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For the Love of Lambs.....

2/23/2014

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  “We have lambs!” Tanah told me over the phone as Grace and I were transferring groceries from cart to car in the Kent’s Supermarket parking lot.   “The Soay ewe had twins!”    Grace was so excited to overhear the news that she forgot the box of grapefruit that was on the bottom of the cart.   We hurried home and rushed down to the sheep barn.

 

Soay (a domestic breed of primitive sheep, originating on an island near Scotland and believed to date back 6 million years) have darling lambs.   About the size of a house cat, the lambs are curious, cuddly, and cute to the core.     After watching to make sure both lambs had suckled, we dipped their navels in iodine and put mother and babies safely in the sheep shed.

 

My recent history with lambs is not good.  (See 2/24/13 blog entry, http://www.lifeisthestoriesyoucantell.com/1/archives/02-2013/1.html) Over the past several years I have seen many more lambs die than I have seen live.     My heart hesitates to love them because it hurts so badly to lose them…..and I have lost so many.     Still, Soay are supposed to be a hearty breed and I had high hopes for these youngsters.

 

Tuesday both lambs were healthy and strong.   My hopes grew.

 

Wednesday morning both lambs were still healthy and strong.   My hopes soared.

 

Wednesday afternoon Grace called me as I was on a bus bringing a group of students home from a cross country skiing field trip.   She and Miles had stayed home from school that day, afflicted by the gunk that is going around.   “Mom,” she started, “The Soay ewe broke out of the sheep shed and took her lambs into the pasture.   Miles happened to look out the window and saw the ram (male sheep, 70-ish pounds, horned) butting a lamb.  We ran down and stopped him.  The little ram lamb that he was hitting was bleeding from the mouth and nose but we cleaned him up and he seems to be doing fine,” Grace assured me. “But Mom,” she continued, “the little ewe lamb is dead.  He must have killed her before we got there.”     An all-too-familiar sinking feeling dropped into my heart…..another lamb dead     “We put the ewe and her son in the empty chicken coop,” she reported.   After reassuring me that the remaining lamb was okay—he was nursing and walking without problem—and stating that she and Miles were checking on him every 15 minutes, she hung up.

 

Heart-numb, I wondered, again, what more I could have done……   I had secured the ewe in a safe spot, away from wind, rain, and wild rams.     Why had she broken out?   Why had she led her lambs into danger?   And why had the ram attacked them?    What threat were they to him?  I had never heard of a ram attacking lambs before.  Why did I always have to learn my lessons at the cost of a lamb’s life?

 

When I got home a few hours later, I went straight to the battered lamb…..and found him lying inert in the hay. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!    I picked up his nearly lifeless body and held it close.    His head flopped listlessly over my arm, his eyes were rolled back in his head, and his little mouth was stone cold.        NO!  NO!  NO!    This could be happening again.

 

He was, however, still breathing and I could not let him just die.     I had no hope for his survival; I had never brought a lamb that was so far gone, back to life.   Never.     Experience told me there was no hope.   And my heart gave me the same message.    I had hoped so many times before, had held lambs, had prayed for them, had sobbed over them…..and had ultimately lost them.    Hopeless but not heartless, I desperately began doing all that I could to save his life.

 

I cornered his mother, milked her (which involved a wrestling match in the manure), and brought the lamb inside.   Bottle beside me, I sat on the floor, my back against the wall, and held the little lamb next to me—right next to me.    His body pressed against my abdomen and his legs curled up in my lap, I pulled my fleece vest over him.  He was entirely covered, except for his little, listless head, which I propped up on my arm.   Periodically, I forced the bottle into his mouth and dripped some milk down his throat; sometimes he swallowed it and sometimes it just pooled in his mouth until it spilled over onto my leg. 

 

And there we sat, for over an hour.    He showed no signs of recovery and I had no inklings of hope.  His breathing was ragged and raspy and the wounds in his mouth opened a bit, turning the milk I was trying to feed him pink.   I knew the lamb was gone but was determined that he would not die alone.   It seemed that we were both just waiting for him to die in my arms.

