Gangsta' Snails

Kori had a variety of pets throughout her life. It was difficult for her to walk into a pet store and come out empty-handed. ******************************************************************** In July of 2022, Kori talked me into letting her get a couple of snails to add to her already-existing fish tank. I never could say "no" to her. She'd bat those big, beautiful hazel eyes at me, and somehow, whatever she wanted usually ended up coming home with us. ******************************************************************** She named the snails Lucky Luciano and Al Capone. Naturally. ******************************************************************** Before she bought them, we were assured that they were both the same sex, so we didn't give much thought to the possibility of having a snail family. Until one morning, when Kori came into my room looking concerned. She showed me the underside of the aquarium lid. It was covered with what looked like a crusty, demented honeycomb. We were both completely grossed out. A little research revealed that the disgusting-looking things were eggs. Hundreds of them. Apparently, these particular snails possess both male and female reproductive organs, which meant our supposedly same-sex pair had apparently decided to start a family. There were detailed instructions online explaining how to remove the eggs from the lid. I found an old spatula to donate to the cause. We held the aquarium lid over the toilet, and I wanted absolutely nothing to do with what came next. Kori insisted that she couldn't do it alone, so I reluctantly held the lid while she began scraping. ******************************************************************** We were both horrified. Every scrape made our gag reflexes kick in, which naturally made us laugh even harder. The more disgusting it became, the harder it was to stop laughing. Eventually, Kori decided she wanted to get rid of the snails entirely. I encouraged her to flush them. But Kori had a heart that was simply too big for that. She couldn't do it. So the Mafia snail family remained. In fact, Kori eventually bought more. Carlo Gambino and Frankie Costello joined Lucky Luciano and Al Capone, and before long, Kori had quite the collection of Mafia snails. Eventually, though, the snails began dying off until only the boss remained. Lucky Luciano. Kori never again asked me to help remove snail eggs. She explained that the two of us trying to do it together had only made things worse because of all the gagging and laughing. ******************************************************************** Then came another adventure. Kori had the opportunity to spend the summer with my good friend Sara and her family on Whidbey Island, Washington. She loved it so much that her planned three-month stay turned into something much longer. She didn't come home until Thanksgiving. ********************************************************************* Before leaving, Kori had to get everything in order, including her pets. I was more than willing to take care of her two cats. But I drew the line at Luciano. I told her she needed to find somewhere else for him to go. Kori procrastinated. Of course. About a week before she was supposed to leave, she still hadn't figured out what to do with the snail. The problem was that there weren't many options. I wasn't willing to keep him. Kori couldn't bring herself to flush him. And neither of us felt particularly good about throwing him in the trash. So we came up with a solution. A terrible solution. But a solution nonetheless. ******************************************************************** We put Luciano in a small, clear plastic container and punched holes in the lid. Then we took him to PetSmart. On the shelves were Betta fish, each one sitting in its own little clear container. With me acting as lookout, Kori took Luciano's container out of her jacket pocket and carefully placed him on the shelf behind the Betta fish. And then we hauled ass out of there. I don't know how we managed to get out of the store without bursting into laughter. We had to repeatedly stifle ourselves the entire time. We had just abandoned a Mafia snail at PetSmart. Looking back, I have absolutely no idea whether Luciano was ever discovered or what happened to him after that. But I do know that Kori had successfully found him a new home where, as far as we were concerned... He was left to swim with the fishes. And somehow, that seemed like the perfect ending for the boss of the Mafia snail family. ******************************************************************** Looking Back... Of all the memories I have of Kori, some of my favorites are the ones that make absolutely no sense. We weren't trying to create a special memory that day. We were just trying to figure out what to do with a snail. And somehow, my daughter and I ended up committing a miniature aquarium heist at PetSmart while trying not to laugh. That was Kori. She had a way of turning even the strangest, most ridiculous situations into an adventure. And I would give anything to hear her laugh about Luciano again.

