A funny thing happened at the band competition

There were lots of bands of all different sizes at the Red Rocks Marching band competition. Our band is rather small -- we compete in the 2A division, which is the second smallest.
With half a dozen bands in each of five divisions, the competition was a long drawn out thing. Our band performed at 5:45pm, and the awards ceremony was scheduled for 10:30pm. After we finished performing, we went back to the buses, put equipment away, changed out of uniforms, and ate dinner. Then we trooped back down to watch the 4A and 5A competitions.

The big bands are truly impressive, in sheer size and volume. We have around 50 band members, and only a few color guard girls. The bands in the 5A division have 150-300 band members, with dozens of color guard, fancy uniforms, and lots of supporting percussion in the stationary Pit which includes gongs, huge bass drums, xylophones, etc.

Here is one of big bands performing. But the great thing about this video isn't the band. Watch the drum major (he's in the lower left corner at the beginning). I'll zoom in on him in a few seconds. Check out the feathered plumes on the uniform hats that are next to him on the platform.

The band calls those feathers "dead chickens" or just "chickens" for short. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour (10:30 pm after a very long day of traveling and chaperoning and standing around in the hot St. George sun waiting and running on the field setting up props and watching the band and then taking the props down and riding on the cart holding the props on so they wouldn't slide off and nearly falling off the cart myself and laughing hysterically all the while) or the fact that I was bored (0r both), but those dancing chickens were the FUNNIEST thing I had seen in a long time. I still laugh every time I think of this.

If you don't think it was funny - I want to hear about it. Because I really want to know if my sense of humor is just whacked. So tell me, is my Funny Bone broken?

That is all.

An Exorcism a Day Keeps the Blues Away

Preface: The following story is my entry into the

Get your entry in by WEDNESDAY NIGHT! That's only one more day people!

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The day I faced down the devil started out like any other.

It was a bright and sunny day -- a typical Tuesday: Up at 6am for family scriptures, then nag repeatedly with the occasional threat thrown in while getting kids in and out of showers, dressed, lunches packed, piano practiced, and out the door to school.

At last the house was quiet. After morning prayer and a quick read through Alma 30, I started on my perennial To-Do List. Halfway through folding a load of laundry, Caroline popped into my thoughts. Caroline was one of the young women in my ward, and as the Young Women's President, I had direct stewardship over her. At 17, she was a beautiful girl, or would have been had her lovely features not been twisted into a perpetual scowl. Caroline had strayed from the straight and narrow and was struggling. She and her friends were dabbling in drugs and alcohol and who knows what else. I had reached out to her multiple times without much luck; she was generally angry, hostile, and rude. Her parents were at their wits' end knowing what to do with her.


Go visit Caroline.


I looked at the clock. It was 9:05 am. Caroline should be in school at this hour. Was I supposed to call the school and get her out of class?


Go to her home.


This is silly, I thought. Her mother works -- I'm sure no one is home.

I returned to folding and began delivering clothes to my children's rooms (this was back when I was a nice mom -- now my kids must haul their own clean laundry to their rooms). All the while, a disturbing image of Caroline lying half clothed on her unmade bed danced behind my eyes. I sighed and set down the basket on the kitchen table, still half full of clean clothes. I can't just show up on her doorstep. I picked up the phone and dialed her number. Ring.... ring.... ring.... ring..... ring......... ring............

I hung up the phone with a little more force than necessary. I felt silly. I was glad I hadn't wasted time driving over there for no reason. Even if Caroline was there, what would I say when she opened the door? Uh... Hi! I just love you so much that I thought I'd come and see you because I had this feeling you were ditching school and I am such a wonderful caring loving leader that I am here to help you do the right thing! I could almost hear the door slamming in my face and the muffled derisive laughter as she walked away. I strode to the table and snatched up the basket to finish my task.


What is more important: what Caroline will think of you, or her soul?


I stopped short. In that moment, the laundry was forgotten. I picked up the phone again and redialed Caroline's number. This time instead of ringing I heard the buzzing of the busy signal. I slammed the phone back on the receiver, grabbed my purse, and ran for the car.

I prayed out loud during the 4 minute drive to her parent's home. Dear Lord, forgive me for being slow to hear. Please guide my mind to know what to say and do to help this girl. Please give me the courage I lack so that I may be a tool in Thy hands for whatever must be done today.