 

Then he started to shiver convulsively; his little body beating violently against mine.   Were the shivers a sign of recovery or the beginnings of death throes?  Still I held him close, pressed against my body, covered by my fleece vest.    Still I waited for him to die.

 

After shivering for nearly an hour, his body relaxed.    Was this the end?    He continued to breathe.   Still hopeless, stilI waiting for him to die, I held him close for another hour, pressed against me, covered by my fleece.

 

Then, after sitting together on the floor for nearly four hours, the lamb lifted his head and opened his eyes.  I felt his mouth and found it warm.  Warm!  We snuggled together for another 30 minutes as signs of life began to gradually return.    His eyes were alert, he held his head up, he suckled on the bottle.  Then he bleated.   Bleated.   “I’m back,” he seemed to say.  

 

I put him on a heating pad and covered him with a blanket.   Within a half hour, he was up and walking about the kitchen.    His prospects were improving but there were still so many obstacles in his way, so many places his fragile life could still be lost.  

 

By this time, it was 9:00 p.m.    The best place for the lamb was back with his mother, who was out in the barn, but after-dark conditions in northern Utah in February are not ideal for a lamb recovering from a beating, shock, and hypothermia.   Many questions remained.   Would his mother accept him back?    Would he be strong enough to look for her udder?   Would she let him nurse?   Would he succumb to the cold again?   Realistically, his chances for survival were still slim.   

 

Grace and I took him out to rejoin his mother who greeted him warmly.   We watched for another half hour while she nuzzled and nursed him.       So far so good but still not out of the woods…….

 

I checked him again at 10:30 p.m., 11:30 p.m., 1:00 a.m., 3:00 a.m., and 5:00 a.m.    Each time I found his eyes alert and his mouth warm.    He lived through the night and the next day and the next night….and is still alive this morning.    Against all hope, against all odds, the little lamb lives.

 

Why?   Why is he alive? 

Love.   I love lambs, all of them.    And because there was love, there was hope, though I did not recognize it at the time.   Where there is life and love, there is hope.    Sometimes we are the ones who are held tightly and snuggled under a coat of kindness; sometimes we are the huggers, wrapping others up in compassionate coats.   Love is the common denominator.    God loves His lambs……all of us.    As long as there is life, there is hope……….for all of us.


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Soay mother with her two lambs. The lambs are less than 2 hours old.
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This ewe is actually the lambs' grandmother. She is still pregnant and does not yet have milk but her mothering instinct was so strong, she pushed the mother aside and tried to take over.
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Bother and sister hanging out together.
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The Suffolk ewe had a lamb on Friday. Grace actually helped deliver this lamb.
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An hour later the Suffolk ewe had two lambs to lick--twin girls. At press time, both her lambs are alive and well.
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Hey Coach!

2/16/2014

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WARNING:  The contents of this post may be a bit preachy.....




“Grace is fabulous!” her basketball coach told me after one of the state tournament games last week.  “She is playing so well and I am so pleased with her.”   The light in his eyes testified that he sincerely believed what he was saying.  

 

I tried to give him the credit, telling him that he had taught her everything she knows about basketball—which is very true—but he would not have it.   “No,” said he.   “She is a hard worker, she listens to me and she does what I ask her to do.   She has earned her place on this team.”

 

His comment caused me to reflect on Grace’s basketball career……and on life.

 

Last year, as a 7th grader, she tried out for the team never having dribbled a basketball; she had almost no basketball knowledge and absolutely no basketball skills.     She made the team as a non-player; the coach told her that she could practice with the team but that she would not dress for nor play in the games.    She accepted his conditions and thus began her basketball career.  

 

She practiced lots and played little.    The coach ended up letting her dress for the games and, when the team was 30 or so points ahead, he even let her play a little.     And thus ended her seventh grade year.  

 

And thus started her 8th grade year.   She made the team without conditions but her playing time during games was still very conditional—conditional on the score.    If SAA were winning by a large margin, Grace saw court time; if the score was close at all, Grace warmed the bench. 

