"The Happy Day At Last Has Come"

or
Cry of the Hoochie Mama
[Starkey Family Christmas Letter 2009]

Dear family and dear friends, 6 December 2009

This letter has been waiting to be written for weeks. Forgive me. I simply couldn’t bring my fingers to pen it until the news was really true. A week before Kristen and Zach’s wedding last June, Val learned that due to his contractor status with Boeing, living in Utah (a difficult commute to the Puget Sound) and union mandates requiring of 10,000 laid off workers that contractors must go first, Val ended his 30 years of service.
We traveled for the wedding and came home. Val then started a PLLC (company) to begin consulting with compressed air in manufacturing. He also took a road trip to Arizona to document details of aging fuselages in an airplane graveyard. Then, revving up with an autumn Utah hobby, he invited my brother Steven to northeastern Utah, hunting.

When Steven and Val exhausted their tolerance for cold and elusive elk, I was inducted into service. It was the morning of the third day when a friendly roadside hunter

told us of an elk call certain to lure a bull elk, the cow call from a “Hoochie Mama” procured from a neighborhood sport store.

North of a cliff

and near a ravine north of Steinaker Reservoir,

Val suggested that talented teams split up. I wanted less talent than safety, but apprehensively agreed. (When this is over, we will celebrate!)
After looking at my trusty Timex Carriage watch, I consented to climb the south side of the draw downward and then up the other side for one half hour, to reunite in an hour. With arsenal of orange vest, orange hat, walking poles, leather gloves and handheld hymnbook, I commenced a downward trek, much steeper, much deeper than originally expected. About ten minutes later I looked at my watch: “1:35,” it read. After several hundred yards further of what seemed like a 60 degree angle down and an estimated 30 more minutes, the stationary watch hands still read “1:35.” A lecture in BYU’s Recreation Department teaches that when challenge and enjoyment meet, balanced on a grid, “flow” is created--a state when people no longer sense time. We must be having FLOW! A timeless experience!

My only challenge came with deciding how to meet the overdue deadline. Bottoming the ravine, I crawled north up the neighboring slope, pumping the “Hoochie Mama” to high heaven. I then walked an equivalent of four blocks; and deciding that enough was enough, scrambled back up the first slope, noting loss of one orange hat, a near loss of the Hoochie Mama and a need to re-track twenty yards to retrieve a tumbling hymnbook. Planting both remaining items inside my waist belt and high tailing as quickly as physically possible up the south side of the draw, I remembered Val’s reassurance that Grandpa’s truck key was under a bumper.
Emerging from the rough thicket incline, I trudged through a few hundred yards of sagebrush to view a welcoming blue vehicle. Upon examination, however, there was no orange clad teammate, and more alarming, no key. Thoughts of a BYU daughter’s 2007 helicopter escort out of Escalante flashed through my mind, but ready to calm any panic, I opened the non-locking back window, hopped through, and shimmied through the connecting window to discover a working cell phone. Working, long enough to tell the time, nearly 3 p.m., the battery promptly powered down when engaged to call out.

Ready to balance agitated nerves, I found a clothes basket in the truck bed, up ended it, pulled out a paper keyboard, and proceeded to practice, rehearsing two of the ten pages that needed memorizing prior to upcoming Saturday’s recital. Half way into the second page, a thought occurred that a horn honk might work as handily as a Hoochie Mama to attract my elk hunter. Another shimmy through and several blasts on the Ford horn yielded nothing. Into the rest of the next page of eighth notes, I looked out to see a hearty orange vest and hat appear over the brush laden landscape. Emergency rescue and unwritten will postponed, we compared notes. Val, hearing a Hoochie Mama at the ravine base, had been convinced that his hunting partner had received a second wind. No half hour deadline for her! After checking the car and not seeing an orange hat,

a herd of female deer had been driven to his hiding place.
The lost cow call had yielded results! After another good half an hour or so, he sauntered back, not hearing a horn, but seeing patches of orange enclosed in a Ford truck bed.

Upon our returning home to warm shelter and hot shower, I found myself humming something encountered on the mountain hillside. The phantom melody treading my tired mind I ultimately identified as Hymn 31,“The Happy Day At Last Has Come.” Val’s arching eyebrows met a defensive pointed finger: “Don’t tell me I am batty for reading a hymnbook Mr. Hunter!”

