If Everyone Was a Beaut, Would Anyone Be? Just Wondering

When we were kids, we were tough.  We could take abuse.  It made us who we are today.  No one was concerned about our feelings.  We just took it.  Our shortcomings were shouted from the rooftops.

A particularly painful moment for me was the day, probably about this time of year, when I was crammed into the school bookstore with dozens upon dozens of my fellow seniors being measured for our caps and gowns.

No fears.  What could go wrong?

Suddenly a woman wrapped a measuring tape around my head and there, before my peers,  I was made aware that I was not like everyone else.  In a voice like  that of Foghorn Leghorn, the woman shouted across the room, "We're probably going to have to special order this one."  It was then I knew.  I had a "Cannon Head!"  Until then, I was innocent.  After that, I, and everyone knew.

I lived with it, however.  I've not gone into counseling over it.  I'm aware that I have a ginormous head and huge feet (size 11) to balance it out.  I'm also loud, sarcastic and not the most sensitive soul on the planet.  I still go outside without fear of mockery.  In fact, my brothers and I laugh about the size of our melons thinking that perhaps we could win contests with them somewhere.

In today's world, we shield everyone from the truth.  We don't keep score because we don't want losers to realize that fact that they lost.  All little girls are princesses, little boys are princes.  When I taught at LDSBC, most who got less than an A developed near-apoplexy.  There is a school-of-thought that says that we shouldn't even give out grades.

I'm not advocating meanness.  I'm advocating a little more realism, is all.  Most of us are real cute.  But definitely not real beauties or really handsome.  Most of us are smart enough to get by, but not genius-level brains.  Most of us aren't really fooled either, by people pretending that we are.  We're just people and if people let us, most of us don't mind being us, either.  Perhaps helping us laugh a little more at our short-comings would help.  Or maybe telling us that you like us for our stringy hair would bond us forever.

The picture above?  Helena Bonham Carter's head was made three sizes too large for Alice in Wonderland.  She's still pretty cute.  And the rest of the crowd had prosthetic devices to uglify themselves to make her feel better about herself.  Would that really work?

Enjoy the ride, there is no return ticket

I got this emailed to me from my Relief Society President, Julie Postma.  The cute part is that she didn't recognize George Carlin.  I guess we ran in different circles.

Do you realize that the only time in our lives when we like to get old is when we're kids? If you're less than 10 years old, you're so excited about aging that you think in fractions.  

'How old are you?'  ' I'm four  and a half!' You're never thirty-six and a half. You're four and a half, going on five! That's the key.

You get into your teens, now they can't hold you back. You jump to the next number, or even a few ahead.

'How old are you?' 'I'm gonna be 16!' You could be 13, but hey, you're gonna be 16! And then the greatest day of your life  ! You  become 21. Even the words sound like a ceremony.YOU BECOME 21. YESSSS!!!  

But then you turn  30. Oooohh, what happened there? Makes you sound like bad milk! He TURNED; we had to throw him out. There's no fun now, you're Just a sour-dumpling. . What's wrong? What's changed?

You  BECOME  21, you  TURN  30, then you're  PUSHING 40.. Whoa! Put on the brakes, it's all slipping away. Before you know it, you  REACH 50 and your dreams are gone.. 

But! wait!! !  You  MAKE it  to 60. You didn't think you would!

So you  BECOME 21,  TURN 30,   PUSH 40,  REACH  50 and make it  to 60.

You've built up so much speed that you  HIT 70! After that it's a day-by-day thing; you HIT Wednesday!

You  get into !  your 80's and every day is a complete cycle; you HIT lunch; you TURN 4:30; you REACH bedtime. And it doesn't end there. Into the 90s, you start going backwards; 'I Was JUST     92.'

Then a strange thing happens. If you make it over 100, you become a little kid again. 'I'm 100 and a half!'
May you all make it to a healthy 100 and a half!!  

HOW TO STAY YOUNG   
1...  Throw out nonessential numbers.  This includes age, weight and height. Let the doctors worry about them. That is why you pay them.

2.  Keep only cheerful friends.  The grouches pull you down.

3. Keep learning.   ! Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever, even ham radio. Never let the brain idle. 'An idle mind is the devil's workshop.'  And the devil's   family name is    Alzheimer's.  

4.  Enjoy the simple things. 

5. Laugh  often, long and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.

6..  The tears happen. Endure, grieve, and move on. The only person, who is with us our entire life, is ourselves. Be ALIVE while you are alive.

