A Capitol Week

Before his internship started, Spence and I went to D.C. to see some sites and spend a few nights on Pennsylvania Avenue before retreating to his basement in Alexandria.

He actually lives really close to Mount Vernon, GW's palatial 1700s estate. In fact, his ward meets on land that was part of Washington's spread.

I think Washington was right; he had the best backyard in America. Exploring his home, gardens, harbor, stables, and fields, we saw the genius and the vision of the nation's first president. Suffice it to say you have to go, and that he was an inspired man.


Of all things to share photos of, this is the Washingtons' outhouse, which I thought was finely named in its day: the necessary. Such a more tasteful word for the bathroom. We were also sobered by his slave quarters, impressed by his inventions, and grossed out by his dentures.

Mom and Gaylen were also in D.C. for the weekend—and they had a car! With such good fortune, we made it to Arlington, the National Cathedral, Rock Creek Park, and the temple, all in 24 hours.


The stained glass was beautiful, but we didn't see any fireflies. (Spencer was promised fireflies.) We took a pass from both sides and to see it floating in the night sky (right before the underpass spray painted "Welcome to Oz").

When Spencer and Gaylen worked, and Coco and I cycled up the C&O Canal, another Washington brainchild. Then we admired art in the National Gallery, which was featuring an entire Gaugin exhibit, all exotic. We also toured the two works the National Gallery director would grab first in case of a fire: the only Lenoardo DaVinci in the Western Hemisphere, Ginerva de' Benci, and Rembrandt van Rijn's self portrait. Each is worth its own post.

Our photos stop with the requisite loop around the White House, where the snipers who usually hide atop the roof certainly made their presence known. This was the day of rapture, after all.

I'm-Unna

In Spencer's interview with the Federal Reserve, the Stanford economist interjected, "Are you actually from Utah?"

Yes, it's hard for Easterners to concede that civilized life exists west of Chicago. Wrong they are, but I will say that there some things are creeping into Spencer and mine's dialect that could have been dead giveaways this last weekend that we were not from D.C. Namely I'munna, as in, I'm going to (Spencer). Or fer, rather than for (that was me).

And does anyone else in the world have trouble pronouncing Potomac?

He's Down with OCC

Spencer is going away. For the summer. To intern at the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency. So far, he's packed only a swimsuit.

We leave Thursday for D.C.

That Wonderful Mother of Mine

On such a holiday, I'm queuing up Lawrence Welk via YouTube, playing the song we heard—for the first time—just over a week ago. "All of you mothers in the studio come up," Welk invites, and they 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3 around the dance floor with the boys in the band. Spencer, across from me, just perked up from his crossword, recognizing the tune; he's smiling.



Welk, her favorite, is playing this song, her favorite. It was sung a week ago at her funeral.

I can picture Wilma Janet Chapman selling freshly churned ice cream from a dairy cart in 1920s Rigby, Idaho. I smile at the thought of her words—"Not one for the womanly arts"—and that picture of her in sports uniform, made all the richer by the fact this, again, is the '20s. I think of her marrying Nile just two months after Pearl Harbor, dressed up with one beautiful orchid pinned to her dress, a flower the matron let her don during the temple ceremony.

"I up and found you a new daughter," Nile had written his own mother. He and Wilma would lose their first daughter, Claudia, at only 18 months old.

And I smile at the thought of Wilma holding Claudia again.

So a Month Ago

In the last month we've concluded that Niels, post mission, is mostly still fun.


He timed his mission homecoming perfectly, a day before BYU played its first two March Madness rounds in Denver and a week before work took me to Denver.

Not pictured, regrettably, are my sailing lessons with Grandpa. We hardly get our camera out.

The highlight of the week: fabricating Niels and Teika's story via instant messaging to Holly. Yeah, I miss you, Jace.

Oh, Provo . . .

A Blue and Orange Easter Morn'

Easter was lonely here in Utah; we didn't crash either of my multicultural extended families' celebrations, Samoan in Salt Lake City or American, Mexican, Tibetan in Woodland Hills. No, it was just bland old Spencer and me in a one-on-one egg roll, a Rogers family tradition. With no egg dye, we had to paint our eggs.



His BSU egg, inspired by this real live room in his parents' Boise home, won.