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Category Archives: remembering

Blast From the Past

Can I just say that I have no problem with middle age? OK, I’ll say it. I have no problem with middle age. As much as I enjoyed high school, I would never go back. But I did go to my 30 year high school class reunion on Saturday night and discovered or rediscovered a few gratifying things:

  • Three decades pretty much level the playing field. Cellulite and receding hairlines and pot-guts and varicose veins come to jock and brainiac, cheerleader and yearbook editor alike. But you know what? It’s life. And life looks good on us. We’re beautiful.
  • Despite the above-mentioned signs of aging, I’m super comfortable in my own skin. In the hour-plus it used to take me to do my Farrah Fawcett hairdo in high school I can now shower, get dressed, do hair and make-up, feed the dog, check email, call my mom, start the dishwasher and sync my iPod. Low maintenance is my MO. Hallelujah.
  • My high school friends were extraordinary human beings, still are. They live with compassion and integrity, meet obstacles with courage and grace, and make the world better.
  • I love my life and wouldn’t trade it for anything.

As part of the program on Saturday night, I took a stab at condensing the past thirty years into 90 seconds of common life experience.  I called it “Life History Lite” or “Three Decades–Reduced.” Some folks have asked for a copy of it, so here it is. (It’s nonsense that’s  meant to be read aloud!)

Where Did Thirty Years Go?

1981. Grad night fun. On the move. Moving out. Big hair, big dreams, big plans. Plan B. Out of state, room mate. Freshman dorms, fill out forms. Fraternity, sorority, Republican majority. Student loan. Cap and gown.  MBA. Resume. GRE. PHd. Job fair. New job, no job.

True love, true blue. Rented tux. I do. Honeymoon. Townhome, twin home, Home Depot. Fixer-upper, Mr. Fix-It, Thirty-year fixed.  Ultrasound.  Ultra-Huggies. Newborn, new crib, no sleep. Car seat. First steps, first tooth, first day of school. Ballet, Little League, cubs scouts, time-outs. Room mother, soccer mom, Mr. Mom, step-mom. Slip-on Vans, mini-van, middle school, carpool. Hurry up, buckle up, cheer up, pay up. Fast track, no slack, Democrats come back. Refi, remodel, relocate. Four bedroom, two story, three car garage. Teenage, middle age, aging parents. High school, too cool. Driver’s ed, driver’s license. Drive-up, drive-in, drive-thru. Drives dad crazy.

Detox, botox, pep talks. Grey hair, no hair. Rogaine, weight gain, capital gains.  APR. ARM. IRA. 401K. High tech, high stress, highlights, light rock, less talk. iPod. iPad. Ear bud. Bluetooth. Touch screen. Express lane. Overnight. While you wait. Instant message. Fast food. Rush order. Rush hour.  Overtime, over committed, over drawn. Over the hill? Not us. Never. Golf bag, gym bag, mountain bike, take a hike. Running shoes, shin splints, triatholon day, Ben-gay. Been there, done that. Moving on. Hanging on. Bring it on.  Here’s to the next thirty years!

What’s your favorite thing about getting older? Have you gone to your high school class reunions? Leave a comment with your favorite “blast from the past” experience.


>One Girl, Ten Years . . . A Decade Distilled

>Six months ago my extraordinary friend Sharon shared something profound with my family. She had written a brief review of the past ten years of her life. Her short synopsis touched me, and not just because I love Sharon.  From the vantage point of a decade of accumulated days we discern patterns and purpose that we easily miss in the moment. I decided then that I would follow Sharon’s example. January of a new decade seems like a good time undertake the exercise. Hold on to your hats, it’s ten years after all!

2000 – 2010 A Decade Distilled

At the turn of the millennium every one of our five bedrooms had an occupant. Our kids and their friends came and went freely–the traffic through our kitchen never ceased. I grocery shopped at COSTCO, bought five dozen eggs and four gallons of milk at a time. Now four bedrooms sit empty most of the year. I buy one gallon of milk and Bob and I might manage to consume it before it expires.

