would get me into more trouble later on. Brad almost went on our honeymoon without me because I couldn’t say, “This is my husband, Brad.” (Actually, now that I think about it, we never had a honeymoon. I will write about that someday.) As people came through the reception line, I would just introduce him as Brad, which was pretty good I thought. At least I didn’t call him something else in my nervousness. But I couldn’t say “husband.” That wouldn’t be hard for most new brides, I’m sure, but it was really hard for me. I didn’t know it upset him until we were in our tiny VW Bug and on our way to Winnebago, Nebraska, to start our new life together. We have been married nearly 40 years so our marriage has had staying power in spite of my early lack of ability to introduce Brad as “my husband.”

Soon after being married, I made another faux pas with names. I wrote to Brad’s parents and stated, “I am going to call you ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ because I feel so close to you.” Well, that lasted only as long as it took to write it. I couldn’t call them “Mom” and “Dad.” It wouldn’t come out—kind of like a sticky mouthful of peanut butter. I realized what a mistake I had made in even suggesting that I call them “Mom” and “Dad” when we visited them in San Diego during a break from our Winnebago adventure. None of the other in-laws were calling them “Mom” and “Dad.” Even if the words could have come out of my mouth, how could I use those appellations when no one else did? I would have appeared to be a plotting daughter-in-law, sickening sweet to the core. While there, I made the vast mistake of answering the phone which happened to be for LaVerl. I couldn’t call her “Mom” and I couldn’t even call her “LaVerl” after making such a big deal of it, so I stood directly in front of her and held out the phone so I wouldn’t have to call her anything at all. It took a while, but Jeff and LaVerl became “Jeff” and “LaVerl” and we were all a lot more comfortable.

I have a beautiful sister-in-law who decided she didn’t want to be called Jaynie anymore after over 50 years into her lifetime. She officially changed her name to Kate and expected everyone to start calling her that. I thought I could do it and tried a few times, but I couldn’t. She had always been my kids’ “favorite Aunt Jaynie.” She told me to pretend like we’d never met and then when I saw her next to think of her as Kate. But that would dissolve all the history we had together. With the dissolution of her name, came the semi-dissolution of a friendship. That is most likely my fault. It’s just that names are such a part of who you are and again, I seem to have name neurosis.

So, back to all of my names. I was “Elizabeth” for a long time at school and church and nearly everywhere else I went until my friend Loretta started calling me “Liz” which my family often called me, too. My Erikson aunts, uncles and cousins would call me “Betts.” I love that name. I really don’t want to lose it, but I think they’ve moved on to “Liz.” Grandma Willis would often call me “Bettina.” Some family and friends sometimes call me “Lizbeth” or “Lizabeth.” I’m fond of all those names. We had a dog named “Chizum” that Brad sometimes called “Chizzie.” For some reason that made him start calling me “Lizzie.” It took me a while, but I like it now. The only thing I insist on is that when my name is written on a list or in a program or announced from a pulpit, I like it to be Elizabeth. I don’t want to lose the original.

When it was time to be a Grandmother there was one thing I was very sure of—I did not want to be called “Grandma.” Getting old enough to be one is bad enough and I wanted another name to distinguish me. Brad said that I should just wait to see what the grandkids called me which I knew would end up being “Grandma” if someone didn’t intervene early. So I chose to be called “Marmie” in my grandmotherly state. It took a great deal of effort to make it stick which I was too inhibited to do myself. But thanks to a daughter-in-law that didn’t have hang-ups with names, to most of my 15 grandchildren I am “Marmie.” I will have to say that when the little ones start talking, their “Marmie” sounds a lot like “Mommy.” I’m obviously a generation ahead of their Mommies, so I’m glad when they develop the ability to get in the “r.” Jana wanted her kids to call her “Mommy” and didn’t want them to get confused, so her kids call me “Betts.” I love being “Marmie Betts”. There isn’t another name I could have chosen that I would like better. And it, too, has its variation. When my Bella tried to say “Marmie,” it came out “Mimi.” That one melts me.

So now that I have so many names, you’d think I wouldn’t mind what someone else wants to be called. But there you have it—name neurosis—one of my many glitches.

