Bror

Kari: patron of the arts, monsters, ghouls, robots, dragons, and all things gremlin. He is the creator of the Giant Eye portrait in our basement, the enormous 'Making a Man' classic that scared the beegeebees out of me as a little kid, and some of the best Christensen family stories to date.
Because he is fifteen years my senior, I have discovered that the most successful way to get to know my oldest brother is through family sagas. Legends have traveled by word of mouth for years, fluctuating steadily like good stories always do. Today is his birthday, and as tribute to Mr. Christensen I would like to a pay a bit of personal homage to his genius.
My first memories of Kari emerge as a blurred shape bundled in blankets on one of the playroom beds. He was in high school, and I was three years old. Early in the morning I would, oh so stealthily, creep into the grand Housing of Toys, where I would plant myself in the corner for hours entertaining myself with who-knows-what... probably spazzing. I remember several basement occasions where tiny house spiders would reveal their whereabouts in the playhouse to stare me down beadily. Kari was fearless in the world of creepy crawlies, and to him I would appeal for safety from the Weird Ones.
Recently I encountered an old art notebook lodged somewhere inconspicuous in Mom's study. It had a few sketches from Kari as a very young man. On the back cover was monster with suction cup hands and giant eyes conversing avidly with a tiny, squiggly, leech-like creature. The characters were original, the scene was imaginative, and the art was exquisitely detailed. Kari has artist's hands and can turn even the simplest portrait of a devil into a masterpiece. I remember one birthday he speedily sketched out my present in a matter of minutes. It was a portrait of a ballerina-faerie creature intended to be me. As an awkward thirteen-year old girl, the picture itself was rather flattering as I was made aware of Kari's talent not only on the computer but also with pencil and paper. It was extraordinary.
Kari's talent does not stop at art. Two summers ago I paid him a most memorable visit to his and Cambria's home in Brooklyn. Never has New York City seen a more fashionable couple, nor a more perfect assemblage of objects in their apartment. Everything, from the bat mounted shadow box to Cambria's wide variety of vintage shoes screamed witness to creativity and art.
And that is my brother Kari. Star Wars, monsters, and dangerous experiments. He knows his way around the confusing subways. He is a taco connoisseur, a shopping guru, and a style junkie. So this one is for you Kari; possibly the most unique and artistically creative gem I've ever met.

A birfday post for June

The grand old birthday book is a part of our history; because of its goodness, it will be an irreversible element of our future. But how did the tradition start?

Shirsti and Koseli were born a mere five days from each other. Not in the same year of course, but June 8 is followed with astounding speed by June 13. Cake and presents to a toddler is something which stirs jealousy, anger, and minor tantrums. Thus, the book tradition was born. Dad commanded the girls to say nice things about each other on their birthdays in order to keep the peace in the Christensen home.

Kudos, Dad.

And kudos to you two, too, Sheepy and Kos. You've come a long way from the hair pulling, biting, and yelling that used to go on around this time.
Oh, wait... I helped with that too.

Happy birthday, girls. You are two of the brightest, sparkliest, most beautiful gems I know, and I'm lucky to be your sister.

The Grand Old Birthday Book

My family owns an old leather-bound journal brimming with nice things said by parents and siblings on birthdays. Several times each year, Mom pulls out the brown book and the family takes turns telling stories, giving advice, and listing admirable qualities about the spotlighted person. The pages are dotted with flecks of ancient ice cream and smudges from sloppy penmanship; it is the most beautiful book in the world.

These are just a few recent highlights I found.

June 13th, 2004:

Kristian: I'm looking forward to spending more time with Shirsti before she gets hitched.
Gavin: What the--?
Kristian: Hopefully not too soon.

Soren: Shirsti's nice twice.

Father's Day, 2004.

Jos: Famous dad quotes include the following:
"Who wants to play kissy tag"
"Does Libby miss her daddy?"
"Throw the cat out!"
"Silence is golden."
"I'm eating, hon."
"Well Shir, how many sandwiches did you make today?" (during a brief job at Subway)

July 16, 2004
Mom: Jos can change a bathroom into a garden walk and anything else you can imagine. It's a good deal for all of us that Martha Stewart is out of the way...

Kristian's 24th
Kari: Kristian is nice. I'm glad he's my brother-- not as mean as Gavin. I admire Kristian.

January 22, 2004
Mom: When Sasha was in seventh grade I would take her to school in the mornings. She would make me stop at the top of the street and look at how beautiful she is.