7.  Surround yourself with what you love   , whether it's family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever.Your home is your refuge . 

8.  Cherish your health:  If it is good, preserve it. If it is unstable, improve it. If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.

9.  Don't take guilt trips.. Take a trip to the mall, even to the next county; to a foreign country but NOT to where the guilt is.

10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.  
AND ALWAYS REMEMBER: 
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take,   but by the moments that take our breath away .   
And if you don't send this to at least 8 people - who cares? But do share this with someone. We all need to live life to its fullest each day!!   
 



Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, champagne in one hand - strawberries in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming WOO HOO - What a Ride!

It's Not Over 'Til It's Over

Watched Oprah talk to Iron Mike Tyson.  It was amazing.  The man was so articulate yet so helpless.  I think that the words came from years in rehab.  But I also believed that he was manipulating no one.

He blamed no one but himself.  He said he lost God while he was in prison and implied that he regained Him, but that those three years were awful.

He talked about his rage, but seemed incapable of really blaming that but just talked about how he has decided since all of that, that he is on his way to trying just to be good.  He said he figured that that really is what everyone wants.  It would seem to me that he is right, but the problem is that everyone's route to that is different.

He talked about the death of his beautiful little daughter, and was truly broken about that.  He was wonderful as he introduced his new baby girl.  She is beautiful.  And he spoke of his other five children with such love and devotion.

Oprah talked about how she had followed his career for Stedman but that she had been horrified by his  violence.  She said she finally saw him for what he simply was:  human.  I think she's right.  I think I saw him that way for the first time, too.

Maybe the movie, Tyson, might be worth the trip to the rental store.

Mormonspeak

Mormon language is sometimes kind of archaic, don't you think? People outside of the culture just don't use words like "opportunity," "challenge," "endure," and "participate" like we do. They say "chance," "problems," "put up with," and "get involved." It doesn't matter much. It just is interesting.

Yet we, on the other hand say "good luck" alot. We say that we're "lucky" when probably what we mean is we were "blessed." The old fashioned words don't do any harm, really, beyond sometimes making us seeming a little weird. But saying we were "lucky" leaves God out of things completely, which. Is not what we want either. To say we were "blessed" might seem a little strange too, but at least it's accurate.

A Gap-toothed Yokel Takes the Offensive

From the lusty gap-toothed Wife of Bath in Chaucer to Terry Thomas, to Vince Lombardi, to Lauren Hutton to David Letterman to Madonna, I've never been embarrassed by the raging space between my teeth.

Once I asked my dentist if he would have given my braces though my teeth look perfectly straight. I was referring to the slight malocclusion in the back of my mouth that likely contributed to my teeth-grinding at night. He said, "Probably." I realize now that he was probably referring to my gaposis. I was just glad I'd dodged the bullet and never had braces.

Someone once mentioned my gap to me in Julia's presence and she hastily shushed them saying "That's not nice." I suddenly realized that maybe my gap wasn't beautiful to everyone. I actually never thought that it was beautiful, but it was just the way my teeth went. My dad once mentioned that he liked the way my front teeth were shaped, for some reason. I just presumed that he liked the way my teeth were shaped. It never occurred to me that he might have thought that he could divert my attention from my gap.

I even joined a group called "Love That Diastema" which is devoted to the enjoyment of the little space in front. I think loving it is a full-blown fetish. You can presume that a "Diastema" is, in fact, the name for the space. That's how important it is. Apparently we "Diastematics" are known for our creativity, luck and wealth.

The other day I saw a stunning model in a catalog who had far gappier teeth than mine and she was smiling like a cheshire. It was gorgeous. Though I didn't have the presence of mind to scan her and show you, it wouldn't have made me more beautiful if I had. I'm just hoping that being a gap-toothed yokel now comes back into enjoying the admiration it should.

Tributing July

The only thing not to like about July is that we are now on the slippery slope down to harvest. Probably one of the most unhappy days for me is June 20 because that's when days start again to shorten.

Spring has its charm, Fall is beautiful and Winter kills the bugs. But full-on Summer is splendid. Who could argue that?

Here's Sophia and Ali playing on the Daybreak Beach a day or so ago. Magnificent.

Just Sayin' . . .

