Tell Me ‘Bout the Good Old Days

by Camille Posted on March 10, 2008

My grandfather died a year ago yesterday. One of his favourite songs was “I Am a Happy Wanderer,” so even though you may think it’s a bit hokey, I’m playing it on my blog all day today, and maybe even tomorrow if I feel like it.

I remember it so clearly. I was nannying in Brussels, Belgium. My grandpa’s health had taken a turn for the worse. Back in January, the day before I moved to Belgium, I went to visit him–to say my goodbyes. I remember crying almost uncontrollably; he’d become so feeble, and there was a very real possibility that I’d never see him alive again.

I was just barely adjusting to my life as a nanny in Europe when my sister signed on to an iChat on March 6th of 2007. It was morning in Phoenix, but nighttime in Brussels.

“Grandpa’s doing really bad,” she typed. “Everyone in the family has canceled their spring break plans. Hospice has come in. He’s probably going to die soon. Even Grandma’s not sounding very optimistic.”

It was that last line that made my heart stop–if Grandma had lost hope, the situation was bleak.

“Can you come home,” she asked. “We need you.”

Whether or not my family really needed me remains to be seen. But I knew I would always regret not getting to see him again. I pulled some strings–many amazing strings. I broke the news to my employers: I had to go home, but if they still wanted me, I’d leave my belongings and come back soon. [They still wanted me.] I prayed so fervently to God–if I was meant to get home, to please give me the strength and the means to make it. I got a train ticket from Brussels to Paris–it should have cost $100.00 or so, but I got it for $15.00. I hopped on a standby flight from Paris to Phoenix–it was booked to capacity, and there were many other standbys. Some people got denied, but I was given the last seat on the plane.


After traveling for 24 solid hours, I got to Mesa on March 7th, and Grandpa died the next night. I spent all day (minus four hours) at his house. It was a time of reflection, and a time of unification. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so close to my family–aunts, uncles, everyone–as I did those few days.

My relationship with Poor Kyle was in a strange place–I debated whether I should ask him to come down. The night my grandpa died, Kyle was not with me. His presence–which he volunteered readily and willingly–was sorely missed. I called him sobbing that night [selfish, I know] and he drove 20 hours straight to be with me. It was a turning point in our engagement, which might have never progressed otherwise.

Grandpa’s death also reminded my older sister how short life is. She’d planned on waiting a few more years to have children, but two months later she announced she was pregnant.

Grandpa inspired all of us, however differently we reflect that inspiration. He didn’t care for travel. He didn’t pine after fancy food or shiny cars. He valued hard, hard work and hard, hard workers. He valued his Savior, Jesus Christ. He valued his family–his sweet wife, his children and grand children and the few great-grands. He was mighty in body and spirit, but not known to the world beyond Arizona, Utah and Idaho…not really. He never won a Nobel Prize, a Grammy, or even a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records.

His legacy is us. I can’t wait to see him again.

Posted in family, introspection | 9 Comments

I’ve Dropped the Ball…

by Camille Posted on March 6, 2008

I’ve not been irate about anything lately. My best posts happen when I’m irate, and so I’ve hesitated to post anything new. We’re headed off to the sand dunes this weekend, where I’m sure there won’t be internet connections, so I’ll just have to take this time to really reflect–hopefully there will be something new and exciting to read by next week.

Until then, entertain yourself by looking at these photos of my nephew. He’s cute–and that’s a fact, not an opinion. See for yourself:






Posted in nephew, photos | 13 Comments

The 5 (Five) Cs

by Camille Posted on March 3, 2008

Here in Arizona, we don’t have many bragging rights.

It’s hot, to be sure. But really, is that something to be proud of? We mostly just brag about the heat so outsiders will think we’re tough for being able to survive it [though actually, it probably just makes us look a little loco for not getting the hell (and I do mean hell) out of here. That’s what smart people would do].