Mindless

Elizabeth Willis Barrett


I had great plans to keep my mind and thinking abilities with me to the grave, but after a few more experiences reminiscent of the shopping cart fiasco (see my Blog Post of 7-24-10 ), I am beginning to doubt just a bit if that will be possible.

Two Sundays ago when all the kids and grandkids came to dinner, I set everything out on the counter and made sure everyone had what they needed. Then I served up a plate for myself. Twice. I didn’t know it was twice, but when dinner was over and clean-up began, there was a plate sitting on the counter sporting a small serving of Chicken Tetrazzini and a helping of salad dressed with Ranch. No one claimed it and just to set the record straight, Alli quietly said, “Mom, that plate is yours. I saw you dish it up.” I had not an ounce of recollection that I had dished out a plate for myself before I dished out a plate for myself. The kids are already taking dibs on who won’t have to take care of me in my demented state.

Then last Thursday I painstakingly gathered and organized a lot of coupons to take to Fry’s Food and Drug. I don’t always use coupons, but once in a while it is nice to hear, “Well, Ma’am, you spent 61 dollars and saved 65.”

I spent lots of time in the store looking for the brands that coincided with the coupons but finally got up to the checkout counter manned (or is that “womaned”) by a very nice cashier. If I had been Brad, I would have paid attention to her name pinned to her chest and used it five or six times in friendly conversation. But even though I talked to her about how good it feels to save money with coupons, I didn’t notice her name so I’ll just call her Peggy. Peggy was great. She didn’t act perturbed that I had a stack of coupons for her to scan or that I insisted that she make sure that I had 10 participating products so I could get my $5.00 off.

I waited for her to tell me how much I had saved but since she didn’t ever say it, I figured I could look on the receipt when I got home. She did, however, hand me a rain check for Armour Meatballs which were on sale for $1.99 and for which I had a coupon, bringing the price down to $ .99. What a deal! No wonder they were out of them.

The bagger bagged my groceries and asked if I needed help out. I always say “no” to that question because, frankly, I hate to small talk and that is what you have to do if you’re walking side by side with a young man who is pushing your cart while you’re pointing out which car is yours.

So I thanked Peggy and rolled my cart out all by myself and even found my car without any problem, which is something to be grateful for.

I had just loaded the last 12pack of Dr. Pepper—which, honestly, I only use for medicinal purposes and to pacify Kyle—and I had searched for and found the Chocolate Turtle Chex Mix that I wanted to eat on the way home, when I heard it. It was a hostile yell thrown in my direction. Stunned, I turned with my hand still exerting the effort necessary to bring down the hatch back. And there was Peggy running toward me, yelling again. “You didn’t pay!” she accused. “You didn’t pay!”

“What?” I asked. “What are you talking about? I swiped my card. How could I not have paid?” Obviously I had paid if I had swiped my card and I definitely remembered doing that.

“It didn’t go through,” she said, just as flustered as I was feeling. I was ready to be home after spending an hour and a half with the coupons.

So back I went into the store looking and feeling like a very naughty child who had been caught stealing a Snickers Bar. Peggy found the mistake when the next woman in line—a young mother toting two children—said there must be some error when her bill came to $156.00. Peggy had added my $92 bill to hers! And that woman refused to pay it. Humph! Peggy had never completed my sale and that’s why I never got a receipt. The reason my Visa card didn’t go through is because she never hit the right buttons.

So, come to think of it, this was not my problem at all and I shouldn’t even be bringing it up in this mindless essay. Only, I should have realized that I had never signed anything and I had never received a receipt. Maybe the Rain Check had thrown us both off. Anyway, Peggy didn’t apologize so I felt like it was all my fault. And the whole incident made me feel a little old and again, a little mindless. Thank goodness they hadn’t sent a security guard out to haul me back into the store at gunpoint.

The happening that made me feel the most mindless happened last Friday night. We had most of the kids over for a movie night so their parents could go out without them. All eight were mostly great. The only fussy one was Dax who is usually so congenial. I thought I would be able to rock him to sleep but he wouldn’t drink his bottle. He was getting quite upset before his parents got back. And when they did and heard my report, they discovered that I had failed to remove the hidden cap on his bottle. So Dax wasn’t getting any milk and that’s why he was having a hard time and giving me a hard time, too. I knew about the cap. I had taken it off many bottles before, but on Friday my mind let that small detail slip. I could have traumatized the kid for life, bringing on waves of anxiety and unfulfilled expectations.

