Personal Histry: Birth

In 1975 the world was changing.  Politically, The Watergate scandal and the Vietnam War was wrapping up.  The United States saw its first female governor elected, Margaret Thatcher and the declaration of an International Woman’s day brought some major strides in the women’s lib movement.  Technology was literally blossoming with the release of the microcomputer called Altair 8800 and Bill Gates founding Microsoft.  The entertainment industry created Wheel of Fortune, Saturday Night Live and Walt Disney World opened Space Mountain.  In the small town of American Fork Utah, a young couple was anxiously awaiting the realization of a dream to become parents.  My parents, Chad Ephraim Penrod and Naomi Alene Fugal Penrod had been married for 3 years.  They had struggled with fertility and were seriously discussing becoming truck drivers when they discovered that they were expecting.  They both worked for the Utah State Developmental Center as well as managing the apartment complex where they lived.  In true fashion, I was two weeks late.  I was in a frank breach position; dangerous for both me and my mother.  The sky was stormy and dark at the Utah Valley Regional Medical Center in Provo Utah, and my mother was worried that I was going to die or be seriously injured in my birth.  An emergency cesarean was ordered and at 9:44 pm on July 12, I came screaming into the world.  I was 7lbs, 13oz and  really hairy from being so overdue. My healthy lung development was evident by the loud and prodigious cries that echoed down the hospital hall way.  My dad made the comment that his daughter must be an opera singer.   I had a full head of hair when I was born.  It was two toned:  blond on top and black around the bottom edges.  It is reported that my head looked like a bald man.  My mother wept when she was conscious and able to hold me for the first time.  She didn’t believe that the perfect little girl the nurses gave her was really her daughter.  My parents named me, their first born, Rebecca Marie Penrod.  There are two different stories as to where my name came from.  My dad says that my first name came from an ancestor called Hannah Rebecca and my mom says that Marie came to be because she couldn’t stand my dad’s first choice for my middle name which was Ann.    It was my grandpa Fugal that gave me the nick name Sparky due to the gleam that would cross my eyes when I was about to do something naughty. (I still get this look.)  My grandpa Penrod called me duck ass because of how I moved in my diaper.  

More inter-web blabbing. Today, Courtship & Wedding

Today is our 16th wedding anniversary. Good day to add this topic. I'm going to go ahead and type the questions and then answer them in order so that I don't get off topic like last time.

When and how did you meet your spouse?

I didn't really meet him until we were in our early twenties but I knew of him in high school. The first time I became aware of Owen was senior year. We were in A' Capella choir together. (Honestly to this day I wondered why Owen took that class.) I had this super smart/ genius-type friend Tom whom I was very fond of. He was someone I wanted to be like. Reserved, intelligent and kind. One day I walked into the choir room for class and beheld Tom talking in a very intimate and affectionate way with this tall, blond muscle bound boy with a slight mullet wearing a heavy medal T-Shirt. I was slack-jawed and as soon as I had the chance, I questioned Tom who this mystery friend was. I wondered how on earth Tom was friends with and really liked someone like this. Tom told me that he was Owen, his brother. I was stunned. No way! Really?! Seriously?! Honestly, to me Tom and Owen were polar opposites as far as looks and presentation was concerned and I thought secretly that either Owen or Tom was adopted. I once tried to get to know Owen a little better when I was at Tom’s house hanging out. I suggested that we play D and D because I had heard that Owen would play with Tom and a few other boys. I went along and tried to initiate a friendship but Owen acted as though I didn't exist and it was clear that this one wasn't interested on any level in me. Fine. I had enough male friends to date and hang out with anyway. Once while I was in that choir class, I had the strongest impression that my future husband was sitting behind me. I turned around to look at who was there and realized that there were at least 15 boys sitting behind me. Of course, Owen was the one actually sitting exactly right behind me in the next row up. Something that I realized once we were engaged. That’s as far as our meeting went until after Owen returned home from Romania.