******************************************************************************************************** “We don’t laugh because we’re happy. We are happy because we laugh.” -quote by: William James

Swimming in the Rain

Some of our favorite adventures didn't have a destination. They had a tank of gas, a bag of Cheetos Puffs and beef jerky, music playing through the speakers, and two of us wondering where the road might take us. Kori loved going for drives, as long as she wasn't the one driving. She was perfectly happy in the passenger seat, gazing out the window with her forehead pressed against the cool glass, watching the world go by. On this particular day, the soundtrack was Mamma Mia! We both loved the movie and its sequel, and we listened to the music from them often. There was one song from the sequel, "Kisses of Fire," that Kori absolutely loved to sing. I absolutely hated it. Every time it came on, I'd try to skip it before she noticed. Unfortunately, Kori usually noticed. And then she'd sing it. Loudly.

Eventually, we found ourselves at Mantua Reservoir. As soon as we pulled into the parking lot, it began to rain. At first, it was only a sprinkle or two, so we decided to get out and walk down toward the water. That turned out to be a questionable decision. Or maybe it was the best decision we could have made. Kori and I have always loved the water, and before long, our shoes and socks were off and we were standing knee-deep in the lake. I refused to get my pants wet and rolled them up as far as I possibly could. Kori, on the other hand, apparently had no such concerns. She didn't care that her clothes were getting soaked. She didn't care that it was late in the day and the water was freezing. She didn't even care when the rain changed from a sprinkle to a downpour. Before long, Kori was completely submerged in the water while I had retreated to the beach. We were the only two people there. For a little while, it felt like the entire place belonged to us.

Then I saw lightning. That was the one thing that finally convinced me that perhaps swimming in a freezing reservoir during a thunderstorm wasn't the best idea. I eventually talked Kori into getting out of the water. Fortunately, I always kept my Blazer stocked with the things you might need on an unexpected adventure, including a quilt in the trunk. Kori wrapped herself in it, and instead of heading straight home, we walked along the boat dock taking goofy pictures. Kori was cold. Very cold. But she wasn't ready for our adventure to end. So I talked her into continuing our drive, heading farther into the Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest to enjoy the scenery. By this point, though, Kori was absolutely freezing. Rather than admit defeat and go home, she stripped down to her bra and underwear, wrapped herself in the quilt, and climbed back into the Blazer.

So there we were. Driving through the forest. Me fully dressed and trying to stay warm. Kori sitting beside me wrapped in a quilt, wearing practically nothing, and laughing about the ridiculous situation we'd gotten ourselves into. We laughed so hard that day. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the destination. We hadn't planned the trip. We hadn't set out to make a special memory. We were simply two people who got bored, got in the car, followed the road, and somehow ended up swimming in the rain. But that's what I loved about being with Kori. She could turn an ordinary day into an adventure. She didn't need a plan. She didn't need a special occasion. She just needed an open road, a camera, some snacks, and someone willing to go along with her. And I was always willing to go along. Looking back now, I realize that these were the days I never wanted to end.