I climbed the front steps of the old brick farmhouse and rang the doorbell. Silence. I knocked loudly on the door. Bam Bam Bam BAM BAM! Still nothing. I made a tent over my eyes with my hands and pressed my face close to the front window and peered inside. The normally tidy living room was in a shocking state of disarray. Sheet music from the overturned piano bench was strewn across the room, and beside the sofa the end table was on its side. A vase of dried flowers was shattered on the entry tile.

Alarm tightened my throat, and I stepped back from the window, momentarily at a loss. Something was wrong here. What should I do? Should just I go in? Should I call for help?


Go inside. NOW.


I turned the unlocked doorknob and pushed. The door swung open easily until it bumped against the base of the broken vase.

I called out, "Caroline?"

Nothing but a faint spluttering sound coming from the kitchen. What was that smell?

I stepped over the scattered flowers and moved toward the kitchen, where shattered dishes littered the antique wood floor. Every cabinet was open and half empty, the contents scattered across the counter tops and floor. Burned tomato soup burbled in an untended saucepan on the stove, hissing and spewing acrid smoke as each bubble burst in slow motion. Broken stoneware and glass crackled under my shoes as I crossed the kitchen quickly and turned off the stove. And then I saw the old-style beige rotary phone on the floor; the phone cord had been ripped from the base and the receiver was nowhere to be found.

I made my way down the hallway toward the bedrooms, listening for any sounds.

"Hello? Anybody home?!"

An answering thud sounded somewhere below me. I tiptoed to the top of the basement stairs and called again.

"Caroline? Is that you?"

A chilling scream echoed up the stairwell and then trailed off into a low groan. I was frozen with fear and dread for a moment. I closed my eyes and murmured another brief prayer, took several deep breaths, and began to slowly descend the stairs.

I found Caroline in the back basement bedroom. She was curled up on the stripped bed wearing only her underwear and a t-shirt; her legs, arms and face were red with bleeding welts where she had scratched herself raw. The phone receiver was clutched in her right hand. A low moan escaped her lips, and her puffy eyes were closed tightly against the bright morning light that filtered in through the lacy curtains on the window. On the nightstand was a small piece of glass and a small plastic straw. On the floor, an overturned Ouija board.

I sucked in a startled breath.

Caroline's eyes opened, scanned the room dazedly, and then slowly focused on me standing in the doorway. Her eyes narrowed, and she pushed herself partway to a sitting position. My heart jumped into overdrive as I looked into bloodshot eyes that seethed pure hatred. The distorted gutteral voice that burst from her chapped and bleeding lips was not her own.

"Who are you!?"

"Caroline, you know me. It's Sister Jones from the ward."

"Caroline is gone! This body is mine now!"

Dear Father in Heaven, please help me.

I took a slow breath. "Caroline does not belong to you. I command you to leave her body now!"

Caroline's tortured face twisted into a cortorted mask of fury. The scream came with such force that I could feel the shock of it against my whole body.

"Leave now or DIE!"

And she got slowly to her feet and began to stagger toward me, the phone handset raised threateningly.

What happened next was done without any thought or plan of mine. My right arm raised firmly to the square and I heard my voice speaking calmly but forcefully, "I command you in the name of Jesus Christ to depart and leave this girl alone!"

The girl's eyes widened in surprise. A tortured shriek ripped from her throat, hung in the air for a long moment, and then she collapsed to the floor. My knees turned to jello, and I went and knelt next to her, gathered her in my arms, and held her tight while sobs racked her frail body and my tears of gratitude and relief mingled with hers.

I moved away a couple of months later. A few years ago I heard that Caroline had pulled her life together, gone to college, and was engaged to be married. I imagine that she's forgotten all about me. But I will never forget her, nor the day that the Lord helped me face down the devil--and win.

Marching Band

Friday evening was the Red Rocks Marching Band Competition in St. George, Utah. I had the opportunity to go along and watch Susan compete with our high school band (which shall remain nameless even though most of you already know where I live but I have to make some small effort to protect my identity just in case there is some freaky internet stalker who might wish to come and steal my beautiful children and murder me in my sleep).

For grandparents and other interested family who have never seen the band march, here is a short video of part of their competition routine. Susan is the adorable one wearing black and red.