The period of time starting 6 months from Owens return from his mission, our stars were aligning. I had become obsessed with the plight of orphans in Romania. I had convinced a group of my friends with impassioned pleas that we NEEDED to go to Romania and take with us paint, toys, soft blankets and clothes to help at least one orphanage have better conditions for a few children. We had talked to our teacher from High School who had done something earlier who gave us contacts in Romania. Plans were in the works. I was saving everything I earned in order to pay my way and also pay the way for our eventual interpreter. We decided that it would be a good idea to take with us a returned missionary who had served in Romania and was familiar with the language and the culture to serve as part interpreter part priesthood wielding body guard while we were in country. When my friends and I were discussing this, I immediately remembered Tom’s brawny brother who had just returned from his mission to Romania. We pitched the idea to Owen over the phone and promised that we would furnish travel food expenses if he would come with us for the month. He agreed (he said to be exposed to several eligible and lovely young ladies for possible courtship) and came to our next meeting.

He was already at the meeting when I got there. When I first saw him, I knew that eventually we would be married. Of course, I thought it would be several months before we would even get to dating but eventually we'd get there. Owen and I were made a work team for our valley. We were to work together gathering donations of every sort as well as securing financial support from businesses for the trip. Owen and I spent three weeks working side by side doing our best to better lives of Romanian orphans and liking each other more and more every day. One day, Owen gave me a broken watch from Russia. It was a silly gift but I remember feeling really moved that he had given me something from his mission experience. On Valentine’s Day I took him a card and some flowers right before I went on a date with another guy. I spent the evening wishing I was with Owen. The next night, I talked Owen into going to a friend’s wedding. Owen met my grandmother,  my best friend’s family and many of my friends and they all reported to me that they were strongly impressed that they were meeting my future Husband. Owen and I were feeling it too; Even though we had only known each other for three weeks. We had never kissed, or held hands, or even hugged. Yet, on the 17th of February, Owen asked me to marry him as we sat in front of the Provo temple. After I said yes, we shared our first kiss. The whole night, I thought he was going to tell me that we needed to slow things down due to the fact that we were supposed to be traveling together for a whole month. I was learning that my future husband was a doer when he felt something strong. We were engaged for two and a half months in which time I managed to pull together a wedding. We were married on May Day. All of the light posts of downtown Salt Lake City were wrapped in spring colored ribbons. It felt as though the whole world were celebrating our love. We held our reception the next day at the Springville Museum of Art. We had a lovely huge cake, a classical guitarist and beautiful pink roses and calla lilies. It was so beautiful! I loved it. I love Owen more and have done for better and worse these past sixteen years.

Me...Personal History that I'm Blabbing onto the Internet.

I've been feeling really a really strong push to write my personal history.  I consider myself a really poor technical writer but in the end, I decided that it would be best to just do it and not worry about the possible disrespect of others.  SO today I've decided to start with my Early Years.

My most vivid memory is of when my mother was pregnant with my brother Lowell.  I remember pressing my ear up to my mothers warm, firm belly to listen and feel my little brother.  I remember hearing gurgling and feeling his restlessness in the womb as with my cheek and my hand and I sat cradling my mom and brother.

I remember that from the earliest of my memory I loved two things most of all:  the kitchen and music.  I remember always being in the way in the kitchens of my mom, my grandmas and my aunts.  I always wanted to help.  I always had an opinion of what was yucky and what I thought each dish needed. Looking back, I know that I must have  aggravated everyone with this but I'm grateful that they were kind to me. I was SUCH a picky eater!  If something wasn't just right, I would not touch it.  I was so deeply effected by the smells, the colors and the textures of food.  I loved to watch the organoleptic properties of things transform before our eyes into something nourishing and beautiful.

 As I learned to prepare food myself, I remember as I became more experienced, it seemed to me that the food itself had a way of communicating when it was ready.  The smell of tomato when it was just right in a marinara or the right color of a piece of chicken.  The first time I decide to make a tomato sauce from scratch was one of the most exhilarating experiences that I've ever had in the kitchen.  I was ten years old and I had to rely on taste and smell alone to get it right because I had no books or recipes to guide me.  I raided my mothers spice cupboard looking for what smelled like spaghetti sauce.  It turned out pretty tasty and from that moment on, I was a full-on foodie. 