 

Apparently, however, she did more than warm the bench in practice because gradually things began to change.    She saw more playing time….and then more playing time.   With a small handful of games left on the schedule, Grace made the starting lineup.   And then, during the last two games of the state tournament, Grace never left the floor; she played the entire game.  

 

“She earned her spot on the team,” the coach had said.  “She listens to me and does what I tell her to do.”     In other words, Grace was coachable.

 

Coachability is critical in athletics.   My father-in-law (who was an Olympic coach for the 1996 Summer Games) and my brother (who is a wrestling coach that competes against Olympia) have both said that an athlete’s receptiveness to coaching is a greater factor in his or her success than is natural talent.  To improve and to excel, an athlete must be willing to listen to the coach and then follow instructions.

 

I think coachability is critical outside of athletics as well.   To improve and to excel, people must be willing to listen and learn from others who have experienced success, people who know how to get where they want to go.   Mentors are magnificent and, in most cases, mandatory if one truly wants to succeed.    

 

On the flip side, athletes, academicians, and average Anthonys who refuse coaching sideline themselves.   “I know!” we say, in response to suggestions.  “I know.”   But do we know?  And do we do what we know?  Probably not or we would not be receiving coaching.    And do we get where we want to go?  Probably not as effectively, if we make it at all.

 

As I pondered coachability in general and my willingness to be coached in particular, my thoughts wandered to my God.    

 

God should be my Coach.   There are similarities between the Lord and a coach.    Both know more than I do; both have my best interest at heart; both know how to get where I want to go.   Sadly, some athletes worship their coaches as if they were God and some coaches seem to confuse themselves with God as well, but that is beside the point.   The point is that, considering how high the stakes are in this game we call life, God is a great coach.

 

Am I coachable?   Do I listen to God?  Do I do what He asks me to do?  Or do I insist that I know best and stubbornly persist doing things my way? 

               

I think that, too often, we are so determined NOT to be like everyone else—whom we perceive to be stereotypical, mindless followers—that we battle against God’s coaching and, in so doing, become exactly what we did not want to be—just like everyone else because most people are also rejecting God’s coaching.     

“I’m my own person.”

                “I do my own thinking.”

                “Nobody tells me what to do.”

                “That’s just the way I am.”

Rejecting God’s coaching is not unique.   People have been doing it for centuries.   Millennia even.   Since the beginning of time actually.   

 

The good news is that people have also been accepting God’s coaching for centuries.   Millennia even.  Since the beginning of time, actually.     We (you and I) accepted God’s coaching in our pre-Earth lives; we know we did because we are here now.   And now, here, we have additional opportunities to progress, to succeed and that progress, that success, will come as we continue to listen to Him and to do what He asks us to do; as we continue to be coachable.

 

Christ was perfectly coachable.   “I came into the world to do the will of my Father, because my Father sent me.”  (3 Nephi 27:13)    Christ did the will of the Father; He listened and He did what His Father asked Him to do.     We must do the same.    Like Christ, we must listen to the Father and do what He asks us to do.    Our task is not the same as Christ’s—we will not be asked to take upon us the sins of the world—but, like Christ, we have a task.   It is up to us to seek the Father’s will, to listen to His counsel, and to do what He asks us to do.   We must be coachable.   And, if we do, we will be given a spot on His team—complete with plenty of playing time and excellent retirement benefits!!!!

 

Go Team!!!!

 

Love,
Teresa





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Miles' Valentine's box. The fact that he chose green and yellow as his colors was not a coincidence.
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Christmas Letters Are Hard.....

2/9/2014

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Christmas letters are hard.   During the Dark Years of our marriage, reading Christmas letters from friends and family thrust me into a figurative corner where I found myself literally sobbing.    For reasons directly associated with the fact that I am not perfect, the successes and achievements of others seemed to condemn me and mine; we just could not measure up.     My children did not play the piano, they did not sing or dance or win Reflections contests (or even science fair competitions!).   They did not excel at sports and they did not earn Scouting merit badges.    My husband was not in the Bishopric and I was president of nothing, in the Church or out of the Church.    I couldn’t even make PTA!    Reading Christmas letters was very, very painful and the pain was very, very real.