Here she is up close. Isn't she a cutie? I sure love this kid.

She has been incredibly diligent and dedicated to this whole marching band thing. These kids meet to practice at 6:30am 4 days a week, with a two hour after school practice on the fifth day. In the summer they had two band camps, one in May and one in August, for a combined total of 18 days marching out in the hot sun. She's learned a lot, made tons of friends, and had a blast along the way.

And it all paid off when they won THIRD PLACE in the 2A division! What a great way to end the season! Everyone was happy and relieved and we all went back to the hotel and some of us stayed up most of the night being silly (hint: "some of us" means SUSAN and not her poor tired mother), which is what kids do on band trips, right?

Way to Go, DONS!

That doesn't give my location away, does it?

Don't Miss This Contest!!!

So The Crash Test Dummy and Art and Sewl are co-sponsoring a Ghost Story writing contest.

Click on the poster below to be transported through time or space... or the internet to the contest site, complete with rules and some pretty covet-worthy prizes to whet your writing appetite.

The more the merrier, so get over there and scare up some stories!

The Eyebrow Adventure, aka Amidey Made Me Do It

So. When I entered my midlife crisis this summer and realized that my Chick Card had been revoked, I first did the ear piercing thing. I also began to consider getting my eyebrows waxed, with a fair amount of encouragement from some of you (see comments for the last two posts). Yes, it is true, my friends; somehow I reached 39 years of age without ever having had any hair ripped off my face (or any other part of me, thank you very much). It was part of the "a la naturale" thing I had going... no hair color, no piercings, no tattoos, no eyebrow waxing, and for several years, no eye makeup. I was downright granola for awhile, I'm telling you! I even made my own homemade granola. Also yogurt, cheese, and butter from raw milk gotten from a cow I milked myself. I wore Birkenstocks with socks, even. (But not while milking the cow.)

So, with that kind of emotional baggage, you can understand my reluctance to get my eyebrows done. My whole identity revolved around being REAL. Hair color and eyebrow waxing were for shallow girlie women who secretly hated themselves and were insecure about their appearance. My husband liked me the way I was. I liked me the way I was. Mostly. Well, sometimes. And above all, I didn't want to get my eyebrows done just because most of my friends thought I should. If I was going to do it, I would do it because I wanted to do it.

So I waited more than a month. (Bad writing alert: I started three straight paragraphs with the word, "so". The floggings shall commence immediately.) I waited, because I am stubborn and spiteful. And I looked at my eyebrows in the mirror every morning; with each passing day they began to look bushier. Finally I capitulated. I called Kari Rawlings of New Reflections Salon and made an appointment for myself and Jessica, my lovely fellow Sister-OutLaw.

My handsome but annoying husband overheard the conversation and smirked as I got off the phone.

"I knew you would end up doing it. If Amidey wants you to do something, you always do it."

If he hadn't been holding a reciprocating saw, I might have socked him. Instead, I stuck my tongue out and put my fingers in my ears.

"NanaNanaBooboo!"

And then I ran.

What a dork. (Him, not me.) (As if I needed to tell you that.) (Right?)


So, last Wednesday we went. Amidey came along to document the process. We are nothing if not dedicated bloggers, after all.

Behold, the videos.

Worse than the waxing, however, was the tweezing that commenced after the camera was turned off. Dude. That really hurt. I was yelping and crying and making a complete fool of myself in the chair. Okay not really. But I saved up the pain and went home and cried like a baby later that night.

And here, we are, Jessica and myself, after the ordeal was over.

The funny thing is... I don't know that I see a whole lotta difference. Do you?

Before

After

Yikes - take a look at the wrinkles around those eyes!? Whoa, baby - I think a little botox might be called for here! I mean, hey, I'm already well down the slippery slope of appearance artifice, right? Why stop now? I could be young forever -- Wheeeeeee!


What's that? Too late, you say? TOO LATE?! Are you calling me... OLD!?

&$*&@! so called "friends"! Who needs you, anyway! :stalks off to make voodoo dolls:

You will rue the day you mocked the Funny Farmer!

Scared yet? No? :sigh:


OH! Wanna know what my husband said when he got home that night and saw my new brows?

Nothing. He didn't even notice.

Shocker.