Ten years ago we had two computers for the six of us at home. My verrrrry slow internet connection seemed fine–until I got a taste of DSL and then, holy cow, high-speed wireless. Now we have four desktop computers and seven laptops among the same number of people.

In 2000 we had never met Robbie Taggart. We couldn’t have dreamed what a blessing it would be to have him marry Julie and join our family. Now we have trouble remembering what our family ever did without him.

A decade ago our children had four vibrant, living grandparents–two on each side. Bob lost his Dad in 2005 and his Mom in March of 2010. My Dad passed away in May 2009.  I’m not sure we anticipated how much we would think about them and miss them on a daily basis. I was present when my Dad slipped into the next phase of eternity and also when my first grandchild, Lydia Taggart, entered this world with her eyes wide open. Emerson and Oliver arrived eagerly, bringing joy, joy, joy. What’s in a name? I used to be called Jerie, Mom, Jer, Sweetie, Sister Jacobs, Mrs. Jacobs. Now three amazing little people call me Nana.

Ten years ago our four children attended three different schools–we juggled Elementary School, Middle School, and High School expectations and events simultaneously. All four have since graduated from Livermore High School. Julie, Robbie, and Allison have all graduated from BYU with their Bachelor’s degrees and Robbie has finished his Masters program.  I actually donned a cap and gown myself in 2000 after I returned to BYU for a summer term and finished the last three classes I needed to complete the Bachelor’s degree I had started almost two decades earlier.  What’re a couple of decades in the eternal scheme of things?

We have sent a son and a daughter and aging but energetic parents on full-time service missions.

In the past ten years I have wandered through twenty-seven states of the USA. I have eaten reindeer in Norway, wild boar in Tuscany, fresh lobster in Nova Scotia, bangers and mash in London, sandwich cake in Sweden, ripe red papaya in Mexico, gallo pinto in Costa Rica, halvah from a vendor in Old Jerusalem’s maze, “St. Peter’s fish” on the Sea of Galilee, lamb and couscous at the end of the dusty canyon trail to Petra in Jordan. (And San Francisco is still my favorite city in this wide world.) Kayaked the Rogue River and rafted Costa  Rica’s gorgeous Pacuare.  Climbed Half Dome. Hiked the Zion Narrows from top to bottom. Zip-lined in the rainforest. Trekked Kauai’s Napali Trail. Rappelled. Caved. Tried snowboarding (once, thank you very much. I’ll stick with skis.) Pulled a pioneer handcart through the Sierra foothills (twice, in a long skirt.) Sea kayaked in Monterey Bay,  watched orcas up close in Victoria BC.  Jet skiied in Mexico and the Mangroves of Costa Rica. Jumped off rocks and cliffs into various bodies of water (some of it deep enough to land in safely, D’oh.)  Hiked through the Devil’s Garden and the Fiery Furnace and spent a night in Purgatory (do you detect a pattern?) Rode a bike along the edge of Fjords. Floated in the Dead Sea, body surfed in the Pacific Ocean, waded in the Atlantic, snorkeled in the Red Sea.

Broke a leg. Passed a kidney stone. Was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease. Started wearing progressive lenses (yes, that’s just a fancy word for bi-focals.) Lost 55 pounds and cut my hair short. Found gray patches in my hair and happy wrinkles around my eyes.

So, there you have the condensed version. Seems a lot changes in ten years. But the truly important stuff remains.  Faith grows, gratitude heightens, hope endures, love multiplies. I cherish my family more than ever and appreciate the goodness of God and the grace of Jesus Christ to my very core. Thanks, Sharon, for motivating me to look back. Thank you for the reminder that daily drops in the bucket become mighty waters and that joy and strength accumulate by bits. Even the hard, sharp-edged pieces that looked dark or ugly or impossible to work with when life first handed them to me are now an essential part of the beautiful pattern that is emerging.  And I wouldn’t trade any of it. Here’s to another defining decade, and to eternity.

If you boiled your last decade of life down to two pages, what would it look like?