happiness is a grateful heart

At church one of my responsibilities is teaching a class of 16 and 17-year old girls. A couple of weeks ago our lesson was on "Gratitude and Appreciation." As part of that topic, I asked the girls if they agreed with the following statement:

"Happiness is a grateful heart."

From my own experience, I have found this concept to be true. Most of the "bad days" in my life can be attributed to my own ingratitude and cynicism, while the truly happy days have been days that I simply find joy and contentment in the things that matter most.

Here are pictures from some happy days spent with family over our Thanksgiving break this past weekend:

Illinois skies had some snow on Thanksgiving day
Ramona was hailed as a princess at Paca's house . . .
. . . where she was served an abundant portion of turkey,
and pie.
Friday morning we went for a walk in the woods behind Paca's house,

where Forest used to go exploring as a kid.
Thank you for all you do, Paca and Teresa!

Friday night we visited Grandma's house in Decatur, where Ramona drove a little Mickey Mouse car around the living room enough times to wear out its batteries twice.
Grandma treated us to dinner at Fuji Restaurant,
where we had our own personal chef grill orders on the teppanyaki in front of us. He flipped and rattled his spatulas around between cooking food, and of course set things on fire as part of the performance.
Poor Ramona was so frightened by the flames that she insisted on being held the rest of dinnertime (although she applauded the fires that were set a safe distance away, at other tables).

Thank you for your love and support, Grandma!

Saturday we drove over to Ojii and Baachan's house in Bloomington-Normal. Ramona helped cool down a fresh batch of sushi rice,
which was promptly pressed into a Mickey Mouse mold,
and eaten by our little sushi monster.
Sunday we dressed up for church,
and afterward went outside to enjoy perhaps one of the last walk-worthy days of the year.

Ramona giggled and grinned when Ojii put her up on his shoulders,
and she giggled and grinned some more as Baachan played inai-inai-ba (peek-a-boo) behind Daddy's shoulders.
Come to think of it, she's always finding reasons to giggle and grin.
Osewa ni narimashita, Ojii and Baachan!

"Our realization of what is most important in life goes hand in hand with gratitude for our blessings." ~Thomas S. Monson

strings on the side

My full-time job is stay-at-home-Ramona-mommy . . . and most likely, it will stay that way for a little while. A friend of mine once described this and similar occupations as a job with crummy pay but benefits "out of this world." I would have to agree.

Aside from this responsibility, however, I enjoy working as a teacher of stringed instruments part-time. For a while after our move to Iowa I was without students, but thankfully in September I began lessons with an 11-year violist (whose family happened to have a spare viola for me to borrow) and an 8-year old cellist. As much as I miss my old students back in Illinois, it has been refreshing to start over with a brand new studio of beginners.
About a week ago I held a mini-recital in our living room to showcase our progress. It was successful enough that perhaps we will have to do something like it again sometime.
In addition to my own private studio, I also got a position teaching at the Cedar Rapids School of Music, a facility for private music lessons after school. Last week I had my first lessons with a couple of violin students--and I decided it was time to purchase my own violin.

I took a bit of a gamble and picked up a 100-dollar fiddle from Craigslist that hadn't been played for 30 years. I spent another 100 dollars on some repairs and ordered a fresh set of violin strings. I think once the new strings are on, it will sound like a 700-dollar violin.
So, it's true--I am now the owner and player of a violin. I am even the teacher of two violin students. But let there be no misconceptions about my true identity--I will always be a cellist and cello teacher at heart . . . somewhere on the sidelines of my heart, where the mother, wife, and daughter in me live, that is.

Farewell for now, Grandpa Dixon

Forest's grandfather, Grandpa Dixon, passed away last week at the age of 95. Although I once heard him say he hoped to live to 100, I believe he is happy to move on and be reunited with his wife, daughter, and parents.

I didn't get to know this man the way Forest or Parry did, but I do have some memories of brief moments I was able to talk with him.

The first time I met Grandpa Dixon was on our wedding day. He was 92 and still going strong.
The next day when I saw him at our reception, he looked at me and said, "So--you survived the night."
The only other time I saw Grandpa Dixon was at his Idaho farm in May 2008. Forest and I stopped to visit him on our way to Portland for an internship. He was 93 and still going strong.

I got to meet his new foal, Cookie . . .
. . . and snap a photo of the two Forests, side by side. Grandpa was given the name Forest at birth, but told us he added an extra R to his name later because he thought it looked more "distinguished."
Before we left, we cooked him dinner, and I baked a loaf of bread in his oven. As I was preparing the dough, I remember he looked at me, kind of incredulously, and asked, "You're going to make real bread? From yeast? No one does that anymore. You're a good woman."

Last Wednesday we got a phone call about Grandpa Dixon's death. His health had been declining these past few months, so the news did not come as a surprise. Still, I think I will always remember him as that rock-solid Idaho grandpa, going strong as long as he could.

With Parry's help, we arranged to fly out West for the funeral. Forest, Ramona and I arrived in Salt Lake City on Friday to meet up with family. As always, it was enjoyable to see the cousins together and watch as Aubrey attempted to carry Ramona around.
Saturday we woke up early for our drive to Idaho--back to Grandpa's old farm in Jerome. We arrived with plenty of time for Ramona to play with four-wheelers, . . .
. . . play with cousins, . . .

. . . play with Grandpa Parry (whom she currently calls Pacca), . . .
. . . and take a quick nap before the funeral service.

Soon after we put her down for this nap, however, we heard that Crissy's van doors were mysteriously opening and closing on their own. That was when we realized that Ramona had been holding the van keys before we left. Then we found out that the van doors were completely locked with no way to get in--except for the keys in Ramona's hand. Apparently the last button she pushed before she fell asleep was "lock."
I got the job of sneaking in the room and extracting the keys from her so everyone could get their stuff out of the van and get ready for the funeral. It seemed like an easy enough task, but I was gone for at least ten minutes before figuring out that Ramona was actually sitting on the keys. I can't believe she stayed asleep the whole time I was searching.

This is what Pacca looked like most of the weekend: At the mercy of both granddaughters.
After the funeral, it was time to play on the farm again. Ramona was delighted to feed hay to horses, one of which was Cookie--now all grown up.



Maria pulled out her camera and captured some some memorable images that evening. Here is one of the window on Grandpa Dixon's favorite sunroom:
And here is one of a scenic Idaho sunset:
A photo of the Parry branch of Grandpa Dixon's posterity:
I think he would have liked this picture of his great-granddaughter Ramona--don't you?
Sunday morning we went for one last walk on the farm.


One last look at the horses,
and one last romp in the dirt,
before a nap-ful drive back to Utah
One last bedtime story from Aunt Maria,
before our flight back to Iowa.

We miss you, Grandpa Dixon.