The days when Kori was sitting beside me, singing a song I couldn't stand, eating Cheetos Puffs, laughing until her stomach hurt, and turning a completely ordinary drive into a story we'd remember forever. I would give anything to have one more completely ordinary day with her. Even if it meant listening to "Kisses of Fire" again. ******************************************************************* After that first rainy, freezing adventure, Mantua became one of our favorite places to go. It was only about thirty minutes from home, so there was really no reason we couldn't have gone anytime. But somehow, we never went during normal hours or normal weather. We went when it was raining. Or when it was dark. Or when it was cold. Preferably all three. And no matter how cold or dark it was, there was one thing we apparently couldn't resist. We had to get in the water. I don't know why. Maybe because we could. Maybe because it was ridiculous. Maybe because Kori could never resist an adventure simply because someone might reasonably ask, "Why would you do that?" Whatever the reason, Mantua became ours. It was another place where ordinary days turned into memories. We took pictures there. We laughed there. We got cold there. We got wet there. And we kept going back. ******************************************************************** Six days before Kori's twenty-sixth birthday, I stood beside her grave. Her birthday was coming, and I wanted to do something for her. I just didn't know what. For a while, I couldn't think of anything that felt right. Then I thought of Mantua. Of course. I invited family and some of Kori's closest friends to come with me on her birthday. We gathered at the reservoir to celebrate her. We sang. Some of us ate cupcakes. We talked about Kori. And we carried colorful flowers down to the water and released them onto the reservoir. The wind was blowing just enough to catch the flowers and carry them slowly across the water. It was beautiful. And it was cold. It was really cold. It was the middle of March. The water was freezing. Nobody goes swimming in Mantua Reservoir in March. Nobody sane, anyway. But I went in. I had to. For Kori. I stood in that freezing water thinking about all the times we'd come here together. The rainy days. The dark evenings. The ridiculous decision to get in the water when we absolutely should have known better. And for a moment, I wasn't just standing in the reservoir where my daughter had been remembered. I was standing in one of our places again. The place where my daughter and I had laughed. The place where we'd been silly. The place where we'd made memories without knowing they would someday become precious. I wish Kori had been there. I wish she had been beside me, complaining about how cold the water was while simultaneously refusing to get out. I wish she had been there to see the flowers floating across the water. I wish I could have looked at her and said, "Kori, this is freezing. What are we doing?" And heard her laugh. But she wasn't there. So I went into the water for both of us. Because some places belong to you long after the person you shared them with is gone. And Mantua will always belong to Kori and me. *******************************************************************

Some places become part of your heart because someone you love was there. Mantua will always be ours

Momma

Whenever Kori wanted me to buy something, make something, or help her with just about anything, she had a routine. She'd start with, "Momma..." Then came the pout. Her lips would press together. She'd let out an exaggerated huff. Sometimes she'd even stomp her foot just a little for dramatic effect. "Momma... pleeease." We both knew exactly what she was doing. And we both knew exactly how it was going to end. I'd laugh. Then I'd give in. Every single time. Looking back, I don't think she expected the pouting to change my mind. I think she just knew it would make me smile. And it always did.

Today... I would give anything to hear her call me "Momma" just one more time.

Kori's Orange Blueberry Cookies

If you knew Kori, you probably knew she rarely arrived empty-handed. Whether it was a birthday cake, a box of homemade cookies, fresh donuts from work, or a new recipe she had decided to experiment with, baking was one of the ways she showed people she loved them. These cookies became one of Kori's signature recipes. If you bake them, turn on some Beatles or Elvis, don't be afraid to dance around the kitchen, and make enough to share. Kori believed the best desserts were the ones enjoyed together. Ingredients: 1/2 cup of butter (1 stick) softened 1 box cream cheese (8 ounce) softened 1 egg 1 teaspoon orange extract 1 box Butter cake mix 1 1/2 cups fresh blueberries 1 cup powdered sugar 1 tablespoon orange zest 3 tablespoons orange juice Instructions: *Cream butter and cream cheese with mixer. *Add the egg and orange extract and mix on low until combined. **Add the cake mix in three parts. Remove from the mixer and very carefully and slowly fold in blueberries. Be careful not to burst them. *Refrigerate dough for two hours. *Roll into 1 1/4 inch balls. Bake at 350 degrees for 15-16 minutes or until lightly browned. Cool for 2 minutes. *In a separate, small bowl, whisk powdered sugar, orange zest and orange juice. *Drizzle over cooled cookies. (Yield is 24-30 cookies.)

If you make these cookies, I hope you'll think of Kori. They were one of her favorite creations, and nothing would have made her happier than knowing they continue to bring people together.