Michael Jackson was talented. I don't think anyone argues with that. I liked "Billy Jean" and "Thriller". The Jackson Five emerged from Gary, Indiana while I was living in Chicago. I even remember vaguely a performance of his with Brittney Spears, maybe at a half-time of something, that I thought was really good entertainment. I really loved his Simpson's episode. Really loved it.

It's just that he did get pretty weird in the interim and it's amazing to me that a whole swath of people has emerged that seem to have better place twenty years ago screaming for him. Where have they been waiting quietly?

I think today's excitement is fine. I also think it's something interesting to do on a long summer day. I just hope that my great-grandchildren won't still be wearing t-shirts with his likeness on the front.

Eary Comfort

I'm sure people are on the job trying to make earphones more comfy, but at this point, they've not quite succeeded. I listen to books on tape, and after awhile, the tender little cartilage in your ears begins to weary of being bent aside and starts to complain. At least mine does. Maybe the young still have more flexibility in their cartilage, but I don't seem to. Maybe the young are too distracted by the assault to their eardrums to notice.

I think there are some earphones that are more comfortable, but they cost a small fortune. My son rides a motorcycle (much to my motherly dismay) so he's got some snazzy ones to confront the noise. But he got them for a great price since he's in the electronic biz. I shudder to think how much it would be retail even at Best Buy

Burning Candles at Both Ends - A Good Thing or Not?

I was looking through a musty old poetry book and discovered this familiar piece by Edna St. Vincent Millay:

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends —
It gives a lovely light!

Then comes a second from her which is a little less well-known:

SAFE upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

My question is, why are these two poems called “First Fig” and “Second Fig”? And, the second poem is more than obviously a swipe at the Bible. Maybe the first is too.

I do know that in some quarters, the fig is thought to be the “Forbidden Fruit”. That would seem likely because the fig is very Mediterranean. It more than occurs that the first fig could have referred to sexuality (which many of you would rather I not refer to at all), since many misinformed interpret the Forbidden Fruit to refer to sexual sin between Adam and Eve. That would then make the second fig, avarice perhaps?

Since these poems were written during the “Roaring Twenties”, it’s likely they did refer to the excesses of those days. But I’m going to climb into my little comfort zone and prefer the first, at least, to mean to live life to its fullest. What can be wrong with that? God certainly made our world a beautiful place and gave us one life to live. Doesn’t he want us to love our lives as fully and beautifully as we can? Creating as much light as we can can't be all bad. Just thinking.

Sudoku and the Closet -- More Alike Than You'd Think

My Itouch has put a new dimension onto Sudoku playing that is causing me to re-evaluate my whole approach to life. Before when I worked the puzzles from the newspaper, I would play a game however I wanted -- I’d sort of hit it with the shotgun effect if I wanted or I’d carefully analyze each square until I got it sorted out as best I could.

Now, with the Itouch I’M TIMED TOO! And not only does the little beast time me, but it compares me to the umptykajillion others who have played that very game, and generally I emerge in the lower 10 per cent of players.

I’m not a very good competitor. I like just dipsying along. "Slow and steady wins the race", kind of thinking. So when others are factored in, I become tense, irritable, and think like rocks in a blender.

Back to strategy on Sudoku. You can just kinda scan the whole and look for what fits. That does work sometimes and rather suits my random/abstract way of thinking. If something is wrong, you erase and proceed as if nothing is a problem. Unfortunately, my Itouch docks you for mistakes. Also, the puzzles get progressively harder and require a little more close analysis. What is the procedure for this? Go carefully in order through the blocks of nine squares then through the horizontal lines? Next is the vertical lines and then a search of the individual squares. But when do you go back and see if anything you’ve done affects the whole? When do you put down the magnifying glass and approach the obvious?

It’s all hard for a borderline OCD person like myself.

“Now let’s compare this all to cleaning out the closet” I think as I observe the mess of shoes on my closet floor. Do you toss it all out on the bed and ponder individual pieces or do you just slide things around, tossing some as you work until order emerges? I can’t decide and therefore I refuse to play any more and just go listen to my book on tape. That only occasionally drives me crazy.

Are Women Actually Better than Men?

The question about whether women are better/kinder/more nurturing/more spiritual than men is one that has been debated since general authorities started putting their women on pedestals. I heard it again the otherday in an LDS meeting.

Are women more nurturing? Are they more patient? More spiritual?