But other than the heat, we are hard-pressed to find something impressive about Arizona. The east coast has its history, the west coast has its sense of cool [which is innate in any region that comes with a beach], and the central states have their giant rolls of string.

So Arizona officials got together…oh…fifty years ago…and decided we needed a little more than a giant hole in the dirt to give us an identity. I can picture it now, how all the greatest Arizonan minds assembled, putting their heads together to revamp the state’s image. It must have been a long meeting. Finally, though, they settled on a catchy little motto some of us know as “The Five Cs of Historic Arizona,” or simply, “The Five Cs.”

Copper. Cotton. Cattle. Citrus. Climate. That’s right, friends. The brightest minds of Arizona, and those five Cs were all they could come up with. I think it’s somewhat of a cop out, myself. I mean, “climate” was already a given. And “cotton” might be abundant here, but the deep South had staked its claim on this country’s cotton long before we ever made it into the union {and honestly, who would want to sleep in sheets of Arizonan Cotton when there’s all this Egyptian goodness floating around department stores?}. “Copper”–that might be something to brag about, but I’m not convinced; take me on a tour of a real, live copper mine, and then I’ll tell you how I feel. Cattle–seriously? Oh sure, because Arizona is just…hopping with cattle. I see them all the time here, in the middle of all the dirt roads, munching on tumbleweed and palo verde twigs.

Our only real source of pride lies within our citrus–Arizona’s one redeeming quality. From germination to the harvest, every aspect of our citrus is a sensory delight. If you’ve never had a chance to visit Arizona (and I don’t really blame you if this is the case,) you should make a concentrated effort to roll through here in mid to late March. You will not regret it. That is when orange blossoms are on the trees, and a drive through town with the windows down will solve any problem you may have. Stub your toe? Smell the orange blossoms. Lose your job? Smell the blossoms. Suicidal? One whiff of those orange blossoms is enough to convince you that life truly is worth living. (On a side note, if you are suicidal, please seriously consider seeking out help. I don’t think it’s something to joke about. And then, come visit Arizona in the spring. It will probably cheer you up.)

After the springtime blossoms wither, the summer heat ensues and little oranges start their process of whatever it is they have to do. It’s not until November or December that they actually ripen, and then…what a prosperous harvest it is. I was well into my teens before I realised that some people actually paid for oranges at the grocery store. Every person in my circle of acquaintance has at least one citrus tree–be it orange, lemon, or grapefruit–on their property. Most have more…

…And we are passionate about it. Tell us you prefer the gritty flavour of Tang™ to freshly squeezed orange juice, and we will lynch you. Tang is only a half-step up from Sunny D™, and nothing could save you from our bad graces if you drink Sunny D™ and like it. Nothing. As far as store-bought orange juice goes, stay away from Topica™–and anything generic. If you want quality, Minute Maid™ will do as a concentrate, but Tropicana™ is really the the only brand Archives of Our Lives can endorse in good conscience.

Posted in Overall Good Things, the great state of AZ, what I'm about | 14 Comments

If We’re Going to Go Around Adding Days Like This…

by Camille Posted on February 29, 2008

Only in a lovely, divisible-by-four year like 2008 could such a good thing as Leap Year occur. Hey Big Sister, is “Leap Year” a proper noun? (She’s good for stuff like that.)

When I was in grade school and my teachers were trying to communicate the theory of the Leap Year [I say “they were trying to teach me” rather than “I was trying to learn,” because, well…that’s how it was], I remember being so angry about it:

“So, what you’re trying to tell me is that all of the months—of which there are twelve—either have 30 or 31 days, except February, which has not 29, but 28 days in it. Am I right? But then, every four years—not every other year, which seems more logical—we add another day to the calendar. To February. So one out of four years, February has 29 days instead of only 28? Well, why don’t we add another day to February that year, if we’re gonna go around adding days like this—that way February can have a nice round, matching number like the rest of the months? What? Why? Because that would screw up the old ‘Thirty days hath September’ adage? Oh. That makes sense…I guess.”