These are just a few incidences that have added to my fear of mindlessness. In conclusion, I am prompted to write the following, which you may sing if you like:

Oh give me a Home where the old people roam
While the kids and the grandkids all pray
That I will pass on before my money’s all gone
And there I’ll bask in dementia all day.

Just Say "No"

I know that lying is really wrong and it can get you into a lot of trouble; but there is one lie that I have said a few times because to not say it brings on worse dilemmas. I only say it with one word and only in front of libraries. It might sound bizarre, but that one little “white” lie keeps me from arguments or feelings of stupidity and I think makes it worth whatever punishment I will receive in the hereafter.

Here, I’ll talk you through it since I am approaching the library and once again there is a person sitting out by a little table and under an umbrella soliciting signatures for I don’t know what. I know what she’s going to ask me, though, even before she opens her official mouth. And I have my answer ready.

“Are you a registered voter in Arizona?” she asks as I know she will. It is a simple question that requires a very simple answer. The problem will come when I answer truthfully with a “yes”, because then she’ll ask me to sign something that I don’t want to sign. “Would you sign this petition for candidate A?” she’ll ask. And I’ll answer, “No, I’d rather not.” Then she’ll say, “You don’t have to vote for this candidate. Your signature will just help him get on the ballot.” Then I’ll have to say, “Well, I need to talk to my husband because he’d rather not have my name associated with certain candidates.” Then she just has to ask, “You mean you can’t think for yourself?” And then I have to glare at the solicitor and slink into the library fuming a bit until I pick up my “On Hold” books and come back out, hoping she won’t accost me again.

Once in front of the Mesa Library on Dobson, I was asked by a young man, who seemed a little “high”, if I was a registered voter. When I answered in the affirmative, he asked me to sign a petition legalizing marijuana. “Absolutely not!” I answered and almost stamped my foot, which I am really pretty good at. He jeered and made me feel like I had to defend my position with a few personal experiences, which I did. They didn’t faze him, however, and I was left with a feeling of irritation. I had my own druggie to deal with at home and didn’t need to be confronted by another one. I hate to argue and I am lousy at it even when I feel strongly about something.

Perhaps the solicitor today will ask me to sign a petition to protect the spotted owl or to remove a public official or to save the water tower on Broadway. Then I will have to say that I really don’t know how I feel about that particular concern and I’d rather not sign anything until I am better informed. Then she’ll try to inform me and I really don’t have the time or the inclination for a lecture on whatever it is she needs my signature for.

I’ll go home and ask my husband, Brad, his views on the subject and I’ll probably agree with whatever he says. He’s the one who spends time studying the issues and determining which side to be on. I pay the bills and he tells me how to vote. We have job-sharing at our house.

I already know—so you don’t have to tell me—that I am not a very good citizen since I don’t study the issues myself and develop a few opinions of my own. I know, I know. My Mom used to urge me to at least read the editorial page of the newspaper so I could find out what other people think about what’s going on in the world. But I already have so many interests, so many, many things I want to do. Studying current events just never makes it to the top of my to-do list. And Brad keeps me informed on what matters.

So to the solicitor’s question, “Are you a registered voter?”, although I am so grateful to be an American and a registered voter at that, I wish I could answer in fluent Swedish, “I am sorry but I am from Sweden”, which wouldn’t be a lie at all if you go back far enough.

But until I am able to do that flawlessly, I will give my pat answer: “No.”

And now I can proceed into the library, smiling and unencumbered—albeit a little guilty.

Laugh and the World Laughs With You--Sometimes

The Lehi Ward’s long-awaited concert had the potential of being the finest cultural event of the year. The directors of it had arranged the program well in advance so that they could be sure of getting the best and most culturally-inclined talent that could be found in the community.

