12/23/2015
12/21/2015
Birthday Story for a Nine-Year-Old
WHEN
YOU DIG FOR POTATOES
By
Grandma
Baadsgaard
Happy
9th birthday Mitchell- my budding archaeologist.
When Mitchell’s mom told him to go
outside and dig up some potatoes for supper he groaned, “Do I have to? It’s my
birthday.”
“You never know what you might find,”
his mother said with a wink.
“What I’d really like to dig up is a
mummy,” Mitchell answered. “There’s a mummy exhibit coming to Salt Lake City at
the Leonardo Museum with real mummies from all over the world in January. I
really, really, really want to go.”
“But the admission tickets are so
expensive,” his mother answered. “Now get those potatoes dug up. Since the snow
melted off yesterday, you can get to the last ones next to the raspberry
bushes.”
Mitchell dragged his feet into the
garage, grabbed a small shovel and reluctantly walked to the backyard. He found
the spot his mother told him about and started digging. The shriveled vines
were his best clue of where to dig.
First Mitchel dug up a gigantic
potato then several small ones. He brushed the moist earth off the spuds and
continued digging. Suddenly his shovel hit against a solid object. Mitchell’s heart raced. He quickly dug deeper
and brushed the dirt away. Buried in the ground right next to the raspberry
bushes, Mitchell found a wooden box secured with a lock.
Mitchell wiggled the lock but
nothing happened. He ran into the house yelling.
“Mom, you’ll never believe what I
found buried in the dirt in our garden. It’s a box with a lock. I want to get
this lid open so bad. What do you think is inside? It could be anything . . .
like papyrus or a gold goblet.”
Mitchell immediately called all his
friends to come over and bring every key in their house. He tried each key one
by one. Nothing fit. The box stayed locked. All his friends went home
disappointed. Then Mitchell remembered his own key collection. He tried every one,
but nothing fit.
Mitchell wondered what to do.
Because he was born on December 19 there was always a Christmas tree in the
family room in their home. He plopped down on the floor, flipped over on his
back and looked up at the tree through the boughs. That is the moment when he
noticed their giant silver key.
“The key!” Mitchell said. “I forgot
about our magic key.”
That large silver key was how Santa got
into their house on Christmas Eve even though they didn’t have a chimney and even
if the door was locked. His family hung it on the tree each year. Mitchel always
liked to leave the key on the front porch with a plate of cookies before he
went to bed on Christmas Eve.
Mitchell grabbed the key off the tree
and rolled it over in his hand. Then he walked over to the dusty locked box. He
pushed the key into the lock and turned it to the right. He heard something
click right before the lock opened. Mitchel quickly creaked open the lid to the
box.
There in the bottom of the box were
tickets for the mummy exhibit in Salt Lake City along with a treasure map and a
secret code that looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics.
“Mom! Dad! Look what I found in the
box!” Mitchell screamed running through the house. “The magic key worked. Now I
can go see the mummies. And look there’s a treasure map with a secret code in
here too.”
Mitchell carefully unfolded the treasure
map. He carefully deciphered the hieroglyphic writings that formed the secret code
in his notebook. Mitchell noticed a half moon, serpent and the bird along with
the picture of a man, woman and child. He followed the treasure map through the
house as he thought about what the glyphs meant. He ended up in his parent’s
bedroom where they were sitting together holding hands and smiling.
“I’ve got it!” Mitchell said with a
smile. This treasure map’s secret code translates to . . . mother . . . father . . . love . . . son . . . Hey, does that means you guys love
me. Ah shucks. Thanks Mom and Dad.”
Mitchell gave his dad a high five then
he gave his mom a big hug right before he said, “You guys are a pretty great daddy
and “mummy”.
12/11/2015
12/10/2015
12/05/2015
Poem for a Fourteen-year 0ld
FOURTEEN
By
Grandma
Baadsgaard
Happy
Birthday Matthew. You are awesome!
I’m
not a boy.
I’m
not a man.
Will
someone please tell me
Who
I am?
Food
stuck in my braces
When
I smile -
Teacher
with a whistle
Makes
me run the mile.
“Change
your underwear.”
Says
Mom with that look
But
I frankly don’t I care
If
I smell like fish on a hook
“Comb
your hair, brush your teeth
Take
a bath would you please
Practice
piano, clean you room,
Or
my patience is going to leave.”