 

Even now, in the Renaissance Years of our marriage, Christmas letters can be hard.   I know that it is silly and sinful to compare myself to others; silly because I am comparing my worst to their best and sinful because when comparing I either judge myself to be better which makes me proud or worse which hurts my pride.  Either way, pride is involved and it is not righteous pride.   I know this.  But knowing does not always equate with doing (or not doing) and I still have to be very careful NOT to allow myself to compare.    My children still do not play the piano or any other instrument for that matter.   They dance only when they accidently step on a hot coal and most of them don’t even sing hymns in our worship services.    They don’t enter Reflections contests (or Science Fair for that matter) and—until Grace began her basketball blossom about 3 weeks ago—they do not excel in sports.   Still no scouting merit badges and no bishopric (THANK HEAVENS!!).  The dastardly Compare and Condemn Duo can still get me, if I am not constantly on guard.   

 

Why do I write this?   Why confess my shortcomings?  Why expose one of my vulnerable sides?

 

I do it in case, my dear loved ones, you are susceptible to the same dastardly Compare and Condemn Duo that ruthlessly attacks me.    I quake at the thought that perhaps my letters might have the same effect on someone that many Christmas letters have on me.    Oh please NO!!!

 

Please know that although I publish pansies, there is plenty of dog poop in my life.   (Refer to February 2, 2014 letter.)    I tell great stories about my life because God is great.   He has given me great children and a great husband and the tales I relate are generally great but please know that my life is not always great.  We certainly are NOT flawless—I just don’t usually publish our imperfections.   I have children who lie to me sometimes….and sometimes the lies are BIG.   None of my children make their beds.   Some of them don’t brush their teeth consistently and none of their rooms are even tidy, much less clean.   Sometimes there are bad—really bad—grades on the report cards.    Occasionally I get really frustrated with Lance and occasionally he gets really frustrated with me.    Money is a constant worry as is trying to maintain a healthy weight.   Sometimes I say mean things; no one will ever be able to say at my funeral “She never said a negative thing about anyone in her life”—it simply would not be true.    Sometimes I question my faith (though my questions always lead me back to God).    In short, we are VERY not perfect.    Please, please do not let my letters catalyze an attack from the Compare and Contrast Duo in your life.

 

Having said that, let me share some more pansies. 

 

Grace’s  basketball team took second in the State Tournament this week.    They played Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings and all four games were nail-biters; the first three because they were very, very close games and the last game because it was not.    Grace started in all four games and did a fabulous job.   End of basketball season.

 

We spent Wednesday evening that Regional Wrestling tournament watching Chick.   He was eliminated early in the tournament though he wrestled an aggressive final match.   End of wrestling season.

 

I found the pansy in my dismissal from the Standard Examiner Editorial Board.   (See link below.)   http://www.standard.net/stories/2014/02/07/editorial-board-opens-another-slot-public    End of Editorial Board season.

 

Still no lambs…………though we are hoping for them any day now.  Beginning of lambing season?

 

I told Sallie that I wanted a green leather couch for my living room and several weeks ago she found a free one on ksl.com.    I told Sallie that I wanted a tan, hide-a-bed couch for my basement and this week she found a free one for me on ksl.com.     I wonder what would happen if I told Sallie I need a million dollars…..

 

After asking me if she and her friends could have their pre-dance dinner in our basement (and after I had said yes) she told me that she wanted me to turn the basement into a castle.   (!!?!?!?!)    I told my Facebook friends my dilemma and the response was overwhelming; 12 dress forms, 17 ball gowns, buckets of flowers, tiaras, carriages, even a frog (to kiss).     Chick, Miles, Grace and I spent Saturday (all day!) in the basement, hauling furniture out and dishes down, hanging false walls and real dresses, and arranging flowers, frogs, and carriages.    