The next day, while hauling in gear and ice chest, we hit the home answering machine to find a Jeff B. on the line informing Val that Jeff had spent the past four months working to secure funds to invite Val back to Boeing to assist in Structures and that the funding was in place. The Happy Day At Last Had Come! Hallelujah! And six weeks of red tape later, the Boeing job has begun afresh. Manna rediscovered has lightened pressure on an alternate lunch lady or stressed junior high resource room sub to supplement struggling college students.

The family is rejoicing--one Caesar & Cicero-competing high school debate sophomore, Maria; a BYU freshman Amber and her soon-to-graduate sister & spouse, Kristen and Zach; Brent and Brianne, training a nearly two year old Kaleb to say “Big Brother” before July; and Allina furiously pursuing accounting degree, entertained by second-grade Riley reading Diaries of a Wimpy Kid. Tom and April applaud, while celebrating Tom’s breakthrough in bed sale quotas and April’s efforts to teach, love, and web-cam a verbal 2 ½-year-old Eleanor and “trying-to-run” Thomas Junior. Lanae and Patrick detailed recent description of construction projects and plans for a spring addition longer-lasting than deck or bathroom remodel. News of sister Jannette asking brother for ideas about employee motivation that apply to supervising a clinical lab validates the concept that we do need each other.

Grateful for grandchildren, a great employment invitation, for gardens, and personal growth, for great friends and constant family members, we are glad to be no longer stranded. Happy to have a Hoochie Mama to inform interested onlookers of any lost members of the herd…we invite you to reply anyway you choose--honking included. May the season be one of uniting and peace…may your hearts feel to look above the thicket to see some light and a ghost of a melody glimmering through—

“The Happy Day, At Last Hast Come!”

A Blessed Christmas Season and Promising New Year to each of you,


The Starkey family

Playing Chess with Toothpaste

and "Off They Go into New Zealand Yonder"

Dear family and dear friends 8 November 2009

I hear the promise of living is made richer in penning. So, here is my effort to distill the grape juice of our lives in a one short sitting. With her spouse and favorite gardener/juice-maker managing national code meetings back east, our kind neighbor Pamela Davies, offered a back yard of berries to some novice juicers. Val and I must have picked ten boxes before I cried “uncle” Tuesday morning. My father had called Monday afternoon to announce the arrival of the visas permitting their entry into New Zealand where they have been called to serve in the temple visitor center. The visas had been previously delayed until further notice. My brother David decided that the whole family needed to fast on Sunday, November 1st to expedite the visas’ arrival. The visas came to the MTC November 2nd.

So, Tuesday, November 3rd, after lugging a last box of berries (yes, grapes are officially berries—ask your local extension service) into a laden trunk, I zipped to Provo, supping with a starving student on her way between classes to purchase symphony tickets. While missionary parents finalized training and hugged good-bye to MTC friends, I pounded Provo pavement to preview a possible residence for future Starkey students. That night we celebrated Uncle Roy’s return from Payson hospital, new knee intact, spooning Aunt Arlene’s corn chowder of fresh grown potatoes and quibbling over Quiddler cards, uncovering pleasant early election results.

Before the sun could blink, it was time to try out Roy’s medical scales. Six bags could weigh 230 pounds, 50 each for four large bags, two 15 pound carry-on bags with no limit to the “purse” or handheld, except what was reasonable to carry. First six pounds “over,” then four pounds “under,” we played chess with toothpaste and toiletries, discarding even prized missionary instructions (surely they could be procured there) until at last each bag was either precisely prescribed poundage or ¼ pound under—Voilà!

Shirley's siblings Vera & Joe stopped for a surprise sendoff an hour before...



Later, arriving at the apartment for nephew David to join our caravan to the airport, I realized that the Manavu condos he had been raving to me about stood on the exact ground where I had first lived as a married student at BYU, directly south of Manavu Chapel, paying forty dollars rent per month until the property owner could secure funds to plow under the century old apartment-style house. I fondly remember sisters from the ward kindly and quickly boxing and packing when the landlord gave us less than a week to find a new place.

