I had finally graduated from grade school and I was headed on to junior high, and not any old junior high, but Bountiful Jr High. My mom had filled out a boundary variance so I did not have to attend Millcreek Jr. I had serious doubts that anyone of consequence could have been attending Millcreek. Bountiful on the other hand was the elite place to be and I had no idea why, it just was because my friends said so and as far as I was concerned my friends were the experts on everything.
The morning of the first day of junior high had arrived and I was extremely nervous, I was up about five times the night before rushing down the stairs in record fashion. Luckily I did not have any accidents. Two things were looming in my juvenile mind; (1) taking a shower after gym and (2) were my clothes cool enough for junior high? I woke up a little early so I could make sure to get my hair just right, and to get in an extra dose of Pepto-Bismol. My hair took about 30 minutes if I wanted it just right. First, I would comb my hair flat to my head with a perfect part. Next, I added a little poof to the bangs. Then, I used about a fourth of the can of hair spray to make sure my hair stayed in place all day. With a heavy head I went to eat a piece of bread for breakfast, I always got sick if I ate any real food for breakfast. With crumbs in my belly I went into the front room and lay down behind the La-Z-Boy where my mother slept. My mom kept the heater behind her “’bed” and I figured since I had to dry my hair I might as well sleep while I was doing it. It took approximately 20 minutes to turn my hair into hard plastic, and while my masterpiece was being formed I had a nice power nap. After the 20 minutes I went back into the bathroom to run a comb through my hair because who wants to look like they have fake hair? This final step made my hair look perfect and with all the hairspray there was little chance of it moving. If my hair did not turn out and I had the time, I would quickly run through the process a second time. This happened to be an okay hair day, not great just okay.
I walked to school, for the first part of 7th grade with John Lane and Brandon Smith, and the second part after John got annoying with only Brandon. I was glad to have a couple of friends with me as I walked in those ominous doors. I wasn’t sure what I would see on the other side, but as I walked in a feeling of pride came into my heart. I was proud because I was old enough to walk through the doors of a junior high at 8 in the morning and be in the right place. I now find it odd that I was ever arrogant because of my age, but when I was 12 I looked at 11 year olds as scumbags and 13 year olds as idols. Age was everything and you either had it or you didn’t.
I had been to the school earlier in the summer so I wouldn’t have a problem finding all of my classes. I noticed other students wearing similar clothes to the ones that I wore, I released a bubble of relief and quickly scurried to the other side of the hall so that the scent couldn’t be tracked to me. With my stomach ache gone I was ready for anything. Anything, that is, except for a shower in gym.
The three of us headed down the stairs towards the 7th grade hallway to see if we could spot any of our friends from sixth grade. I was halfway down the stairs when I spotted her. She was the most beautiful blond I had ever seen, and I became mesmerized.
“Dude, what’s wrong with Bryan?” John asked Brandon.
“Bryan snap out of it!” Brandon had tried, but he was too late, I was already falling. Stunned by this girl’s beauty my feet would not move, they were glued to the third step up from the hallway and my torso was still in motion. Everything switched to slow motion. I saw my friends laughing, I saw the beautiful blond girl laughing, and I saw the entire seventh grade class laughing. The papers and things that were in my hand went flying through the air and I heard them land around my head. I was injured, but not bad enough to not fake it and fortunately for my pride but not my pain level my head was the first to hit. Several girls became very concerned that I had hit my head, and I had my first real opportunity to share my awesome self with the ladies, even though the texture of the carpet had impeded itself on my forehead. Before I was able to capture the girls attention with my expansive vocabulary and magnetic personality a familiar voice jerked me back to reality.
“That was awesome,” Brandon remarked as I jumped to my feet.
“Are you okay?” a random girl asked.
“I’m great, I just slipped a little.”
“Whatever, dude you were staring at that hot girl over there,” John suggested pointing his finger to the object of my distraction.
I was turning red and fast. I quickly ducked my head and started limping at an angle toward my locker as fast as my new shoes would take me. Considering the fact that I could only see spots of light it was a miracle that I made it to my locker after only running into the wall a few times. As I looked back I was pleased to notice everybody still staring at me, I guess I had made an impressive impression with my stunning good looks. This defining moment in my history only grew more interesting a few days later when I found out that I was actually related to the girl I had briefly fallen in love with (she was the daughter of my mom’s cousin). I was glad that I had only mentioned my feelings to a few good friends.
Things did not get any better after the first period bell rang. I had Mrs. Peterson for seventh grade honors English. As I walked in the door I could tell that I was in trouble. She was obviously older than the school, which had been built sometime around the turn of the century. Her glasses hung on the end of her nose only clinging to her face by the pounds of makeup used to cover up her green skin. Her hair was in perfect form and had been the same shape for at least 20 years. She smelled of stale perfume and Alka-Seltzer and her teeth had turned a brownish-yellow from drinking a small lake of coffee over the course of the last century.
“Class, class take your seats, take your seats,” Mrs. Peterson commanded with a soft little voice and her eyes closed as if she had a headache already due to the vermin that had just entered her domain. “In my class there is no talking without raising your hand, am I understood?” She looked at us as if we were not even worth the scum she had collected on the bottom of her shoe from smashing cockroaches and spiders for one of her special potions.
She directed us to get out a book to read while she took the roll. The pipes in the heater starter acting funny and then let off some air, which seemed funny for the end of August. Maybe she was trying to cook us.
“Who is that breathing loud, I will not have students breathing loud in my class,” Mrs. Peterson warned.
I thought about answering “the heater Mrs. Peterson,” but I thought better of it at the last moment.