It doesn't really make sense and it doesn't really appear to hold true in actual day-to-day experience. When I look around, I see lots of good women, but I also see lots of good men. I have four brothers. They are all good men. I have two sons. They are both good men. My husband is a good man. Young fathers are showing a good deal more of nurturing and caring of their children than our fathers did and I think it was culture that prevented our fathers from getting more involved with us. If the truth be told, our father, the gruff, rough and tumble man that he was, was more nurturing to us than our mother was.

My experience is that there are lots of good men and lots of not-so-good men, but the same hold true for women.

A friend of mine once approached Sister Chieko Okazaki after a talk she gave about this very topic in which she had said essentially that men overestimate the goodness of their women. My friend asked "Why do General Authorities always talk about how much better women are than men." She simply replied "They are just being kind."

And the ultimate argument against women being inherently better than men would be than it is hardly fair if women had an easier time living the commandments yet being judged by the same standards, would it? The Lord would have had to come up with a stiffer set of rules just for the women if the existing rules were easy for them.

But then if women were actually better than men, they would think it was totally fine if God did that. They would think that God was chastening them because He loves them so much. Women would never see that as unfairness if they were so innately good.

Women are never sarcastic either.

Weighing in on American Idol

I was shocked when my Facebook pals were thrilled with the outcome of American Idol. I didn't even watch the show this year except for bits and pieces, but I was totally crazy about Adam Lambert from the moment I saw him sing "Ring of Fire". Then I played "Mad World" over and over again. I was never disappointed in what I saw on Utube.

Now I know he wears makeup and I'm not convinced that earrings on guys around here in Utah is the deal. But I like his hair, I like his style and I really like his low-key demeanor and terrific responses to the judges' reviews. I think he's a class guy with a whole pile of talent and appeal. Though his look is a little over the top, his presentation never is. I don't think he ever was disreputable. He never addressed "sexuality". He just sang like a champ.

The other guy -- Kris Allen. I am not a real fan of country music, but I don't think there's much memorable about him. He's kinda boring. Except for "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone." That's a great song even when I sing it, though.

Maybe I love Adam Lambert because I loved the big-hair bands and their craziness in days of yore. Maybe it's because people explain their gladness he didn't win because of fears of what he might represent. Haven't people done that for years? Elvis is an institution today but in the fifties, he was dangerous. I'm not so sure that the Christian vote, if that's what did it, made the right choice this time. But maybe it's just me.

I love Abbey on NCIS too.

Heading Towards the Cemetery

Today's my birthday and we are headed for Tombstone (pause for jokes and laughter.) I love my birthday. Carl sang to me before we even got up and I loved every beautiful word and note. Arizona is beautiful in the Spring. Bougainvillea is blooming everywhere.

Mme Heftybutt Makes a Decision

I am joining Weight Watchers. Rejoining, actually, but they took a signup fee so I think I must be considered a new chunky to them.

Atkins worked for me for so many years that I just couldn't make the shift. In 1989, Dr. Robert Payne suggested that I stop eating white flour and sugar just to see if that might be the cause of my killer migraines. The headaches stopped within two days and I never looked back (except on those occasions when I couldn't resist and paid with a big headache.) I took the additional step of eschewing carbs altogether and the rest is history: I lost twenty pounds and sustained a size ten for years and years with no problem. Then as life started getting more sedentary and the body chemistry started failing, I plumped. I was whapped with the fat brush. It painted me rounder and rounder until my size fourteens really hurt some days. I did lose twenty pounds last year, but ten is back now. I'm not the purist I was back in the days. Places like Cafe Rio have ruined me with their rice and beans.

Atkins could probably be working still, but there is a limit to the number of calories even that can withstand. Besides, remember the beans and rice? But I must do something. I can't stand it any longer.

I did try Weight Watchers once a couple of years ago when I went to a meeting with Marki Baxter from LDSBC. All that happened then is I threw money at a desk clerk, attended one meeting and forgot the whole thing. No weight was lost because no weight was watched. I don't like counting and measuring. Maybe this time I'll see if I can't just eyeball things for amounts. I really used to cook so I know what a half-cup looks like.

Before you is a desperate woman. I know at this age, I'll never really look comely in a bikini. But I do know that with the stairs we've got in our house, my knees will greatly appreciate thirty pounds less. We'll see just how desperate I am.