The Kitchen Was Her Happy Place

Some of my favorite memories with Kori were made in the kitchen. Long before she became an incredible baker and cake decorator, she was a little girl standing on a chair beside her Grandma, helping stir cookie dough. Years later, Kori would tell me that baking cookies with Grandma was one of her core childhood memories. Somewhere along the way, Kori took over the role of family cake decorator. That job used to belong to me. As her interest in baking grew, she asked me to teach her everything I knew. We spent countless hours together learning how to stack cake layers, smooth frosting, cover cakes with fondant, and use every frosting tip imaginable. There wasn't much she couldn't learn once she set her mind to it. Well... Except making frosting. For reasons I'll never understand, Kori absolutely hated making frosting. No matter what we were decorating, she'd somehow convince me to make that part for her. Looking back now, I think she knew exactly how to get out of the jobs she didn't enjoy. I never minded. It meant we got to spend more time together. Whenever we baked or worked on a creative project, there was always music playing. We loved old milkshake shop music from the '50s and '60s—The Beatles, Elvis Presley, and so many others. Before long, we were singing along, dancing around the kitchen, and making as many memories as we were desserts. One of the things that always amazed me was how similarly our minds worked. We'd be decorating a cake when one of us would suddenly say, "What if we used this color?" or "Maybe we should do this instead." Almost every time, the other one would laugh and say, "I was just thinking the exact same thing." It happened so often that it stopped surprising us. We simply understood each other. Kori's creativity continued to grow throughout her life. She worked at a bakery while living in Washington and later at another bakery after returning home. She wasn't just a cake decorator—she became the lead donut fryer and decorator, creating beautiful designs that reflected her imagination and artistic eye. She loved surprising me by bringing home treats she'd made at work. Home, however, was where her creativity truly came alive. Kori loved experimenting in the kitchen. Rarely did she follow a recipe exactly as written. She was always adding ingredients, changing flavors, or trying something completely new just to see what would happen. She wasn't just talented. She was fearless about creating. Sometimes those experiments became favorites. Her Orange Blueberry Cookies became legendary among our family and friends. It wasn't long before people stopped asking if she'd bring cookies to gatherings and simply assumed she would. They became Kori's cookies, and everyone hoped she'd arrive carrying a container full of them. When we worked together at Cinepointe 6, Kori often baked treats to share with our coworkers. She genuinely loved making people happy through the things she created. Every cake was made for a celebration. Every cookie was made to be shared. That was Kori—she believed the sweetest things in life were meant to be given away. Cooking was such a huge part of her life. She was very passionate about it. If photography captured the way Kori saw the world, cooking was the way she loved it. Kori teased me endlessly because my spice cabinet was practically empty. Every time she came over, she'd complain that I didn't have the spices she needed and would eventually restock the cabinet herself. Apparently, according to Kori, you can never have too much garlic. For someone who could decorate elaborate cakes, invent cookie recipes, and work as a baker, you'd think ramen noodles would be easy. Not for Kori. She insisted she could never get them right. The water was wrong. The seasoning was wrong. The noodles were too soft... or not soft enough. Whenever she wanted ramen, she'd come find me. "Mom... will you make my ramen?" I'd remind her that she could make wedding cakes and gourmet desserts. She'd just pout. "Ramen noodles are my Achilles heel." So, naturally... I'd make the ramen. Perhaps my favorite memories, though, are watching her with River and Oakley. She patiently helped them decorate cupcakes and cookies, never worrying about the frosting that somehow ended up everywhere except where it was supposed to be. Their little hands were always sticky. Sprinkles covered the counters. Frosting found its way onto the table, the floor... and usually onto Kori herself. She never seemed to mind. For Kori, baking had never really been about making perfect desserts. It was about making people feel loved. When Maple came along. Kori instantly fell in love with her baby niece and looked forward to the day she would be old enough to stand on a chair beside her, frosting cookies and licking the spoon just like River and Oakley had done. That day never came, and my heart still aches for the memories they should have shared. I know Maple won't remember baking with her Aunt Riri, but through these stories, I hope she'll come to know just how excited Kori was to make those memories with her. Some of life's sweetest memories aren't found in the finished cake or the perfect cookie. They're found in the flour on the counter, music playing in the background, and the laughter shared with someone you love. Looking Back... Whenever I hear old music playing in a kitchen or smell something sweet baking in the oven, I can't help but smile. Those moments still feel like home because they're filled with memories of Kori. Every cake we decorated, every cookie we baked, and every song we sang together reminds me that the sweetest things we created were never the desserts themselves—they were the memories we made while making them.