It was all very frustrating for pre-adolescent me. A bit too abstract for me to grasp.

Now that I’m older, though, everything has changed. Yes. It’s true. Not because I am better at abstract thinking—actually, I rather hate thinking outside the box [it seems very dangerous to me]. I do like Leap Years though. First of all, it’s because I grew up and realised how fantastic even years are. Something exciting is always seeming to happen on these years—like presidential elections and summer Olympics (anyone know if Ian Thorpe is coming back for another go? I’m a big fan). And secondly, because a childhood friend of mine was born on a Leap Year. Looking back, it was pretty cool to know such a uniquely-birthed individual. It was always so fun to tease her that she was only four years old when [giggle] actually she was [giggle] sixteen! Then she grew up, got married and had a kid…

…on a Leap Year.

It’s amazing, I know. According to my mom, the odds of that happening are 1 (one) in 800,000 (eight hundred thousand). And she swears that’s close to a real statistic—she’s not just making it up like I accused.

So happy birthday Rachel New-Married-Name and your kid. And happy Leap Year to anyone whose claim to fame isn’t being younger than you really are. To celebrate the occasion, Kyle and I are taking a 24-hour drive down to home. Home for me, anyway.

Posted in Recreation, the great state of AZ, thisandthat | 7 Comments

The Midst of Mediocrity

by Camille Posted on February 28, 2008

We’re home from Idaho–just for tonight and tomorrow–and on Friday we’ll be heading down to The Great State of AZ. All the time I’ve spent on the road lately has lent room in my head for Seriously Deep Thoughts. Thoughts like, “How many white reflector posts are between each mile marker sign?” and “Why don’t 2008 Ford Super Duty tucks have ‘objects in the mirror are closer than they appear’ written in the mirrors?” and “What is my purpose in life?”

It’s that last question I want to address here on my blog.

The first thing Poor Kyle and I did when we returned was watch last night’s episode of American Idol. [Actually, the first thing we did was deal with a broken deep freezer–the second thing we did was watch A.I.] I’ve never watched a season–nary an episode–of American Idol before this month. And actually, I am quite impressed. Of course if I was the kind of person to actually vote, I would text in my choice for Little David. The 17 year old from Utah reminds me of the kind of guy I dreamed about in high school. He’s cute in all the right ways, and my only fear is that if he wins, the world might corrupt him. Then again, if he doesn’t win, he might become bitter and disillusioned, and then where would we be?


But I digress. Whether or not our Likeable David Archuleta wins the competition is beside the point. The point is, he knows what he’s doing with his life–he’s winning American Idol.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a mineral scientist. Nothing else would do. I was fascinated by caves and caverns, stalagmites and stalactites, obsidian and diamonds. I was mildly obsessed with rocks. I had a whole slew of them–a rock collection, if you will. In a way they were my buddies. I kept them on my closet shelf in a cardboard tomato flat, and pulled them out every day after school, just to look at them. I’m pretty sure I even had names for them–I played with rocks like some kids play with Barbies (or Bratz, since I’m keeping up with the times [I never said I was cool from birth, okay? It’s only been a recent character development]). Anyway, I wanted to go to science camp and intern at archaeological digs–it was my passion.

Somewhere during my education, though, I decided I hated science. And that was the end of it.

It makes me wonder what I’m supposed to be achieving. You know…in life. I don’t want to live my entire 100 years in the midst of mediocrity. When all is said and done, when I’m dead and in Heaven (or Hell, depending on who you’re commenting as!), I want to have passed some milestones–made my proverbial mark on the world. I don’t want to die obscure.

The problem is…there’s so much that needs changing; how am I supposed to do it all? Where does one even start? I wonder what David Archuleta would say about all this vagueness in my life.

Posted in introspection, like-it-link-it, looking back, mediocrity, what I'm about | 12 Comments

Mud Tastes Dirty

by Camille Posted on February 27, 2008

I have a newfound respect for truck drivers.