Once, when my mom was sick with the flu, I wanted to make her happy.  It was a Saturday and I had spent the morning watching a PBS show called The Victory Garden.  One of the segments always involved a Chef preparing something delicious.  That morning it was escargot in a garlic butter sauce.  I was impressed and thought that such a glorious dish would please my mother.  I went into the yard and found only 3 snails so I then found 4 slugs to make up the rest. The chef had used fresh garlic sauteed in butter and then the snails lightly tossed in the pan until golden and tender.  My nine year old self ripped the poor snails from their shells (because I thought the shells would be too difficult to chew), heated up my moms skillet over high heat, decimated some margarine, threw the snail/ slug combo into the pan and covered them thoroughly with garlic powder.  I finished the meal with salt which melted the slugs into slimy booger-like piles and slid the whole mess on a plate.  I decide to get a few rose petals onto the plate to make it look pretty and presented it to my mom.  She was so gracious and kind even though I made her vomit with my "meal".  I love her for that.  What a great mom.

Well, I went off on kind of a tangent so next time I will recommence with my early years and try to stay on topic.

He CAN do it!

I have been given a humbling and powerful lesson by my son this weekend.  Yesterday when we were at the store intending to buy groceries for the week, we felt a strong feeling to get Dylan a bike with half of our budgeted food money.  Both O and I were a little tenuous about how long it would take our boy to be able to ride the bike unassisted but we felt such a strong feeling that we got it anyway.  Of course, I tried to buy training wheels but papa said "No!  He can do this and I will help him do this without training wheels."  This made me nervous.  Our boy doesn't have the best balance.  We bought him a bike a few years ago with training wheels already attached and the poor boy fell off of it over and over.  He falls off of his scooter, he falls off of the side walk, he will sometimes randomly fall down for no apparent reason.  I was certain that we would be making a trip to the emergency room.  Yesterday, D was nervous but he had faith in his papa.  They practiced and practiced until O couldn't do it any longer.  This morning before 6am, D was at it again and this time he was able to do it totally unassisted.  I was so impressed!  But it was time and he was ready.  It brought to mind how this applies to parenting in general.  You want your children to succeed and if you're like me, you may even encourage them to try sooner than is right and they will fail.  Miserably. Then you  can't imagine how  your child will ever find success. That's why we must keep ourselves in tune with our Heavenly Father.  He knows the beginning from the end and he will help you know how to help your children at the right time for them.  Today, I am certain that our boy will be successful at everything that is in his best interest.  We will love him and encourage him, and allow him to grow but most of all, we will gift him with faith in his capacity to succeed and listen more closely for the clues that come from him and Heavenly Father for the right time to act.

New Beginnings

So far this blog has been rot.  Mostly because I was unwilling to really share myself.  There are lots of reasons why, but now I'm over it.  Today for school Dylan and I decided to go out and try and catch a tadpole.  Sadly, none were had.  We did find some minnows!  Here is a picture of Dylan with his prize.  How did he catch such a cool thing?  Well first, he gingerly inched his way down to the water surface and cautiously skimmed his minnow catching apparatus across the surface of the water scaring the minnows far away from him.  The mama intervenes at this point and tries to get down the steep and treacherous blown concrete bank with a serious case of sciatica impeding her movement.  "And what happens next?"  You ask with baited breath?  Well, the mama gets her well-treaded running shoes stuck on the concrete, slips and slides down the bank like a block of cheddar on a cheese grater. In the end, the mother is sitting in 2 feet of sludge and slime bruised and bloody but resolved.  This fall has  positioned her in the center of minnow action enabling her to catch the prize quickly for her beloved son.  The son is happy and so the mother is happy. 

 The End 

Boo

I've had blogg block for a long time now.  I've wanted to blog but at times what I've written was used in attack against me by people who I considered family.  I'm over it for what its