"Baking is not just a skill—it's love, carefully folded into batter, layered with patience, and frosted with care."

The Day My World Changed

There are some days that you plan down to the smallest detail, only to discover that life has a much better plan of its own. Kori was supposed to be born on St. Patrick's Day. I already had an induction scheduled, our bags were packed, and her very first outfit had been carefully chosen. Everything was ready. Or so I thought. On Wednesday, March 15, 2000, I wasn't feeling quite right. I mentioned it to Kori's dad before we headed out to run a few errands. He suggested we stop by the hospital, "just to get checked." I was certain I wasn't in labor. Less than four hours later, at 8:17 that evening, Korinne Beth Bush made her entrance into the world. She weighed 7 pounds, 4 ounces, measured 19½ inches long, and had a head full of beautiful black hair. Our carefully packed hospital bags? Still sitting at home. From the very beginning, Kori seemed determined to write her own story instead of following anyone else's plans. The labor itself was surprisingly easy. In fact, it happened so quickly that after I called my parents to tell them I had been admitted to the hospital, Kori was born before they even arrived. One of my favorite memories from that day is something completely unexpected. Two medical students were at the hospital and asked if they could observe the delivery because they had never witnessed a birth before. Normally, I was far too shy to agree to something like that. But for reasons I still can't explain, I said yes. Looking back now, it somehow feels fitting. Kori spent her entire life teaching people—through her kindness, her creativity, her generosity, and the way she embraced every adventure. Perhaps her first lesson simply came a little earlier than any of us realized. She was welcomed into the world surrounded by love. Her big brother, Tyler, was one of the very first people to meet her, followed by both sets of grandparents and her two uncles. We had chosen her name long before she was born. I loved the name Korinne, but from the very beginning I knew I would call her Kori. Her middle name, Beth, held a special meaning too—it came from a KISS song that had become "our song" during her dad's and my relationship. Within minutes of meeting her, my family had already given her new names to answer to. My mom immediately began calling her "Kori-Belle," a nickname that stayed with her throughout her childhood. One of her uncles preferred "Kori-Bella," which eventually became simply "Bella." It didn't take long for everyone to find their own special way of loving her. The birth itself was one of the easiest parts of raising Kori. Maybe that should have been my first clue. Because the tiny baby with the dark hair would grow into a fearless little spitfire—charismatic, adventurous, endlessly curious, and determined to experience every bit of life she could. Looking back now, I don't think Kori ever really arrived quietly. She burst into our lives the same way she would continue to live them—with perfect timing of her own, a little unpredictability, and enough personality to fill every room she entered.

"Sometimes the smallest moments become the beginning of the greatest adventures."

Welcome

This website is my love letter to my daughter, Kori. It is a collection of memories, photographs, adventures, laughter, and the countless little moments that made her who she was. Some stories are funny. Some are bittersweet. Some are ordinary in the best possible way. Together, they tell the story of a remarkable young woman who made the world brighter simply by being herself. My hope is that whether you knew Kori for twenty years or are meeting her for the very first time, you'll leave these pages feeling as though you've spent a little time with her. I had the incredible privilege of being Kori's mom. As you explore this site, you'll be seeing Kori through my eyes. However, every person who knew Kori carries a different piece of her story. The memories shared throughout this page come from my perspective as her mom, but they are only one part of the beautiful life she lived. If you knew Kori, I warmly invite you to help preserve her legacy by sharing your own memories, photographs, or stories. Whether your memory is profound or wonderfully ordinary, it matters. Sometimes it is the smallest moments—a shared laugh, a thoughtful gesture, an unexpected kindness—that tell us the most about a person. My hope is that this website will continue to grow through the love of everyone whose life Kori touched, becoming a place where her story is told not by one voice alone, but by many hearts. As I share stories of Kori, they will not be from start to finish of her life. I don't remember her in a straight line. I remember her because I open the pantry and find her cake decorating supplies. I remember her while making Ramen noodles. I remember her because I see a funny hat in a store. That's how love remembers. Not chronologically. But through moments. Love letters don't have to be sequential. They wander. They remember. They laugh unexpectedly. They stop in the middle of a sentence because a memory appears. They tell stories that seem unrelated until, by the end, you realize they're all saying the same thing: "I loved you." Thank you for helping keep her memory alive.

