found my place.

My dad is a designer. Not of letters, shapes, or colors, but of electrical currents, circuit boards, switches, and wires. My parents' house is presently equipped to be powered by a windmill. The walls are doubly insulated for better temperature control and the windows were purposefully kept small for the same purpose. It's been heated by a coal-burning furnace for the last 25 years because of the unbeatable cost/heat ratio. If you haven't seen my parents' house before, it looks utilitarian in essence, like a really big white storage shed.

I once told him over some physics homework, "Dad, I think you are more fluent in math than in English." He smiled and seemed to relish this remark. I think I've heard him retell it a few times. I really meant it. I think he interprets the world through numbers. Numerical efficiency comes first. Things are measured in concrete terms and meant for analysis. Factors earning top consideration are only measurable, physical elements: inertia, mass, density, time, speed, etc. He complains when electronic devices were not so carefully designed with these things in mind.

Thinking of my dad in this way makes me feel linked to him, although everything I design considers almost no measurable values. I try to consider tone, readability, and composition first. I see the world through this lens and complain when I come across visual information that was not so carefully designed with these things in mind.

loved.

Most of you now that my parents are red-blooded conservatives. They are members of the NRA, receive periodic Phylis Schlafly reports, and watch Glenn Beck more than any other tivo-ed program. Republican conventions stand out as a holiday in the logged memory of my childhood.

Although I wouldn't describe myself as liberal, I do claim the title of "moderate". I don't want to launch into the whole of my political theory, but let's just say that these differences between me and my parents have sometimes placed a strain on our relationship. I allowed them to; I used to let it stew and smolder; but then reached a point where politics seemed like the funniest, most ridiculous wedge to drive between myself and any loved one.

For the last year and a half, I've been receiving fowarded political emails from my dad. I read them sometimes. They have subjects like:

FW: Chuck Norris: Dirty Secret No. 2 in Obamacare
FW: Rabbi: Obama Breeds Hate Against Jews
FW: How much is a trillion dollars? TAKE ACTION!
FW: Will Obama's Socialism Enslave Blacks?
FW: Buchanan: In Earmarks Lies Salvation?
Fwd: FW: NBC was suprised?

I think he sends them to everyone on his email list, but I also think especially in my case, he likes to subtly interject these things he sees as important, meaningful, and good. He wants to keep me on the right path, not excluding politics, and feels eager to step up to that duty.

Truthfully, I've found them a little annoying in the past. I'd be sitting in class, my blackberry would buzz, and it'd be another fowarded political message from my dad. But this last little while during his heart recovery, I've missed them dearly.

My heart leaped in my chest just a bit when I received this today:

FW: Buchanan: Dumbo University

I imagined my dad sitting behind his desk at work; breathing, emailing, setting me straight.
I cannot explain my gratitude.

looking up.

I have said lately that the weekend of general conference feels more important than Christmas when it comes to being with my family. It's a time to reflect on what I consider to be my greatest blessing: sharing in the joy of the gospel with my family.
(I'm being serious even though this picture is hilarious.) And what's more? Jared is finally here!
I've been breaking into a lot of stress-related rashes lately, but I think things are definitely looking up. I don't know what more I could really ask for.

a little role reversal.

I was hospitalized when I was four with a severe kidney infection. One of my most tender childhood memories is of how my Dad stayed with me there. It was Christmastime and he'd give me rides around the hospital halls on top of my I.V. There was a big gingerbread village in the lobby and he'd wheel me over there as often as my condition permitted.

I remember a nurse putting a leaf of spinach under the green jello cube she brought me and saying something like, "I won't take your plate until you're eaten every last bite."
To this day, the combination of jello + spinach feels really gross, but lucky for me, my dad ate it without saying a word when she came back for the plate. Overall, my memory of that hospital stay is really all about feeling love for my dad. I don't remember feeling pain or fear. In retrospect, I only remember feelings of safety and love.

On Tuesday, my dad experienced a massive heart attack that should've ended his life. He was at work, speaking with a coworker outside of his office when the initial symptoms hit. A good team of health care workers sped him to a hospital where another good team of health care workers performed the procedures that saved his life.

In the days following, I kept him company at his bedside with my mom and other family members dropping by. I fed him a bowl of red jello and helped him sip water from a big hospital mug. As things got better, I fed him a piece of low-calorie, low-sodium apple pie and some steamed broccoli. I put chapstick on his oxygen-tube-dried-out-lips and spoke quietly with him about the days when he cared for me in a hospital bed.

I love my dad so much. I feel enormously humbled and grateful that he's still around.

another fan joins the club.