When I first met Poor Kyle, he was a semi truck driver. Clean shaven and hygienic though he was, I always felt like he could do so much more with his life than drive a truck around the country. I mean…any person over the age of 18 could drive a truck, right? [I was also slightly bitter that I only got to see him two days out of the week—that might have had something to do with my prejudice towards his profession.] A few months after we met, though, he quit his job on the road to work in what is now our lifeblood—The Family Business. His new job with The Family Business would still be dealing with semi trucks—just not driving them. And the hours there were 8-5, which was much more conducive to a newborn relationship. Needless to say, I supported the career change, and to this day, I silently cross my fingers that he will never go through a mid-life crisis, grow a crusty handlebar mustache and buy a $200,000 Peterbilt to go touring the world for some transport company. It’s one of my greatest fears [along with tile mosaics and the texture of raspberries].

Anyway, since then, we’ve taken countless—and I do mean countless—road trips together. There have been only two situations during all those trips that I’ve taken the wheel, and they were short-lived situations at that, because Poor Kyle likes to drive—he really does. He likes machines with wheels, and he likes things that go “vroom.” Stereotypical as it sounds, my husband is the spouse who deals with the vehicles. I’m okay with that; it means I get to play the alphabet game with myself, and hook up the MacBook to type my blog’s nightly post.

This past month, though, Poor Kyle got a new assignment at The Family Business. The company is dipping its proverbial toes into the pool of “buying and selling trailers of all shapes and sizes.” Poor Kyle is the one who gets to pick up the trailers from Oregon and Idaho, and haul them back to O, Canada. The GPS is the one who gets to navigate these excursions. And I am the one who gets to go along for the ride.

Yesterday marked the maiden voyage for the new shop truck (it’s a big white Ford Fsomething50), and we’ve been on the road for hours. And hours. Now that I’ve experienced firsthand what a truck driver’s job entails, I am eating mud. I would like to publicly announce on the World Wide Web for all to read:

I am sorry I ever considered truck driving to be a cop-out of a career. Do people need a degree to do it? No. Should they? Absolutely—it’s that complicated. Did you know that truck drivers have to account for every minute spent on the job—whether driving or not—in fifteen minute increments? I didn’t. They have to record their every waking moment in something called a “log book.” Log books are scary and involve carbon paper, and I try to stay far away from them. Also, trucks hauling stuff—depending on what kind of truck they are—are only allowed to carry 12,000 lbs. on the steer axles, 30,000 lbs. on the drive axles (of which there are two), and extra weight is a giant problem involving load shifting, axle lifting, and great big fines. Whatever an axle is…

On top of all that, the only commercial areas with parking lots big enough to accommodate semi trucks are, naturally, truck stops (Poor Kyle is partial to the Flying J). And though the selection of energy beverages is actually quite impressive at said truck stops, I’ve been hard-pressed to find food with any real nutritional value here. Strangely, though, the Flying J always seems to have a handy supply of hard-boiled eggs. I’m a poultry lover myself, but I would actually rather eat toilet paper from the Flying J than a package of under-refrigerated hard-boiled eggs that have been sitting there for who knows how long.

So please: truck drivers of the world, accept my apology. Most of you are greasy because you have mean old dispatchers who push you to your limit of sanity, and you don’t have time to stop for a shower. Most of you have giant bellies because the only food that appeals to you while on the road are XXL cans of green flavoured (yes, they’re calling “green” a flavour now) Monster and a jumbo bag of David’s sunflower seeds. Most of you are angry with life because you don’t have your sweet wife sitting shotgun—in fact, she’s probably at home complaining to your best friend about how you miss all the kids’ hockey games, and your marriage is really taking a hard hit for it all.

I apologise for thinking ill of you.

Posted in change, oh brother what next, Poor Kyle | 6 Comments

Lucky for the World

by Camille Posted on February 26, 2008

It’s lucky for the world that I am such a good person.