July 16, 2005
Soren: I like it when she gives me food and helps me pronounce names.... "Jossy." Her hair is lovely, (dictated by Linds) and she looks at me when I'm too cute.

Mom: Jos never wet the bed.

Morgi: I always thought she was intelligent.

Mom: It's unusual at 16 to have your own culture-- kind of artistic, romantic, and a kind of Victorian ability to see and observe, decorate, write, and read. Every year she gets better.

Kristian's 25th
Soren: "Ping-pong!" Kristian is an airplane.

2006 New Year's Predictions:
1. Kevin and Sasha will end up in Idaho.
2. Shirsti will get two new lip glosses and be engaged by Christmas (made by Koseli, who was engaged by New Year's Day.)
3. Mom will not exceed 105 pounds.
4. Kari and Cambria will still stay indoors at their Brooklyn apartment and get even paler during the summer.
5. Jos will have a Tour Romance
6. One of the girls will decided to go on a mission.

Kristian's NYC departure:
Kos: Take time to sip a hot mug of pero with whipping cream on top.
Jos: Take advantage of Grand Central Station and the public restrooms.

Mom turns 58 years young:
Shir: Scooter, Mommit, Squats, Grandma, Mama Roach, Toad, Bird, Navajo Momma, wife, daughter, and friend...

June 13, 2006:
Kos: Kitchen girl! Cut your own ice cream cake, dang it!

July 16, 2006:
Kos: Advice I wish I would have heeded my senior year:
1. Take showers often.
2. Only date boys you like.

Shir: Joslynn, I like your legs.

Kristian's 26th birthday:

Jos: (Why did I go first?) Kristian is very, very, very... kind.
Nobody beats the blob.

Kos: He is a warm pig in a bath.

Keena: What I love about Kristian is his tight New York skinny jeans!

Gav: I had the privilege of bringing Kristian up by hand while Kari was languishing on the bed drawing monsters and speaking Dragon.

Kari: He's nice.

Mom's 60th:
Famous quotations:
"I wouldn't eat that, it's not good for me."
"Should we pray?"
"Have you checked yourself?"

Ode to Sasha

Left to right: Shirsti, Joslynn, Koseli, and Sasha

Sasha is eldest of the Christensen girls.
She has been an idol of sorts for me since I was quite wee. I admired her unrestrained kindness, her extroverted hilarity, and her undeniably bewitching good looks. As a bashful and rather backward young girl whose fashion sense was limited to overalls and tube socks, my sister was a creature from a vogue magazine. In high school she had a string of lovesick boys tied around her little finger-- a notable feat that I never understood in elementary school but found quite braggable.
Though her grace and elegance originate from within, my sister was not always the sophisticated and chic woman she is today. Her convivial personality has created many legendary tales. When my family congregates in our South Jordan home for Christmas and birthdays, the inevitable Sasha Stories are always unbuttoned. The feud between Sasha and Gavin, The Little Mermaid in the bathroom closet, and "Gavin burped and I lost control!" are probably the most explored and analyzed of our family stories-- minus the Jossy spaz of course.
Sasha can make anyone from any situation comfortable, and I have noticed over the years how people seem to simply flock to her just to be in her presence. She has an electric current around her that attracts friends. Service is what she does best, and she puts this talent into practice every day.
I remember in particular a summer when Sash returned home from Snow college for a break. Everyone else was in school, besides me, so we were able to spend some quality time together. She called me her 'toady' and I would accompany her on various errands with the faithfulness attributed only to an admiring younger sister. It was two weeks of Tori Amos and chocolate and Sasha, and it was incredible.
Good fashion sense is a talent. I don't care what anybody else says-- not very many people have it (myself included) but my sister is not one of those people. Let us just say she has, 'the eye' for what looks nice and what must go. Stepping into her apartment is like vicariously living in a Pottery Barn magazine, and her closet harbors many gems of clothing that her excellent shopping skills could not have wielded to anybody else. She is the most conscientious person I know. When out on an excursion, she will always call if she see something that reminds her of you. She is a giver of magnificent gifts. She is very good at what she does; wherever she is she is loved, and wherever she works she excels to the top of the corporate chain. She can do anything, be anything, and still be a friend and confidant to everyone.
My sister is a supreme letter writer, poet, and chef. Her goodness shows in her face. She glows as only so few people can. She is so elevated in my eyes that wherever she might be, I always feel close to her.
So this one is for you Sasha. I hope you know how beautiful you truly are.

Larry, Gene, and Mike

Left to right: Michael, Carol, Gene.
Larry is excluded.