Homework
and locker combinations
Assemblies,
recitals and tests
Gives
me days at junior high
Without
a moment to rest.
All
the girls my age
Look
two years older than me
How
am I supposed to impress them
When
all they see . . .
My
pants turn into floods
Whenever
I turn around.
My
voice seems to crack
Whenever
I make a sound.
Older
brothers stare
Younger
brother tease
When
will this annoyance
Ever,
ever cease?
Too
old for Halloween
Not
old enough to drive
How
in the world
Am
I supposed to survive?
Junior
High is full of
Jocks, nerds and bores
I
just don’t know how
I’m
supposed to soar.
Maybe
I’ll just relax
And
just practice being me
Cause
when all is said and done
I’m
content to be
Matthew
the magnificent
Matthew
the brave
Matthew
the courageous
With
a sense of humor to save
Late
night video games
Lying
in my hammock to sleep
Sneaking
treats from the pantry
Is
all I really need.
Who
says you need
Nutritious
food to survive
Mac
and cheese serves me well
That’s
all I need to thrive
You
say I need
Proper vitamins to grow.
I
say life is too short to skimp on candy
When
your blood sugars get low.
Someday
I’ll be the dad
And
surely I will say
“Stop
doing that!” to my son
But
today is not that day.
11/11/2015
Happy Birthday Sophia
A
HOME FOR FORGOTTEN DOLLS
By
Grandma Baadsgaard
Happy
Birthday Sophia - my fellow doll lover.
Sophia
loves dolls – all kinds of dolls - just like her mother and her grandmother.
She loves them so earnestly that she created a home for forgotten dolls right
in her own bedroom. The dolls at the regular stores are fun to look at but she
prefers the dolls she finds at thrift stores and garage sales. Brand new dolls
encased in plastic are not as intriguing as the ones she discovers under dusty
blankets or scattered in the left behinds of other children now grown too old
for play.
Sophia understands the drawbacks
with new dolls – they simply don’t have a story to tell because they have never
been loved. Old dolls always have enchanted tales deep inside them waiting for
a listening child. Each doll’s story comes to Sophia when she holds them in her
arms while she falls asleep. Then their individual tales become her dreams at
night.
When Sophia wakes in the morning, she
paints the doll’s story on paper or canvas with crayons, watercolors, pastels or
oils.
When people ask, “Where do ideas for your
pictures come from?” she graciously smiles.
Though Sophia has lots of dolls, she knows
they do not tell their tales to everyone. Each story is a hidden treasure
available only to those with a kind heart.
Once her best friend said, “Sophie, you
have too many dolls.”
Sophia knew her friend didn’t
understand. She knew dolls that are forgotten and thrown away leave empty
places in their former owner’s hearts unless someone rescues them and gives
them a home. If these former owners do not eventually fill their lives with
children, that empty place will remain.
The dilemma Sophia understands is that older
children often think they have grown too old for dolls and childish things. So
they store them in the attic or throw them away. Some fortunate dolls are
rescued by mothers who cannot bear to throw away their daughter’s childhood. So
they lovingly donate their dolls to thrift stores or garage sales hoping these cherished
possessions will eventually find a new home and another little girl to love. Sophia’s
dolls all have the honored pedigree for dolls that have been loved many times.
Sophia likes to place her dolls all
around her when she goes to bed at night so each doll will feel cherished and
adored. Often when her mother checks on her she has a hard time finding
Sophia’s sleeping face among all the sizes and shapes of dolls tucked in all around
her.
On her birthday, Sophia’s grandmother
gave her a large porcelain doll dressed in a turn-of-the-century dress.
When Sophia took the doll from the gift
bag she smiled warmly at her grandmother and they both winked at each other.
Vintage doll lovers know other vintage doll lovers when they see them.
“Sophia,” her grandmother said, “this doll
has so many tales to tell. I know you will have sweet dreams tonight.”
11/09/2015
Birthday Letter for my thirteen-year-old grandson
Dear Brad,
Happy
Birthday to a very special young man we love. We feel so grateful to be your
grandmother/father. We hope you know that we will always be there for you and
that our love is constant and true. We are so proud of you for the life you are
choosing to live and the good example you are for your younger sister and
brother.
We notice
how patient you are with Izzy and Daniel. They are so blessed to have you for
their oldest brother.
