Looking back with Lot's Wife

Some of my “friends” are Holly, Ryan, Barbara, Jon, Jonathan and Laura. My good “friend” Catherine is selling her car, a Corolla, on KSL.com if you’re interested. My friend, without quotes, Sarah, a new-mom-to-be invited me to be her “friend” on Facebook, so I could go to her page and check out pictures of her adorable baby Jonah, who I see almost every week when we have lunch together. Her Facebook page, however, will give me a chance to look at Jonah camping, Jonah bathing, and Jonah with Dad. My “friend” Ryan sent me pictures of his new baby Matthew. I say “friend” because while all of these people ARE my friends, Facebook gives us another level at which to interact. A superficial level. Not usually my level of choice. Facebook is an entire website devoted to random encounters, where people can look at your page and see what everyone who’s written to you has said. What would you say to someone if you knew that whatever you said, it was going to be heard around the world on

As I slid into my seat, the guy next to me immediately starting joking about how huge he was and telling me that if he bumped me in any way to just slug him. This is always the way coming back to Salt Lake from New York. Friendly. Going out is a different story. Everyone has on their game face, their “I live in New York” face. Their “I’ve got a great haircut and I have no intention of letting you into my space ever” face. On the way back the passengers are over-friendly. Maybe it’s the relief of getting to be yourself again after four days of people running into you and acting like it’s your fault. All the couples returning to Salt Lake have kids, dirty blonde hair, and knee-length Bermudas. We export these wholesome types as our way of obeying the commandment to be leavening in the world. And then when they get back on the mother ship to go home and we send out a fresh batch. You want to ask them immediately what ward they’re in. The man next to me on my flight from New Yo

“I know about fall,” my granddaughter Madden said to me as we drove east, towards the mountains. Her voice was a bit smug, comfortable with her control of the situation. “I KNOW about fall.” It was like she was telling me some great secret she had found out and was just voicing to test out the information. As in: did I know about fall? Was I in on the secret? “The leaves are all going to turn red and yellow and fall off the trees.” That’s it. That was the big secret. Honey, do I know about fall? The mother of five who has looked forward to the first day of September/first day of school since she turned old enough to stop crying when someone first left home and was still young enough to collapse on the couch and cry with happiness because I was finally alone for a minute? However, Madden’s pre-school teacher had told the secret about fall and soon she will be bringing home her picture of Xeroxed oak leaves, scribbled with yellow and orange, and, now that I’m alone most of the t

I said to myself for the first time this weekend: “These are my people.” This is after 30 years of marriage, two kids, six step kids, millions of shared experiences, ups and downs, nights thinking I was maybe going to get a divorce in the morning if I had time after I got the laundry started, breakfast cleaned up, the cobwebs off the ceiling, and something in the crock pot for dinner. (This isn’t to imply that I’m the only person in this marriage who’s wondered if they could bear the other’s idiosyncrasies for another five minutes.) This last weekend was my husband’s family reunion—one a year, relentlessly, since the dawn of time. From the day we get the invitation in June, I feel the dark fingers of dread creep around my heart. It’s not that I don’t like the people; they’re just different than my idea of family. And it’s not just that they do crafts and farm and square dance, although you have to consider that. It’s mainly that they all get along. They are comfortable with a grou

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