Because this concert was going to be a very “high-classed” affair, my quartet felt quite privileged when we were asked to be on the program. Unfortunately, however, our soprano was going to be busy that night; so the three remaining—Louise, Loretta, and I—hastily worked out two new songs in trio form so we wouldn’t have to by-pass the opportunity to sing.

On the night of the concert, everyone was dressed in his most appropriate concert attire, and someone had worked diligently decorating the recreation hall to make it look lots less recreational and lots more cultural. All in all, everything was set for a night that was long to be remembered. I think my trio will remember it the longest.

Eagerly the three of us girls sat behind stage waiting for our chance to show the audience what talent and culture really were, for, although we were quite unprepared, we still had lots of self-confidence and felt that we would add much to the culture of the night. As we waited, we heard a fine piano soloist trip lightly, then vehemently, over the ivory keys. Next, we listened while an expert string quartet played the dynamic “Fifth Symphony” of Beethoven. We had to admit that all the performers preceding us were really very good, but they were all older and had had lots of experience enthralling audiences like the one before them. We were relatively new at displaying our talents before others, but we were still confident that we would be the most enlightening part on the program.

When it was our turn, we walked on stage with our heads held high and stood proudly in our places. Having received our beginning notes, we began melodiously harmonizing “Stay As Sweet As You Are.” I must say that it was really quite lovely. We swelled and diminished together and every note was in perfect pitch. When we finished, we could sense the audience’s delight in their tumultuous applause. Not wanting to leave them starving for another example of our talent, we started singing the popular song “More.” It was going as beautifully as our first rendition until we came to the line “my arms long to hold you so.” For some reason, Loretta’s tongue got twisted, and her line came out “my larms ong to hold you so….”

I could feel inside of me a terrible tickling feeling that wanted to rush up my throat and out my mouth in an uproarious laugh, but I couldn’t let it—we were singing at a very dignified concert and laughter had no place there. I glanced over at Louise to see if she had heard the funny word “larms.” Woe, she had! As my twinkling eye caught hers and Loretta also realized what she had so unconsciously sung, we all three burst out laughing. Now twelve-year-olds might be able to get away with giggling during a performance, but seventeen-year-olds are expected to be stronger masters of their emotions. Unfortunately, however, age doesn’t always coincide with maturity.

After apologizing to the disgruntled audience, we desperately tried to get through the now not so popular song so we could get off the stage as quickly as possible. Four times we tried, each time breaking off in uncontrollable giggles.

We were getting very disgusted with ourselves and no doubt the audience was even more disgusted, but there was nothing we could do. Finally realizing that it was no use to keep trying to conquer the unconquerable, we gave up, muttered a few more apologies and rushed off the stage still giggling. We avoided the piercing eye of a lady in a beautiful formal who had to follow our childish act with an opera aria as we ran down the stairs and out the nearest door. The laughs now came in full force. We had shamed ourselves and had broken the mood of a potentially exceptional concert. But the power that often keeps us all from breaking into tears was in command, and we laughed ‘til our mouths ached and our sides begged for mercy.

A Shiny New You

Sacrament Talk for the Young Adult University 3rd Ward
December 12, 2010
Elizabeth Willis Barrett


Hey you! Yes, You. You—the one who is texting right now to find out what time the game starts or to see what your friend ended up doing last night. You who left a pile of clothes on the floor in your attempt to find something great to wear today. You who are struggling with your testimony and came praying that you’ll get some answers. You who didn’t know who to sit by and now will have to go to Sunday School and Relief Society or Priesthood and worry about who to sit by all over again. (That’s what always happens to me. I’m afraid you’re saving a place for some beautiful girl or some handsome guy that could change your life forever. And I don’t want to take his or her place!) Hey You. The incredible remarkable You. You who have no idea how vastly important you are.

I have thought hard and prayed fervently to know just what our loving Heavenly Father wants you to know today. And this is it:

You are His. His Son Jesus Christ bought you with His blood. You are so dear and so important to Him that had you been the only person on this earth, He still would have sent His Son to die for you and to take upon Himself your sins, your frustrations, your sorrows, your depression, your faults, your sicknesses, your addictions, your insecurities, your abuses, your timidity. He loves you.