Because I have been met with many injustices–by a number of horrid people–throughout the course of my 21 years.

Like the time in my freshman year at ASU that Becca Flunt* accused me of stealing her TI-80something graphing calculator. I didn’t do it, of course–I had a TI80something of my own, and simply borrowed hers for 30 seconds at the institute building the day I’d forgotten mine. The next day, though, when hers turned up missing, she confronted me about it in a most accusing manner.

I went home spewing mad that day. I wanted to call “Five on Your Side,” the news station that confronts bad companies about shady deals they’d done. But Becca Flunt–though she was bad business indeed–was neither a company, franchise, nor corporation. Five on Your Side could do nothing for me. Then I wanted to slash all her tires and scrawl “WENCH!” along her car doors with a black Sharpie (TM). I wanted to punch out her living daylights, and I’m not even a violent person.

Instead, I drove down to the Super Wal-Mart at 3 a.m. and bought her a new, $95.00 TI-80whatever. I didn’t have enough money to fuel my car and feed myself, but I bought her a new calculator.

Now, lest your opinion of me lower because of what a pushover I was…check that thought. I am not a pushover. I never have been and I doubt I ever will be. But my name is not mud, and I’m not one to let my reputation be soiled by petty so-and-sos. I handed over my life savings (in the form of that dad-gum calculator), along with a rather spiteful letter which, I hope made her feel guilty for being so accusatory. I stood up to her but still cleared my good name. I’ve always wondered if she ever found her original calculator.

Yesterday it happened again. Another cruel person; another injustice; another juicy post for my blog:

Kyle and I arrived at church early, which meant we got to sit on the padded pews rather than the hard metal chairs in the back row. More importantly, we were out of cheerio-chucking range of all the little hoodlums whose parents have the decency to sit in the back. I was thrilled. We settled in on a shorter side pew, right in front of the three widow ladies who take up permanent residence on the sixth row–it’s the same row we always occupy when we get to church early enough (which has only happened once in four months). I turned around and smiled at Aunt Bea* (she’s not my aunt but all of Mayberry calls her “Aunt Bea,” so I do too), making casual small talk while we waited for church to start. I looked up and smiled as Old Widow #2 wriggled her way into the customary row next to Aunt Bea.

She gave me a stern look and said, jokingly, “Now, I don’t want you two to be scratching each other’s back like last time!”

“I’m getting sick of these corny newlywed witticisms,” I thought, chuckling slightly so Old Widow #2 thought I enjoyed her joke.

Then she continued, still unsmiling, “It’s inappropriate to be rubbing each others’ shoulders they way you young kids carry on. There’s enough time for that at home.”

“Oh my gosh. She’s not being witty. She’s dead serious.”

And she kept going…

“I come to church every week, and I like to pay attention. How can I focus on anything when you kids sit in front of me and scratch each others’ back like you do? It aggravates me.”

Finally, I overcame the shock and found my voice, meager though it was.

“Thank you for your opinion,” I said, wishing it sounded more grown up than it actually did.

I turned to Poor Kyle, shocked and appalled, and he whispered smugly, “Don’t you wish we’d sat in the back?”

No. I wish all the old hags in the world would die already so as to stop muddling the pool of sweet, grandmotherly figures whose company I usually enjoy. I am going to continue going to church, of course–it didn’t shake my faith or offend me to the point of no return. But what if we were a young couple who were just visiting for the day, wanting to learn what the church was like? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t sing praises.

I’ve waited long and hard to finally be married so I could sit in church and get my back scratched by someone other than my mom or older sister. Getting one’s back scratched during church–at least where I come from–is a status symbol. And it’s nice. I can think of a hundred things more distracting than a quiet back scratch–they range between the ages of 1 to 12, and I’m never having any.

Because if I do, they’ll grow up to be crotchety old crones with nothing better to do than criticise perfectly nice churchgoers.

*Names have been changed because it seemed like the right thing to do

Posted in fiascos, oh brother what next | 39 Comments