My mother has three brothers. It was always a lamentable fact of her life that she never had a sister. Despite this, I believe her childhood existence was made ten times more exciting by these boys, who were perhaps the world's best mischief makers.
My uncles keep very good company. They have all gone in the teaching direction; namely at BYU-Idaho and the Marriott School of Business. Through these dynamic, intelligent men I claim a distant aquaintaince to such well-knowns as Orson Scott Card and James Christensen.
Larry, the eldest, has a subtle, intelligent, wit, with a definite value and stress upon the written word. Some of the best book discussions I have ever encountered have taken place in his living room. There are shelves upon shelves of books stacked floor to ceiling-- all of which he's read. In the bedroom downstairs- lovingly referred to as "Tut's tomb"- I have been happily introduced to Dante's Inferno, the biography of Adolph Hitler, and Voltaire's Candide.
Walking a few blocks west of Uncle Larry's brings us to Uncle Gene's house. This house has harbored all my ideals of joyful cousindom. Squirt gun fights, laser tag, Nintendo, and always a few odd cats... Gene's was the highlight of Idaho visits. The backyard is a fairyland, with waterfalls and century old trees. I always delighted in Phyllis's claw footed tubs, and in the antiquity of the quaint kitchen. Talking to my uncle Gene creates a certain level of intensity that is formidable and exciting simultaneously. Gene is, in every respect, the Mr. Crump of BYU-Idaho. Most of the students hate him, because of the accelerated level of his class. And yet he is well loved in the community because students approach his course as children and leave as emperors. Passing is a notable feat.
Traveling south several hours brings us to the last and youngest brother, Michael. Michael is a perfectly balanced combination of his two brothers, and the sibling who was closest to my mother. He too is intense, and talking to him is like coming up with a thesis; you have to dig through his words to comprehend, and then surmise until you can tell him your own thoughts on the case. Michael has a lovely voice, and no one will ever forget how he would sing in church with my Grandpa; two angelic tenors who blended perfectly.
Larry, Gene, and Mike are the epitome of uncles, and I could not have asked for a more perfect trio. If I ever need a book to read, a lively debate, or help with a thesis, I'll know who to call.

Dolli

My grandma Dolli is my namesake.
She was a tiny spitfire with naturally jet-black hair. When I picture her in my mind she is wearing pink lipstick and waving her cane. She was filled to the brim with hot Spanish blood; her quick temper and impassioned actions have become legend in the Thompson family.
She grew up devoutly Catholic. Her prayers were long, studious, and heartfelt. Every day she visited our house her footsteps on my pink carpet led to three secret Kit-Kats on my nightstand: one for Koseli, one for Shirsti, and one for me. It was this simple spirit of giving that set Dolli apart from everyone else.
I have saved every letter I have received from Grandma. The envelopes are colorfully ornamented with Suzie's Zoo stickers. Inside the paper is line upon line of perfect, dark, cursive. I know her best through this mail correspondence. Indeed, she kept friends from the first or second grade this way. She was an expert in that category.
She spoke her mind. Sometimes this was uncomfortable for us, but we always brushed it off. She was too kind and good to take offense. After all, Grandma Dolli was the most spontaneous and the wisest woman I have ever known.
A few weeks before she passed away she took to drinking coffee. It spruced her up, she said. When my mother went to visit her, my dear grandma tried to hide the evidence.
"Bring it in quietly," she'd tell the nurses, "I don't want Carol to know."
Dolli was the woman who took the unfortunate under wings. She spoiled, and pinched, and pampered all of us.
It was an honor to know her.

Grandpa Chris

My Grandpa Christensen is an inventor.
In his garage are trinkets and wood shavings from past failed inventions, projects currently in operation, and plans laid out for future inspiration. When he works he wears plaid flannel shirts and suspenders.
He is my only claim to fame.
A slight case of Parkinson's makes him shake a little. When he hugs me he kisses me on the cheeks and says,
"I sure do love ya sweetheart."
When he talks about wood, or chemicals, or cars, his eyes light up and he becomes a little boy. When he has a new idea his mind ticks visibly, and one can see him turning cartwheels and running a million miles a minute in his brilliant brain.
When my grandma became ill he used to sit with her in the hospital room. He was so sad, so very, very, sad. He would sit and sit and hold her hand, and he wouldn't say anything at all when she died.
Around my grandpa is an aura of old fashioned politeness and the humility that wisdom brings. His patience sets him apart and it causes him to glow.
I am afraid to ever lose him.