I is for Insomnia, Ipods and Idiocy

Insomnia is a beast. It's what makes me lay awake nights, looking at the ceiling, thinking about nonsense. I'm not worrying, but just letting a Rolodex of junk run through my head. It's what's driving this writing right now. I look at my clock and it says 3:51 AM.

It usually begins around 3:30AM and goes until about 6. Sometimes I get up and sometimes I just lie there, checking the time light on the ceiling, bleary and wrecked until I finally go to sleep again, hours later. Even after mother started into her dementia, she told me she would wake up and listen to Art Bell's "Coast to Coast" on KSL on a little plug-in radio earpiece she'd place under her pillow so she wouldn't disturb Dad. I wonder now what she thought about telepathy, astral projection and the extra-terrestrials Art would love to talk about. Too bad she's not here to ask about it. That was the last Mother's Day gift I gave her: a replacement earpiece because her other one broke.

If I'm smart, I grab my Ipod and listen to books on tape. I can tell when they've worked when I start losing the story and know I'm drifting back off to sleep. I turn off the book and usually fall asleep. That's really what I ought to be doing right now, but, oh well. Who's thinking clearly at this point.

My Covet for the Day

My all-time favorite calling in the Church was teaching Sunday School out at the Oquirrh Facility of the Utah State Prison. These inmates I taught were mostly sex offenders and drug addicts with the occasional murderer thrown in and all were very sorry for the crimes they had committed. Since most crime is a result of drugs and scrambled brains, sobriety brought on in prison brought new light on things. Most of my students were former members of the church with several being former High Priests. Each week I'd have a full house of people eager to hear my lesson prepared from LeGrand Richards' Marvelous Work and a Wonder. Most weeks we would cover little more than a page from the book and most lessons would have the imprint of hope upon them. Most of these men felt their sins had rendered them unforgivable, so each of them needed more than anything to hear that they could believe that forgiveness could be out there for any one of them. None was beyond the ability of the Lord to forgive. Never have I had more eager students and never have I felt the spirit as strongly as I did out there among those men.

Here's where my coveting comes in. My brother, Brent, has a new Church call out at the Utah County Jail to teach Sunday School. Ed Leary, my good friend and former neighbor, has a call to the Bishopric of the Oquirrh Facility at the Utah State Prison. Betty, his wife, gets to go along with him each Sunday. This is exactly the place where I taught. As can be imagined, I am envious of all of them. Each of them knows what I'm talking about when I say what a wonderful experience it was for me. I wish I could ride along in a pocket with them and be there to enjoy what is going on. The Lord loves all of his children, even those who have drifted far off the path and that was evident every Sunday.

Above is a picture that one of the inmates drew. Though the Utah State Facility is farther away from the Jordan River Temple than this drawing shows, and none of the prisoners had a view of the direction of the Temple, it still represents the longing that is there. Those are the prisoner's scriptures resting on his cot.

Baby Business

My nephew Aaron Cannon and his wife, Diane, are expecting their first child. She's eight months along, and is talking on Facebook about how hard it is getting to be to be able to sit. I remember, too, how difficult it was to get up after sitting down. It was tough to keep your pants up with them resting below the belly line. With my first, it was difficult keeping down breakfast, lunch and dinner for the whole nine months. It's been a long time, but I remember.

I also remember I was actually shocked that the whole miserable experience ended with us having a baby. Intellectually I did because I went regularly to my obstetrician, Dr. Eli Bernick. But emotionally, I think I thought it was a tumor.

And so, we really hadn't bought anything for baby Ben. We were alone, so I didn't have my mother near to help me get ready. Also in those days, no one knew if it was a boy or girl until delivery day. Disposable diapers were only on the horizon. We stopped by the local equivalent of Wal-Mart on our way home from the hospital, picked up formula, diapers, undershirts, plastic pants and bottles and whatever we thought we needed and headed home.

A babe in arms was new to me as well. They wouldn't let us unwrap babies at the Edgewater Hospital in Chicago thirty-nine years ago, and we held them as they, wrapped like a burrito, a couple of times a day for a half hour or so. And then they disappeared back into the nursery for the rest of the time for five, long, lonely days. So I could hardly wait to get Ben home to see if there was more to him than just a tiny face. There certainly was.

The picture above is newborn Ben with his very own coconut sent by his uncle, missionary Elder Brent Cannon, from Hawaii.