"It's a special bond that spans the years. Through laughter, worry, smiles and tears. A sense of trust that can't be broken. A depth of love sometimes unspoken. A lifelong friendship built on sharing, hugs and kisses, warmth and caring. Mother and daughter, their hearts as one- a link that can never be undone." --unknown

Kori Bush

There are some people who leave footprints on your heart so deep that their story deserves to be told long after they're gone. This is the story of Korinne "Kori" Beth Bush.

Kori was born on March 15, 2000, with a heart full of curiosity and an adventurous spirit that craved love. She lived creatively, loved generously, and embraced life with an enthusiasm and sense of wonder that inspired everyone fortunate enough to know her. From the time she was a little girl growing up in West Haven, Kori found happiness outdoors. She spent countless hours gardening with Grandpa, baking cookies with Grandma, riding four-wheelers through the fields, catching snakes and toads, and caring for the many animals that shared their home—including dogs, goats, and potbellied pig she proudly named Cupcake. Those years shaped her lifelong love of nature, family, and adventure. At five years old, Kori began a journey with Girl Scouts that would continue for more than a decade. She earned her Bronze and Silver Awards, developed lifelong friendships, and discovered a love of camping, service, and leadership. One of her favorite traditions was attending the annual Leader-Daughter retreat, where she could always be found laughing, dancing the "Charlie Brown", and making memories that would be treasured for years to come. As she grew older, Kori's creativity blossomed. Photography became one of her greatest passions. Rarely seen without a camera around her neck, she had an extraordinary ability to notice beauty where others might simply walk by. Whether exploring abandoned buildings, climbing mountain peaks, or capturing quiet everyday moments, her photographs reflected not only what she saw but how she viewed the world—with wonder, curiosity, and heart. Her talent earned multiple first-place ribbons at both the Weber County and Utah State Fairs, but the greatest reward was sharing her unique perspective with others. Kori found charm everywhere. She saw it in weathered old buildings, in the laughter of children, in a beautiful sunset, and even in an ordinary rock picked up along the side of a trail. Creativity flowed through every part of Kori's life. She was an accomplished baker and cake decorator, loved experimenting in the kitchen, crocheted blankets for the children she dreamed of having someday, and was always creating something beautiful. She believed that homemade gifts carried a special kind of love, and she poured herself into everything she made. Family was the center of Kori's world. Although she loved traveling, photography, sports, movies, and every new adventure that came her way, nothing brought her greater joy than the people she loved. Her nieces and nephew knew her simply as "Aunt Riri," a nickname born when her nephew couldn't pronounce "Kori." She embraced it with all her heart. She planned adventures, made birthday cakes, painted pictures, created crafts, read bedtime stories, and loved those children as fiercely as if they were her own. Becoming a mother one day was her greatest dream. Kori was also a devoted daughter and, above all else, my very best friend. We shared a love of photography, road trips, late-night drives, museums, music, movies, and countless adventures together. Some of my favorite memories are standing beside her with our cameras, only to discover later that we had each captured an entirely different view of the very same moment. That was Kori. She saw the world differently, and because of her, so do I. Kori's life cannot be measured by the years she was given, but by the love she left behind. That love lives on in the photographs she captured, the cakes she decorated, the children who still smile when they hear "Aunt Riri," the sunsets over West Haven, and in every story shared by those fortunate enough to have loved her. If you knew Kori, you already understand how difficult it is to describe someone whose kindness, generosity, humor, and creativity touched so many lives. If you never had the privilege of meeting her, my hope is that these pages will allow you to do just that. This website is more than a collection of photographs and memories. It is a celebration of a remarkable young woman whose love continues to shape the lives of everyone she touched. Welcome to Kori's story.

"If there ever comes a day when we can't be together, keep me in your heart, I'll stay there forever." - quote by A.A. Milne