Whirl Wind Funeral Weekend and Goat's Milk Memories

After flying home from California, I spent the day doing a mountain of laundry and repacked for a brief trip to Utah to attend my good Friend, Betsy Moore's father's funeral.

About 13 years ago, James and I lived in a tiny apartment in Orem with our little baby, Alex. We had someone move into the apartment above us whose last name was also Moore. Betsy and her daughter Madison quickly became great friends. Betsy and I would trade babysitting for massages and hair cuts. It was a great trade-off and our friendship grew, until one day when Betsy called me and invited me up for an amazing dessert. I was skeptical as Betsy is an avid health nut. But I humored her anyway by tasting the warm custard she had made. I immediately began gagging as I realized that the pungent taste in my mouth, sliding down my throat, was that of GOAT'S MILK!!!

I had told her on a previous occasion how much I disliked Goat's Milk! I had mentioned how I was traumatized as a child because my mother would pour fresh Goat's Milk from my grandma's goats into regular cow's milk jugs and store them in the refrigerator.

The milk looked exactly like cow's milk and was so cold and delicious going down, and then the aftertaste would hit! The gagging and barfing would begin, and the awful taste would refuse to dissipate! These experiences would leave me feeling betrayed and empty.

So, of course, I felt betrayed by my good friend. After tasting the Goat's Milk custard, I immediately ran out of her apartment and vomited and (being young and naive at the time) told her I hated her (I don't remember that part). To this day, we laugh and joke about that experience.

One day while talking, we discovered that our fathers knew each other. They were both into wood carving, and had taken classes together.

In his last days, my dad would visit Betsy's dad while in Hospice care. Betsy's dad entrusted my dad with the repairs of a fish that he had carved out of wood that he had previously dropped and broken. The fish was ornate and extremely detailed. It must have taken him years to complete. The fish was on display next to the casket. I was proud of my dad for taking time out of his schedule to repair the fish as an honor to John Emory Moore. It really meant a lot to Betsy's family.

My dad and I attended the funeral together. I found out at the funeral that not only woodcarving shared our fathers' interests. They had many similar passions, including nature, being out doors, wildlife, etc. They also share a common name. My father is Emery George, and Betsy's father is John Emory Moore, and his father was George Emory Moore. What a coincidence!

After the funeral, my dad took me to lunch at one of my favorite places--Bajio. It was a great father-daughter date, and an experience that was rare.

Although I only got to see Betsy for a brief moment, it was worth the effort in being there to comfort her and know that I was there for her. It was also a special bonding moment for my dad and I.

The next morning we packed up and prepared to head home. My van was making a strange clicking sound and my parents were very concerned for me. My mechanic uncle happened to be in town, so he checked the van and thinks that the tensioner may be going out. He thought it would hold out until I got home. He put some oil in the van and wished us luck. After a brief prayer, I felt confident that we would make it safely home.

The van is a trooper! She made it all the way home without stalling (thanks to a little help from above). What a good van. I can say that today, but don't ask me tomorrow after I've been to the local mechanic!