And like Mr. Rogers, He loves you just the way you are. Although, there is always room for improvement.

Our daughter Kelli has a 4 year old daughter named Claire. The other day Claire came to her mom and said, “Mom, I know that Christmas isn’t just about Santa.”
Kelli beamed. “What a great mother I am,” she thought. “I’ve taught her so well.”
“You’re right, Claire,” she said. “Christmas isn’t just about Santa. What else is it about?” Kelli knew that Claire’s answer would be the right one until Claire replied, “It’s about Rudolph!”

Like I said, there is always room for improvement.

You and I will have so many experiences while we’re here on this earth—so many chances to grow and to improve. And our experiences won’t be the same as anyone else’s because we are not like anyone else.

Look around. We are all quite different. If Heavenly Father had wanted us to be just alike, He could have figured out how to do that, but obviously He wanted us each to be unique. According to the varied answers to my Google inquiry, there are nearly or just over 7 Billion people on the earth. And there have been approximately 69 Billion to 110 Billion people since the world began. I can’t think in numbers that big but I believe it is safe to say that out of all the myriad of people who have ever been, you are the only YOU. There has never been, is not now and never will be someone exactly like you. That boggles my brain. Does it yours?

We are all different and our experiences will be different. You might have already discovered that life can seem very unfair. Why were some made so beautiful that they can walk out the door with next to no makeup and others need to spend a lot of time with Max Factor, Cover Girl or Este Lauder? Why were some given gorgeous singing voices while others have to mouth the word “watermelon, watermelon” so it only looks like they are singing? Why can some think of something to say in any situation and others feel like their tongues have been lassoed and tied up to a hitching post? Why do some have two or three homes while someone else is lucky just to have moved up to a double wide?

It almost makes you want to get out your referee uniform, blow loudly on your whistle and shout, “Foul play! Unfair advantage!”

But each will be given the experiences that they individually need for eternal progression and it’s not our job to keep score.

On the last day of June in 2005 a terrible car accident took the life of our precious daughter-in-law, leaving our son and their two little boys devastated along with the rest of our family. Our son didn’t choose to have that experience but he could choose what to do with it. Leave the Church? Become bitter? Denounce God? Give himself up to depression? Or pick up the pieces and become spiritually stronger than ever. He chose the latter.

A month later our youngest daughter got married to an exceptionally worthy young man. It was a great occasion.

You, too, will have—symbolically speaking—many funerals and weddings in your lifetime. I hope one of them is yours. Not the funeral.

Whatever experiences you have had or will have in your life have the potential to bring you closer to Christ and to what He wants you to be. But you cannot compare yourself to others. They have different paths to take, different experiences to enjoy or to endure. They will be brought to Christ possibly in a different way than you will be brought. Take your path and hold fast to the rod. Love your life and all that is in it.

How much better you will be able to serve the Lord if you can incrementally become your very best self and if you can be happy in that process in spite of tough experiences.

What is keeping you from being your best self—the best YOU possible? Could you serve better if you were more physically fit, if you ate less junk and exercised more? Could you serve better if you could forget about yourself and your awkwardness and learned to care more about others and what they are feeling?

Maybe you could be a better disciple of Christ if you could re-discover that zeal you had on your mission that you thought you would never lose? Or if you could stop being oppressed by your many responsibilities and activities, feeling as though every else were given 24 hours in their day and you were only given 19.

Could you be a better YOU if you got rid of that sin that keeps peering into your life and making you feel unworthy?

If you need to get rid of something that isn’t helping you to be your best, do what is necessary. Don’t try to put a Band Aid over a festering, oozing wound of sin. It has to be cleaned out first with true repentance. It will hurt. So what? Think how good it will feel to finally have that sin gone, to be free. As it were, in that one area, to be born again.

We have a heroin addict in our family—a situation that has brought much sorrow. I feel so strongly that when he finally turns to the Lord through repentance and accessing the Atonement that he will be able to turn his negative experiences into teaching tools that will greatly bless his life and the lives of others.

As the Lord said to Joseph Smith as he suffered in Liberty Jail: “know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience and shall be for thy good.”

That would be my hope for my family’s addict, that he would turn all of his rotten lousy experiences into a great huge good.