 

In the early evening our royal guests arrived:  Cinderella and Prince Charming, Tinkerbell and Peter Pan, Rapunzel and Flynn, Maleficent and Dr. Falier, Ariel and Eric, and Anna and Kristoff.     They laughed, we took pictures, they giggled, they ate, they laughed, they thanked me, they giggled some more and then they left.     And we cleaned up.

 

We are still cleaning up.  And now I owe favors to many, many more people.   Continuing of service season?

 

Whatever season it is (or is not)—be it basketball, wrestling, lambing, Editorial Board, service or Christmas season—please don’t let the dastardly Compare and Condemn duo destroy your day!

 

Sure love you!
Teresa



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Poop or Pansies?

2/2/2014

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An almost old and occasionally wise mirror mate of mine has a favorite parable that she frequently shares with her children and that she shares today with you.

 

Once upon a time there was a family who lived in a cozy cottage (only one bathroom) in Roy, UT.    One day the mother told her children to go outside and look for dog poop.   Obediently they went out looking for poop and guess what they found?  Dog poop.   Plenty of it.

 

On another day, this same mother told her children to go outside and look for pansies (“…little purple pansies marked with yellow-gold…”--they were looking for flowers, not wimps).  Obediently the children went outside looking for pansies and guess what they found?  Pansies.   Plenty of them.

 

The moral of the story?   Life offers us plenty of poop and plenty of pansies and what you end up with depends on what you are looking for.   If you are looking for life’s poop, you will find it.  If you are looking for the pansies in life, you will find them.    So, decide what you want and look for it.   You will find it.

 

This week offered me poop and pansies.

 

Parents Hislop just returned from a cruise that took them through the Panama Canal.  (AWESOME!)  While on their trip they purchased cigars from me, which pleased me immensely.   (I think it pleased Dad Hislop as well.  He loved telling people that he was buying cigars for his daughter-in-law that graduated from BYU.)

 

Mr. Mitchell, principal of Ogden Preparatory Academy Junior High, is a retired Air Force officer  who hates germs (he wears plastic gloves on hall duty and does not shake hands) and loves cigars.   Monday I gave Mr. Mitchell a box of Cuban cigars.    Initially he was almost speechless and then he almost couldn’t quit talking about them; he admired the box, the length, the size, the brand name.  He said he might never use them because they were so pretty in their box and then he offered to share them with me.   And then, wonder of wonders, he gave me a hug.  Mr. Mitchell, publically brusque, taciturn and unfailingly professional, got up from his seat, rounded the table, and have me a big hug.    It was a total pansy moment.  

 

Also Monday I was dismissed from the Standard Examiner Editorial Board.   Unbeknownst to me, the Board re-configures every year and this year the reconfiguration happens in February.   I have absolutely loved my time on the Board; exchanging views with a group of very intelligent, articulate, and wryly humorous people, provoking and being provoked by thoughts and ideas.    I shall miss the people and I shall miss the interactions.    I am still looking for the pansies in this but have been unsuccessful so far.

 

One of the good things about having a life that is overflowing with responsibilities, stewardships, and pursuits is that when one thing is removed from the figurative ocean of activity, even when that thing is as significant as an aircraft carrier (or position on the local paper’s editorial board), the vast waters quickly fill the gap and the currents move relentless forward.   (….maybe this is the pansy….)

 

Miles stayed with a friend Tuesday night while the rest of the family when to Standards Night (a church meeting for youth 12 and over and their parents).   When I picked him up I asked “Were you good?”   “Yes, Mom,” he replied.   Digging deeper I asked, “Did you stand for truth and righteousness?”   Pause.   “Let’s just stop at good,” he said.     Sometimes it is enough to admire the pansy.  No need to dig up the roots!

 

Jill Gibson Hislop, Lance’s sister, and her husband and their two boys (ages 2 and 4) welcomed a couple of foster children into their home this week, two more boys (ages 4 and 7 months).    This is a situation where there are TONS of figurative pansies and a bit of literal poop.   (Nothing changing diapers again!) 