Okay everyone, I can't take credit. This is a repost stolen from my dear sister, Miriam. I loved it so much I just couldn't resist:

If infants and toddlers were slightly more mobile, there would be hordes of them chasing Dad down the street. Olivia (5 weeks old) just joined the throngs of little ones who go gaga over him. Despite her floppy neck, Olivia was craning her head to get a better look at him and to smile at him. This comes only weeks after Hazel started crying when her mom lifted her from Dad's arms. He claims that their fondness for him simply results from him treating them as though they are as intelligent as adults. He always allows them to see what is going on, provides age appropriate mental stimulation, and explains things to them patiently. Similar efforts by others however, do not seem as successful. This leads one to wonder if there is actually more involved. Perhaps Dad is really a super-hero who simply engineers rocket boosters by day for a fun alter-ego. Please report any sightings of Dad wearing a cape, tights, or a superhero logo and send in pictures too.

Seriously, my dad is the sweetest.

24.

I have never seen even one episode of "24", but the rest of my family loves it.
I don't intentionally resist it; there's just always a pattern of watching "24" that naturally discludes me.
My dad is the greatest enthusiast. It's like clockwork. The tv lights up at 7:55p or 7:58p and always blasting (because my dad is a little hard of hearing.) I arrive home around this time and start talking with my mom, who is also sitting on the couch, ready for the next action-packed installment.
We start speaking loudly over the tv volume and it's okay until the opening credits are through. At this point, my mom and I are pretty engaged in whatever we're speaking about as my dad is on the edge of his seat about the promising interest of the unfolding episode.

He turns and shouts, "If you guys are gonna talk, you could go into the other room!"

This is the only time I ever hear my father raise his voice these days.

I leave my mom and dad to watch in peace because I know I can't actually keep quiet after being quiet at school all day.

Miriam added a beautiful element this week by dispelling the phony tv science. During the precluding "what happened last week" segment she exclaims, "but prions aren't virulent!" When I ask her what that means, she enthusiastically starts explaining. Then Mom pipes in. "Shhh. Dad will get mad. He'll ask to move to a different room if you want to talk."

daddy.

I love my dad so much. I hope you can get a sense of how meek and hard-working he is from this picture.
I took it for a portrait assignment in my photo class.

elephant in the room.

(a painting I did of my dad holding my brother)


A while ago I was speaking with a friend over the phone who said he didn't believe in monogamy.

"I think that when couples stay together for years it's really just for the sake of their relationship. I feel like they must be suppressing their feelings of dissatisfaction. How can someone be be fully satisfied by one other person for the rest of their life? It must be elephant in the room that they avoid..."

Especially because I'm mormon, I've spent a lot of time dreaming of the possible joys of monogamy.

"I just really do think it's possible. I mean, I look at the example of my parents. I was so worried about how they'd do with just the two of them together when all of the kids left, but they're fine. I worry sometimes that me moving back home kind of ruined it for them. They are so happy together. I think the only big elephant in the room of their relationship is that my dad has prostate cancer..."

And it's true. I grew up in a home of free discussion; where penis and vagina weren't dirty words (when used in the proper context) and where punishment for misdeeds in high school included a long lecture on the couch. I've always been proud of the open nature of communication that my family shares.

But on this one issue, my dad's cancer, it's hard to get much information. Of course it makes sense, but the silence surrounding it leaves me with an unpleasant sense of its gravity.

My dad recently received the results of his first blood test following his radiation treatment. I received calls from both of my sisters.
"Laura, do you know what's really going on with this? Mom says that the doctor said his PSA count is what he thought it would be. What does this even mean?"
Of course I didn't know what to tell them, and when I later asked my mom for more details, I left the conversation with little sense of clarity.

All of this has led to a silence of my own. I can't tell my dad how much I love him all in one gushing burst of emotion because it would acknowledge that massive, awkward elephant. I end up congratulating him and thanking him for small things instead.

"Thanks for mowing the lawn, dad."

"Thanks for taking my letters to the post office."

My parents have heated the house with a coal-burning furnace my whole life and I learned to resent it. I've blamed my allergies on it and have hated that my clothes always faintly smell of coal dust.
Last weekend when the weather turned cold, my dad lit it again. When he tinkers in the furnace, you can hear the clinking noises from anywhere in the house as they echo through the pipes. Lately, when I can smell the coal dust on my clothes or hear the clinking of the pipes, I know it's my dad keeping me warm and I feel loved.

"Thanks for lighting the furnace, dad. I can feel heat coming through the kitchen vents."