We notice
that you love to read. Reading is the best way to learn and discover the world
of knowledge. As long as you keep reading, you will never be lonely or bored.
We notice
that you have a wonderful smile. When we see you smile and notice that sparkle
in your eyes it seems like the whole room lights up.
We notice
that you have very good manners. You always say please and thank you.
We’re always
so grateful to receive a Brad hug. You never forget to give us a hug goodbye
when you come over.
We notice
how you work hard in your schooling. We’re excited to hear about what you are
working on.
We notice
that you are a worthy priesthood holder and willing to do your duty with a
smile.
We get so
excited when we know we are able to spend time with you. We had fun camping
with you this fall and going on that hike with the beautiful autumn leaves.
We notice
how you are always willing to help with anything that needs to be done – like
moving family members to a new place.
We notice you
never complain and work hard and try your best at everything you do.
It has been
a joy to watch you growing up and becoming such a fine young man.
Always
remember Brad that you have a Mother/Father in Heaven who loves you. Jesus Christ is your Savior and best
friend. Remember that your earthy
mother/ father loves you. Never forget that you have a grandma and grandpa
Baadsgaard that love you with all our hearts.
You are a
treasure - and we found our pot of gold when you became our grandson.
Grandma and Grandpa Baadsgaard11/05/2015
Birthday Poem for a Two-Year-Old
Daniel
by
Grandma Baadsgaard
I love you sweet Daniel. Have
a great birthday.
Soft brown eyes
And a shy little smile
Lots of snuggle hugs
To last a while
Arms around our neck
Head on our heart
Good times to share
We’ll never be apart
Grandsons are the best
To make Grandma’s heart sing
Little boys are hard to catch
But oh what joy they bring
When you look up at me
My soul just wants to melt
I feel all warm inside
With all the love that’s felt
You were once a dream
But now you are here to stay
All my love for you
Will never go away
10/26/2015
10/22/2015
Poem for a Two-year-old
by
Grandma
Baadsgaard
I love you
buddy. Have a great day!
When you’re turning two
There’s lots of work to do
Like turn every knob in the
house
Then sneak around quiet as a
mouse
Grab lots of treats to
nibble
And use lots of pens to scribble
All over freshly painted
walls
Then counter-tops newly
installed
Next you find balls to throw
And make forts in the snow
Climb on beds and jump
using your arms for a pump
Then pick up rocks to pound
Smash pan lids for startle
sounds
Whenever food is near
It is your job to make it smear
Then make your belly wiggle
Right there in your middle
For if you’re turning two
There is lots of work to do
. . .
Whew!
10/21/2015
Three-year-old Birthday Poem
by Granny B
Happy
third birthday to a very busy and charming little boy.
I love you Daniel.
When Daniel laid his sleepy head
On the train pillow upon his bed,
He had a dream that made him smile
Of riding trains for miles and miles.
For Daniel loves trains you see -
So when he is awake he likes to be
A conductor with a blaring horn
That blasts his family from night to morn.
Around and around he chugs about
Roaring and screeching as he shouts,
“Toot – toot! Here comes the train!”
He’ll run through you if you remain.
Then with a smile on his face
He circles and circles all over the place
He won’t slow down ‘til Mom says, “Stop!”
And holds up the sign – her kitchen mop
Then says, “All trains will halt right here.
And park your caboose in the rear.”
10/17/2015
10/14/2015
Birthday Poem for a Five-Year Old
Clowns
Smiles
by
Grandma
Baadsgaard
Happy
5th birthday Rylan. I love you very much.
Here
is the clown story you wanted.
“Why are
you smiling?” said Rylan to the clown
He
answered, “I always paint on a smile when I’m feeling down.”
“But if
you’re feeling blue why don’t you paint a frown?”
“Because a
frown is just a smile turned upside down.”
Everyone
has sad days - we don’t need to spread ‘em around
Because
then we’ll make other’s smiles turn upside down.
Then Rylan
went home to his house in the woods
Full of,
“don’t do that and Rylan maybe you should”
“Brush your
teeth and clean your room
And don’t
make a flipper out of your spoon.”
And when he
built a tower it was knocked down by his brother
So he ran
to the kitchen to tattle to his mother
“Griffen
knocked my tower down,” Rylan said with a big frown.
“He doesn’t
know better - don’t make those grouchy sounds.”