 

Tanah texted me Wednesday and invited me to lunch.   Her treat.   She bought me lunch and then we sat and chatted for an hour.   Her idea.    PANSIES!!!!!!!!!  (a whole flowerbed full of them!)

 

Yesterday Grace started her “Year without Media”.    Several weeks ago she asked Lance and I if she could earn a cell phone by going a year media-free (no electronic games or shows watched online).    I fully anticipate we will be getting Grace a phone in February 2015.    This is a bouquet of pansies that may have lifelong impacts.

 

Chick earned seven grades last quarter; six of them were A’s.   Six pansies!!!!!

 

Chick said I was “BEAST”.   Apparently this is a good thing.   

 

I spent Thursday and Friday at Thanksgiving Point (Lehi, UT) revising the Open Educational Resource (OER)  that the Utah State Office of Education (USOE) created for 8th grade science.   (Lest you be too impressed, don’t be.   USOE solicited volunteers and, to the best of my knowledge, everyone who volunteered was accepted.)     The final day I arrived back at my hotel room, hot and sweaty from running 5 miles, at 8:40 a.m.    The morning’s meeting started at 9:00—twenty minutes to shower, dress, pack and check out, grab breakfast, and get to the meeting, a four minute drive away.   I walked into the meeting at exactly 9:00 a.m.   “BEAST” according to Chick.   It seemed like a pansy to me.

 

Side note:   If a blow dryer is laid on its side on the counter, blower tube facing out, it is possible to dry one’s hair while bending down to use both hands to put on one’s shoes and socks.

 

Arcade games, bumper cars, glow golf, gourmet pizza……….These are a few things that our family does not do……….at least not very often.    Enlightened by the thought that perhaps I should organize a family event that all my children would enjoy without any urging on my part and enabled by some great 2 for 1 online coupons, I took the family to Fat Cats Fun Center at the Junction in downtown Ogden Saturday afternoon.  We (yes, even me) had a great time.   Grace had the machine’s high score in skeet ball and the second highest score at the basketball machine.    Chick won the jackpot on “Let’s Make a Deal” and Lance proved he is still Pacman proficient.    Lance said that shooting elk on the game was too much like trying to shoot them in real life to be fun—he claims he missed them all on screen too.    In truth, he had a triple bull round (shot three bull elk) and it cost only a couple of dollars in tokens to do it, which is not very much like what happened in real life.  (LOVE YOU LANCE!!!)   Miles beat me at air hockey and Tanah beat Miles at Connect Four.    It was a great afternoon in the pansy patch though this is a pansy patch I don’t plan on visiting again for quite some time.    Going to an arcade is like a hundred-year storm event for me; it simply does not happen very often.

 

If you are looking for a “pansy” type reading experience, I have a couple book recommends for you.

  • Second Suns (Relin, David)   An incredibly well-written book about two incredible men who have done an incredible thing:  restored sight to hundreds of thousands of the world’s poor.  It is a non-fiction page turner that I could not put down.

  • The Rent Collector (Wright, Cameron)  I was wary at first, concerned that it would prove sappy, but soon fell in love with the book.    Living in a dump and learning literature.  What’s not to love about that?

  • Moon Over Manifest (Vanderpool, Clare) Newberry Award Winner.   Delightful. 

 

May you hunt for pansies this week!   (....because, if you hunt for them, you will find them!)

 

Love,
Teresa


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Genuine Cuban cigars! When the customs agent asked Mom Hislop if she had any tobacco products she told him no. It wasn't until the cigars were safely on American soil that she remembered (after being reminded by her husband) that she did indeed have tobacco products. Sometimes bad memory has its advantages!
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Grace's second driving experience. (She ran over her own foot the first she drove.)
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Lance handily wins the Pacman game. It is obvious that he won easily because if it would have been at all challenging his tongue would have been out.
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Notice the Green Bay Packers hat!
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Grace had day's second highest score on the basketball machine. (Her tongue is probably out!)
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Deal or No Deal?
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Dance, Dance Revolution!
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Three elk bulls downed and only a few coins spent...if only!!!!!!!!!
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    Teresa Hislop
    thislop@msn.com

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