In D&C 90:24 (my favorite scripture) it says: Search diligently, pray always, and be believing and all things shall work together for thy good.

I hope that you can turn each of the experiences of your life—the delightful ones and the distressing ones—into something good. That each of your experiences will help you become the fabulous YOU our Heavenly Father needs you to be.

Why do you think your very unique self was put here on the earth at this time? What do you think Heavenly Father wants of you? Ask Him. Whatever it is, you can accomplish it best if you are the best YOU possible.

Which brings me back to Christmas. Wouldn’t it be great to give Jesus a gift this year? Being as it is His birthday. What better thing could you give Him than YOU, the best YOU you can be.

Eleanor Powell, a famous tap-dancing movie star of the 40’s who later became a minister, said. “What we are is God’s gift to us. What we become is our gift to God.”


What can you give Him, poor as you are
An MP3 Player, a shiny new car?
For something like that, He’d have no real need
Or for anything modern, I’ll have to concede

How ‘bout a book? A beautiful rose?
A new little lamb? No, He’s got lots of those
I know what He needs—Here’s what you can do
Give the gift of yourself—a shiny new YOU!

One of the best parts of Christmas to me is that it comes at the end of the year. Right after Christmas, we can start all over with a brand new beginning. What a great time to activate your gift to the Savior.

Your very unique, one of a kind gift—YOU—filled with resolve to follow Him, wrapped in self-confidence and tied with a bow of charity for yourself and others, ready to be used by a loving Savior in whatever capacity He needs you.

May you take all the experiences of this life—the good ones and the bad ones—the weddings and the funerals of your life—and let them mold you into greatness—into the person Heavenly Father and His Son need you to be. What a gift! A happy, confident YOU. There is no one else that can do it. No one else can be YOU. May you do it well. That is my prayer.

The Bottleneck

Elizabeth Willis Barrett
October 20, 2010

I feel like I have entered a very long bottleneck in my life. I’m not sure what has caused it. Maybe it’s because Brad is home more after becoming semi-retired or maybe it’s because more of our kids and grandkids live nearby. Doing volunteer work with some young adults that takes me away from home a couple of nights a week could have something to do with it. All I know is that I used to be able to sit down and watch an old movie while I cleaned out a drawer or folded the clothes or put pictures in scrapbooks or something else as necessary but mundane. But now I seem to have no time for anything. Not even for cleaning the toilets or brushing down embarrassing cobwebs. Not even for calling a friend and suggesting a time for lunch.

Maybe it’s because I now go to work for two mornings a week. This life crunching really started in earnest at the exact time I went to Real Estate School. But since I stay at work for such a short time, my co-workers would marvel if they heard me say that work keeps me from the life I used to know. In the beginning I was supposed to work a lot at our new On Q Property Management business, but as it turns out, I can’t seem to get around to carrying out even the few assignments I am given.

Maybe it’s because I try to take care of my Mom a little. I’m afraid, however, that my brother and sister-in-law would be quick to say that I’m not putting too much time into that project either. Mom needs lots more of my help.

Is it Facebook? I’m definitely not into Farmville or any of that stuff although I do check Facebook two or three times a day to see if anyone has said something interesting. They usually haven’t. But it is easy to stay at the computer too long—checking e-mail, renewing library books, looking up bits of information. My blog takes a bit of time, too, but not nearly as much time as I’d like to give it. There are so many topics I want to write about and post on my blog. I planned to post once a week but I can’t get around to that either.

I feel like I am in traffic that as a body slows down to gawk at a minor fender-bender which makes everyone wonder what the holdup is. Then, for no apparent reason, the traffic picks up speed again and everyone is on their way. Only I’m not on my way. I’m still gawking. I’m still in the bottleneck with all the stuff I should be doing crammed in here with me.

Part of the problem is that I’m gone a lot. We go to the mountains or to a conference Brad has or to visit Jana in Utah. I don’t do that nearly as often as I’d like either. But it does seem that we are frequently packing and unpacking which could be adding to the bottleneck sensation.

When the kids were little I thought life was jammed to overflowing and I looked forward to the time of existence when life would slow down. What a surprise to get to this stage and find that it is just as overwhelming.