So Rylan
did a cartwheel until his head was pointing down
Then his frown
became a smile that wasn’t turned upside down
Rylan knows
how to change things so he still wants to play
He takes
the muscles in his face all pointing to the ground
And turns
them up to make a smile so he’s nice to be around
No one
makes us mad or sad, we simply choose the way
We respond when
life’s battles are at bay
If we
choose to see what’s right in all those who are near
We sport a smile
and always have lots of reasons to cheer.
9/20/2015
Birthday Story for a Five-Year-Old
by
Grandma Baadsgaard
Happy
5th Birthday. I sure love you Liam - my mighty warrior.
In the towering cliffs next to the
sea, lived Liam a mighty ninja warrior. Liam wasn’t always a warrior. Once he
was a little boy who lived in a cottage with his family. One night many men dressed
in black unexpectedly came to his house and set the roof on fire. His family
ran out the front door. Liam ran out the back door and hid behind a rock wall while
he watched the men tie his family’s hands behind their backs and take them
away.
Liam was alone. He slept on the
beach until the dawn. He caught a fish in the ocean when he grew hungry. He searched
over the remains of his home. He pulled out a half burned quilt his mother made
him and a small blade his father had given him. He found his flute hidden under
a stone in a box beneath the floor boards. That night he played a sad song
under the stars. He did not know where his family had gone.
After many days passed he saw a peasant
gathering wood near his home. The man walked toward Liam. He looked at Liam’s
home in ashes.
“You are alone,” the peasant said.
“The men in black burned my house
and took my family away.”
The peasant quietly turned and picked
up a piece of charred wood then another until he formed a pile. Soon the rock
foundation was all that remained.
“We will find new wood,” the peasant
said.
Liam followed the peasant into the
woods, chopped down trees and carried many logs to the foundation. Together
they built a new cottage. Later, after they finished rebuilding Liam’s home, the
peasant built a fire in the fireplace. Liam played a song on his flute with his
mother’s quilt around his shoulders and his father’s blade in his pocket.
“I miss my family,” Liam said.
“Then we will find your family,” the
peasant said.
“I am afraid of the men in black,”
Liam said.
“Then we will use strategy and
skill,” the peasant said.
That night when the peasant thought
Liam was sleeping, he walked from the cottage to the edge of the cliff in the
moonlight. Liam secretly followed. Liam watched as the peasant crouched down
then curled into a ball on the ground until he resembled a stone. Then Liam saw
the peasant transform into an eagle that rose majestically and flew into the
night sky. Liam returned to the cottage deep in thought.
“I have found your family,” the peasant
said at breakfast the next morning. They are slaves building a castle for the
men in black. There are many, many men in black. We must plan your family’s escape
with cunning and skill.”
Lessons began. Each day the peasant
gave Liam new lessons in the use of mental clarity, forecasting and
transformation skills.
“When you feel fear, knell on the earth and
gather courage deep inside. Then rise, spread your arms like the wings of a
bird and let your fear go. You can rise above and fly.”
Each night Liam rose from his safe place
next to the fire and secretly followed the peasant into the cold dark then
watched as he transformed into an eagle and flew toward the castle. When he was
ready Liam openly followed his teacher to the each of the cliff. Then he too
crouched down low until he resembled a stone. He gathered his courage deep
inside. As he stood and spread his arms wide, his limbs became wings and
together they flew toward the castle.
When Liam saw his family sleeping in dung
and rags, his heart ached. When they returned to the cottage Liam knew what he
must do.
“I am ready,” Liam said to his teacher the
next morning.
That night they flew together to the
castle, transformed then spoke to Liam’s father.
“Father,” Liam said. “I am here to bring
you home.”
Liam’s father awoke and quietly roused
Liam’s mother and brothers and sisters. Silently they followed Liam toward the gate.
Liam and his teacher flung grappling hooks over the castle walls and assisted
Liam’s family as they cleared the wall. When they were safely outside the castle,
both Liam and his teacher curled into a ball on the ground until they looked
like a stone.
“Gather your courage,” Liam said.
Then Liam’s father, mother, brothers and
sisters quietly followed their lead. Just as the moon rose over the horizon, a
flock of eagles soared high in the night sky and glided toward the cliffs near
the shore and their home. When Liam woke the next morning, a fire crackled in
the fireplace as his family slept soundly all around him. He walked from the warm
cottage and found his teacher sitting at the crest of the cliff looking out
toward the eastern horizon. Liam sat next to him facing the wind.