He was beautiful. I've told people that his birth was the happiest day of my life. My wedding day remains actually a blur. The birth of Brad, My second son, was an absolute wonderful day, too, but the shock of the first is something else. I couldn't believe how beautiful Ben was. He remains to me the greatest astonishment of my life. Diane and Aaron need to know that. New babies that belong to you leave your amazement cup filled up.

The Birthday List is Shorter

I love my birthday -- May 13. Because of that, I love the number 13. I was 13 on Friday the thirteenth. I choose 13 when I get to choose a number. I think my mother is kind of responsible. She celebrated birthdays like none other and I love her for that.

In part, I love Spring because of my birthday. My birthday means Spring. My dad always said he'd feel safe planting after my birthday. It was warm enough to enjoy the weather, but still early enough to take treats to school. The best of both worlds.

Bea Arthur shared my birthday. I was proud of her. She was powerful, smart and a pleasure to watch. Every year when I'd check the list, she'd be there making me feel like I was in good, good company. Now she's gone.

Know who's left on my shared birthday list? Me, Stevie Wonder and Dennis Rodman. Not nearly so much a power group as it was when Bea was around. I'll miss her name on the list a lot.

Skating Through Life

I roller-skated to school one day when I was in Mrs. Jones' first grade class. I was waiting by my classroom door when I noticed how very tall I felt. I wondered, as I thought about my tallness, how I would be different when I was grown up.

It is one of those solid moments that has served as something of a gauging memory for the rest of my life. I've realized from age to age that I haven't changed a bit. I felt, in first grade, that if someone would give me a job, I could pretty much take care of myself if necessary. I was me and that's all it would take.

That's pretty adult thinking, I guess, but I don't really think we ever were children in our own heads. I think we've just always been "us" placed in a changing package. The thing is, we don't see the changes. I feel like the very same person I was when I was standing on my skates outside of my classroom. I'm still looking out at the world like I always did and my thoughts, I think, were every bit as complex then as they are today. I wasn't watching me change, either. I was watching the world.

Today I'm still the same person I was when I was six. What I do wonder, now, is when people stopped laughing when I tripped and fell and started wringing their hands? I wish they'd still laugh because it is still funny even if it hurts a little longer. People, I guess, are looking at the packaging and not me anymore.

I look at my four and six-year-old granddaughters and find myself realizing that they undoubtedly are experiencing the same things as I have. They are first, and foremost, people. They are not aware that their thinking is immature. We underestimate children alot, I suppose, because we don't remember like we should. But I also think that people underestimate us, the older packages, for the same reason. Everyone should remember that we, too, are the very same person we were when we were six or twenty-one or fifty. I want to be remembered that way. Not as a six-year-old, but simply as a person who is as viable as anyone else. And someone who looks just as funny when she walks into the edge of a door.

The Name of the Game

If I were to backdate to my childhood and pick a new name for me, I think I would choose "Sojourner Truth". I like the ring, I like the meaning and of course, I'd love the romantic nickname I'd have chosen for myself -- either the romantic "Jenny", or better yet, the more sophisticated "Jenna". Sojourner would have been an odd name for a little white, post-WWII girl from Utah, but I don't care. I love it just the same.

My name, "Linda" was the most common name there was for girls in the forties and fifties. In a junior high class of mine, there were six Lindas. If you figure that there would have been maybe thirty students in the class, half those being girls, 40 per cent of the girls shared my name. I was always "Linda Ann" to distinguish me from all the others. "Linda Ann" seems like a baby name to me to this day. No wonder the distinctiveness of "Sojourner" appeals to me.

I asked my mother if I were named for Linda Darnell, a hottie actress of the age, and she told me I was not and that at the time she named me, she knew of no other Lindas. I had a hard time believing her.

A student of mine from Mexico once asked me if my mother ever yelled my name at me. He couldn't imagine yelling "Linda" which means "pretty" in Spanish. It seemed a contradiction in terms to him. The answer is, "Of course she did", and so did all the other mothers of all the other Lindas. The name "Linda" was yelled so often that I taught myself not to turn around unless I was sure it was for me. Nobody really yells my name anymore. All of us Lindas are grandmas now so that is what is usually shouted if we are shouted at at all. I kinda miss hearing my name being yelled nowadays. In fact, I guess I've really sort of learned to like my name and to hear it said at any decibel. If I had a choice between Linda and Sojourner, I'm not really sure now which I'd take. I'll have to think about it some more.