It’s not that I want to just hang around. I’ve always loved being busy. I like a schedule—my schedule, not someone else’s. I like waking up to an alarm and stretching and biking and writing down the things I want to get done that day and getting at it. But I can’t seem to get that far anymore. Like I say, I have hit a bottleneck.

I keep thinking I’ll pull out of it soon—this crowdedness of life. After all, traffic bottlenecks eventually loosen up. If I could just exercise every day and do one little project like clean out a closet, update family pictures, or plant some flowers, I don’t think I would feel so tight and congested. But I seem to be on a variety of other people’s schedules and I can’t get to mine.

I sense that I am only muddling through this phase of my life. I’ve got my foot on the pedal looking for an opening so I can break out. But just when I think there is a chance of escape, someone says something like, “Hey, Christmas is only 9 weeks away!” And the bottleneck closes around me and I quit looking for an exit. Maybe, for now, there isn’t one. So I guess I’d better start looking out and enjoying the view because it doesn’t look like things are going to change for a long, long time.

I Love a Piano

Elizabeth Willis Barrett…October 6, 2010

Like Irving Berlin, I love a piano. He said it much more melodically than I ever could in his semi-famous song with that title. Ever since I can remember, (which sometimes isn’t all that long) I wanted to play the piano. I would tap out a tune on an imaginary keyboard on the headboard of my bed or painstakingly figure out the notes by numbers on my cousins’ piano. But our house for many years was piano-less.

Then when I was in the 3rd grade, a piano finally made it into our home. For a few moments I was triumphant! Unfortunately, in an attempt to slide the piano down the stairs and into the basement rumpus room, it slipped to its demise. I believe it was a cast-off from the Rollan’s home so it wasn’t a great monetary loss. But it was a monumental loss to me. My eight year old fingers needed a piano!

And then it came—a grand piano! Well, not a Grand Piano, but a strong and sturdy older upright that was grand to me. (Actually, I had really wanted a beautiful small spinet, but as my dad would always say with a twinkle in his eye: “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Something else he often said was: “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” which he might not have said on this occasion but it would have fit. It took me a long time to understand that saying, but now it makes perfect sense.) This piano was placed right in the living room. No bad attempts at the basement for this instrument. At last I had my piano, something I could really sink my fingers into. I loved it. Now I just had to learn to play it.

The task of teaching me was undertaken by Sister Alta Standage, the piano teacher of our ward. Growing up in a very strong Mormon family, we called everyone Sister or Brother as the case may be and the Ward was Mesa 8th Ward, our religious parish so to speak.

Sister Standage lived about 6 blocks down Country Club Drive. Since Mom didn’t always have a car to take me, she would walk with me as I carried my John Thompson and Carl Czerny books. A back pack would have been a great place for these noble works of piano instruction but we didn’t have back packs then. I don’t think they had been invented yet! To make the walk a little less tedious, Mom would play Hang-man with me all the way up and back. “Is there a ‘D’?” “Nope, you now have an arm.”

Thank you, Mom, for giving me the opportunity to learn to play the piano. I hope I told you thank you enough times when your mind was clear enough to understand me. As a family we didn’t go out to eat very often; we didn’t have closets full of clothes; we didn’t even get a TV until the rest of the world was quite entrenched in TV watching. But you always saw to it that we were given opportunities to learn and grow and become what we had the potential of becoming. That is still what matters most to me—learning and growing and becoming. Thank you, Mom. I will always be grateful.

I thought often of writing Sister Standage a letter telling her thank you, too. Thank you so much for teaching me how to play the piano—the notes, the measures, the one-e-and-a, two-e-and-a’s of music. It is possibly my most valued skill. Playing the piano has brought me so much pleasure, joy and opportunities to serve. But I never wrote that letter. It is just one of a myriad of uncrossed-off items on my eternal “to-do list”.

But I do thank you, Sister Standage. Maybe you’re teaching a few piano students in heaven right now. I hope so. There had better be pianos in heaven. I would really be sad if there weren’t. How would heavenly choirs be accompanied without them? Harps? Maybe. Harps are fine, but I love a piano.