“We are only grounded by our fears,” his
teacher said.
Then Liam watched as his teacher slowly
crouched into the shape of a stone. For a moment Liam longed for him to stay.
Then he understood why he must go.
“I am ready,” Liam said.
9/09/2015
9/02/2015
Write Your Own Story - Happy Birthday Sandy!
WRITE YOUR OWN STORY
by Granny B
Happy Eleventh Birthday Sandy.
I
love you. Keep writing your stories.
While the rest of her family was busy
watching a movie, Sandy sauntered through the house deep in thought with a
notebook in her hand.
“Come watch Princess Pink’s Magic Kingdom with me,” her sister begged jumping
up from the couch. “Please.”
“No thanks,” Sandy said, “I’d rather
write my own stories.”
Sandy imagined she was Sherlock Holmes
as she continued pacing about the house with a keen eye. She turned on her
story brain by playing detective. Everywhere she went she studiously observed
her surroundings and carefully listened. Her grandmother once told her that you
can write a story in your mind while you are doing something else like washing
the dishes or walking home from school.
“I want to be a writer like you when I
grow up,” Sandy said to her grandmother when they were sitting next to each
other one day.
“What a pleasant idea,” her grandma
answered. “We writers should stick together; for we all like to gather words
like clouds, let them rain and then make the sun come out again. It is the
perfect line of work for those of us who want to live lives with happy endings.”
“There are stories circling around in my
head all time,” Sandy said. “Sometimes I hear people talking to each other in
there.”
“Me too,” Grandma answered. “I still don’t
have all my stories out. Did you know that when you love to read and write you
always have somewhere interesting to go even when you have to stay where you
are?”
“What is the best way for me to practice
writing?” Sandy asked.
“Listen
carefully, feel deeply, read widely and write every day,” her grandmother
answered.
So Sandy listened carefully to the way her
mother and father spoke to each other across the kitchen table and practiced
writing their dialogue in her notebook. She read The Secret Garden and grew curious to learn about the life of the
author Frances Hodgson Burnett. She wrote a few verses about their apple tree
sending blossoms into the air like wee parachutes. Then she tucked those lines
of verse inside her idea folder. Mysterious plots, good versus evil themes and noble
characters were stacking up in the accordion file of her mind getting ready to
be played. Sandy listened to narratives writing themselves inside her head everywhere
she went. She didn’t have enough time to write them all down; she had to choose.
Choosing was hard.
Sandy tried out her latest story on her younger
brother when she tucked him in.
“Once . . .” she began, “There was a purple
ballerina who couldn’t stop dancing.”
Her
brother gave her a blank stare and grunted so Sandy changed up the plot a bit. “Once
upon a time there was a dinosaur that ate little boys!”
With wide open eyes her brother stopped
wiggling and waited for the rest of the story.
Sandy pulled out her notebook and wrote,
“Good stories need a villain.” When her story went too long, her little brother
fell asleep; so she added, “Little boys like short stories.”
Sandy also liked to try out her new stories
with her older sister when they were falling asleep in their twin beds in the
basement at night.
“Once upon a time there was a girl who
liked to write stories,” Sandy began contemplating being the star of her new
interesting plot.
She heard her sister yawn.
“Once there was a girl in junior high
that discovered a hidden door behind the blackboard in her English class.”
Her sister sat up excited to hear the
rest of the tale.
The next morning Sandy pulled out her
notebook and wrote, “People like stories with a little mystery thrown in.”
Then Sandy headed upstairs for breakfast
and walked straight into a wall because she had her nose in a book. She heard
her brothers and sisters laughing at her in the kitchen.
“Stop laughing at me,” Sandy said.
Her siblings laughed even louder. Sandy
stopped being embarrassed and laughed along with them.
“People like stories with characters
that make them laugh,” Sandy wrote in her notebook after breakfast.
Later that night Sandy’s father tucked
her into bed.
“Will you tell me a story?” Sandy asked.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl who
had more tales and yarns in her head than pieces of sand on the sea shore.
Every day she told a brand new story to anyone who would listen until she was
very old. When she had grey hair and lots of wrinkles, she told stories to her
grandchildren. She never ran out of stories. The end.”
“Is that a story about Grandma or me
someday?” Sandy asked.
“Yes,” her father answered.
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