Another home we visited earlier that morning, listed but already sold, is now property of a man named Bruce Money. “Richard Bruce Money?” Indeed, Bruce, a classmate from a BYU honors arts & letters colloquium has returned to chair BYU’s Finance Department. We are smiling at enterprising business students reassured to meet their incoming department chair--Rich Money.

Maria has recently claimed the ides of teen-hood, fifteen with a driver’s permit, enjoying the perks of debating and getting accolades rather than accusations for sharpening skills in defense of a point of view. Her young women advisor-to-be, a friend from a freshman colloquium class, peered over choir today, whispering “Are you all right?” “I’ll be fine…in about eighteen months!” It was not conducive to Kleenex supply to sing “I Need Thee Every Hour.” Since phone service is on hold, God is giving us incentive to write. So, happy anticipating letters ahead! Love from Starkeys and happy extra spring and summer to Elder & Sister Gee!

Some straggling snapshots from their openhouse October 25. (A week prior to Daylight's savings time...can you tell?)


But they did not snore in Sacrament Meeting.
Cherishing friends from near and far



And no pennies paid for extra poundage!

Happy Harvest!

Beyond Home’s Bed and Bath!

Beyond Home’s Bed and Bath!

Dear family and dear friends, 15 July 2009

Yesterday, looking through previous family letters, my eyes became accustomed once more to see such a thing--letters. Yes! Sharing a colorful path in monthly missives was once a vibrant part of my life. I am thinking life has richer color, pausing a moment to capture and share the scope behind or ahead.

Thursday, June 25th, Kristen Marie Thomas jumped to the head of the alphabet. Her photos online for friends’ viewing (even in fireworks from last July) are now tagged Kristen Archuleta. Are you any relation to David? Maybe! They all descended from a common source (maybe Adam) but her “Archie” is now affectionately called Zachary. Her choice to marry in the Logan temple placed Kristen in a fourth generation. Her mother’s maternal grandmother was married there 76 years ago; her maternal grandmother, 51, and her mother (me), sixteen.

We learned at the picnic in a neighboring park following the ceremony that Kristen and Zachary share a common progenitor from Switzerland, John Ulrich Stucki, first mayor of Paris (Idaho) and pioneer of Bear Lake Valley. And one of Kristen’s great grandfathers, Marriner Wood Merrill, a Cache Valley Pioneer and early apostle, was Logan Temple’s first president. Archie (yes, we still slip on names) has Logan ancestors. His mother is a Bowden, sister to Robert C. Bowden, who led the Mormon Youth Chorus. And his father, from Rock Springs, Wyoming, and brother also are called by “Archie”…hence Archie has bounced from A to Z.

Both Kristen and Zachary were radiant. Something like younger sister Amber, anxious to get online and secure that tuition payment, after working and waiting so hard to do something long dreamt of, the culmination of this aspiration brought joy easily read on their faces.

Walking out doors of sturdy stone walls to greet and embrace waiting family members, colors of pink, yellow and orange mixed into a potpourri of photos for further perusal and recollection.


Minus the missing recommend, left luggage, extra cozy car ride, and cultural hall under construction, the following reception at Mercer Island, WA, mingling with handfuls of fellow International School buddies (from her class of 42 and more,) ward friends and family brought “a good time had by all.” Helping to iron 56 yellow chair ribbons and a dozen table cloths while catching up with Megan Gee’s vacation ventures, I enjoyed Amber connecting with a pen pal Grandma and Maria, navigating neighborhoods to treasure hunt for silk flowers. Bulletin boards became floral menageries, chalk boards and windows were draped, disguised; shrubs shone, twinkling white lights as hordes of help swarmed in symphony. A choice musical moment came during a video of Kristen and Zach’s childhood when Brianne’s eighteen-month-old Caleb, on cue, decided to dance. Gladly, Seattle had chosen sunshine Saturday, so the open courtyards added charm and no one much noticed the locked cultural hall.

Choice and beloved young women advisors, primary teachers, and mothers of dear friends washed berries and grapes, planted broccoli platters, and let guests ice their own “fruit pizza” with cream cheesed cookies. Prior to a host of the guests, Kristen had arranged a ring ceremony with words from parents, the couple, and a stake leader from when she was a teen explaining the purpose of temples, the coming together of three acts of a play—a life before, time here, and a hereafter. The blessing of qualifying to enter a holy place and the consequential promises made and kept following became a focus. I remembered the little legs wanting to climb to the top of the highest jungle gym, glad that Kristen now has someone to match her stride and fearlessness. I also am grateful for the upward invitation of kept promises in our lives, remembering a little engine chugging down the mountain he had climbed: “I thought I could! I thought I could!” Isn’t it amazing what becomes possible--things we never thought of, when offered support, encouragement (and the tacking of toile or plucking of strawberry stems) from friends.


Here I am inserting out of sequence a selection of the South Jordan, Utah reception (18 July) to illustrate fruit pizza, citrus tang, treasured smiling, and adept dancing shoes that accompany "thinking we can".





In the travels “home”(via California) we learned to laugh with our blunders. Sunday evening, we gathered cherries off limbs in Tom and April Starkey’s backyard. So proud we were of the $5.99/lb organic fruit we had picked for free! After a glorious—too short—round of Ring around the Rosie, peek-a-boo, playing with 2 year old Ellie and eight month old Thomas, we kissed goodbye and started south.





My sister Carma offered us a taco feast and tour of her new Centralia home.


Amber drove and drove. I-5 through Oregon landed us at California’s border. But guess what we forgot? Fruit inspection at the border confiscates cherries. Regardless of the eating hour, we gorged ourselves on the roadside, offering the attendant a handful of measly unripe remains.

Then, absent tent poles (removed last year to lighten the bag’s weight) our camping adventure became a test of individual ability to toss and turn on a Plymouth passenger seat, waking next morning to look for towels—the campground had a shower, but alas, the towels were held hostage beneath four boxes of reception paraphernalia. So Maria scavenged instead for breakfast. And what should emerge from the food box? None other than a second bag of cherries—the ripe ones! Tom has dubbed it the forbidden fruit…but I promise--we refrained from dropping one pit into the state of California!













After lumbering along Lombard Street,

walking on Fisherman’s wharf,



and sampling Ghirardelli’s peanut butter chocolate,


we headed for Mount Tamalpais State Park, just northwest of San Francisco. After climbing and descending 6.6 miles of narrow curves with a 150,000 mile transmission and one head light, Val’s comfort level with directions diminished (the Google map said to drive in 1.1 miles) it became time to check the State Park confirmation. Its directions were similar, but the instructions in small print were worrisome: “You will need a combination to enter this campground.” Oh yes! The Alice Campground we had first passed was gated with a lock. So, how can we get the combination? “Call an 800 number between the hours of 8 and 5.” The clock read 9:30 p.m. with the sky darkening. All along the curving roads, signs warned, “Cars Stopped On this Road Will Be Apprehended.” (No parking was to be had.) What now? Time to pray! “We are in trouble. We should have read the fine print. Please help us find some clues about who to speak with and what to do.” After a U-turn and 6.6 miles of backtracking, we drove near the chained Alice Campground off a residential area. A vehicle was pulling in to someone’s home. Jumping out, I flagged down the resident. “Do you know someone who could tell us about Mt. Tamalpais State Park?” I blurted out our predicament.

“Oh, I can help you. I am the park ranger!” Just arriving home, ready to enter her house, this woman gave us directions for the campground (11 miles in,) a combination for the locked gate, and help changing reservations for the following day. What are the chances??! Lessons learned? Read the fine print. Pray always.










After checking out Chinatown,


traveling the trolley,


and trekking a (red) Golden Gate Bridge,





and a Golden Gate park




we decided to drive the desert of Nevada,
grateful for a kind oasis stop at Laurene’s sister’s in-laws, the Sorensen’s in Sparks. We arrived home to celebrate July 4th and witness Gee grandparents’ submitting of mission papers.



This deserves a firework display! Both will be content if Grandpa comes near to Bangkok and Grandma has access to indoor plumbing. Suspense mounts. Praying for our family members and good friends in parts far and near, hoping your lives are complete with answered prayers and combinations to help you find rest. Love to you each! The Starkeys