Mrs. Peterson either did not have a lesson prepared for us or she accidentally fell asleep because we ended up reading for most of the 45 minute period even though most of the students had not brought a book to their first class on the first day of seventh grade. As the period was about to come to a close she took the last 10 minutes to explain the homework.
“If you will look on page 3 of your grammar books you will see some sentences. You will copy each sentence five times. Every verb will be circled, nouns you will underline, adverbs will be circled twice, adjectives circle once with a line under it, conjunctions should be circled twice and underlined twice, the subject needs to be placed inside a rectangle and the predicate inside a double rectangle. We will add things as the weeks go on. Your homework is work a lot of points if you do not follow these directions perfectly you will miss a point for every word or phrase that you do not identify in the correct way,” she said this so calmly as if she considered herself normal and us the crazy ones. I was officially confused and I decided that if all of my classes were like this, I had already had enough of junior high academics.
The bell rang and all of the students started to get up to leave the classroom.
“The bell does not excuse you, I excuse you,” Mrs. Peterson said in a tone that was forceful enough to make all of those who had left seats return for further instruction. She just stared at us for thirty seconds and then released us. I took my time gathering my things because as I looked to the exit it seemed to get smaller and smaller with my English teacher looming to the side of the door evidently taking notes on every student as if she was looking for the perfect student to unleash her fury on. I thought about the window, but as I headed that direction I felt her piercing gaze upon me. I dropped to tie my shoe and then made a break for it. She grabbed my arm with her cold fingers just before my escape. “Slow down sonny, that kind of speed is going to get you detention.”
“Yes sss-ir,” I managed to squeak. It took me a few seconds to realize why the boys behind me were laughing.
It was a relief to walk free again through the hallways, and I knew one thing for sure, I was not going back to that room ever. I headed down the seventh grade hall toward the Armory and my dreaded gym class. As I turned to walk down the eighth grade hallway I was greeted with a knee that inflicted an extreme sharp pain. I fell to my knees and looked up to see my good friend David Stapley laughing down at me.
“Welcome to Bountiful Jr,” he calmly stated as he continued on his journey to his next class.
I realized that people were staring, but I was paralyzed. I knelt there in the middle of the hallway.
“Hey isn’t that the kid that was lying on the floor last period?” I heard a voice asked another.
“Yeah, poor kid. I think he is one of those special students who only comes for a couple of periods.”
I lay there for about two minutes listening to the whispers of students before I could muster the strength to continue down the hall to gym class. Once I got outside I had to jog to make it to the Armory in time. I slid into a spot on the gym floor just as the bell rang. When I looked around I could tell by the fear in the eyes of all the students that everyone had the same fear as I did. We were in this together, and it wasn’t going to be that bad. I raised my eyes and received a total shock. In front of my stood a six foot, overweight man in the shortest, tightest, most polyester shorts I had ever seen. We ended up getting a long lecture from this large man in tight shorts, so I didn’t even have to enter the dreaded showers that would wait for another day.
As I left the front doors of my new school that first day I realized that my biggest fears were not even going to be small problems compared to the horrible impression I had left on the entire student body. I had survived my first day of junior high, but unless I came back the next day as the wittiest, most gorgeous, and most intelligent seventh grader in the history of Bountiful Jr., I was in trouble. Luckily, as the future would reveal, my talents and charm were up to the challenge.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Bikes
Throughout my adventure filled life I have to admit that I have been prone to jealousy. I was jealous of my brother Dallin because he was born with a nice cut body. He had defined calves and biceps from the time that his poop still looked and smelled like mustard. I on the other hand have always been on the skinny side, despite my efforts to beef up my stature with hundreds of Richard Simmons video tapes. I was jealous of Alex because he knew how to spell; this talent had stemmed from a unique opportunity of having received an exclusive invitation to spend an extra year in 3rd grade. As a kid I couldn’t even spell single syllable words, as an adult, and what is more a teacher, I began teaching myself the rules of orthography. I was jealous of my only sister Marne because she always got whatever she wanted. The thing that I was the most jealous over however was Andy’s mountain bike. When I was about ten years old my dad bought Andy a $500 mountain bike and told me that I did not ride my bike enough to get one, but when I did, I too would receive a bike.
The day Andy came home with his black Fuji XC I jumped on good old Wild Fire and decided to prove my father wrong. I rode and rode that bike until I had given it everything I had. About 20 minutes later I pulled into our driveway all worn out. To my dismay my mom greeted me as if I had been there the whole time.
“Hi honey,” was all that she said.
Did she not notice the gallons of sweat pouring off my face? Or did she just think that I had hyperactive sweat glands? What use was it to throw a temper tantrum if I didn’t get any attention from it?
My drama never did pay out any dividends, but I did eventually get my bike a little while later, about the same time as my other two younger brothers.
It was four in the morning when my dad came up to our room to wake us up.
“Come on let’s go boys, daylight is burning,” Dad cheerfully hollered through our door as if it were lunchtime.
A couple of moans came back as a reply, but we knew not to mess with Dad so despite our weariness we were up and dressed in just a couple of minutes.
Downstairs mom was ready to greet us with a nice homemade breakfast of off brand cereal. I don’t know if you have ever tried to eat when your entire system is still asleep, but for some strange reason it just doesn’t work.
“Bryan you have got to eat if you are going to have enough energy for the whole bike ride,” my mom said as if she knew what she was talking about. I wasn’t even sure that my mom knew how to ride a bike, except for a vague, scary memory of my mom riding a bike to an exercise class in huge, fat socks and a leotard.
“Okay Mom,” I obediently replied as I shoved down the stale cereal into an ungrateful digestive system.
Outside it was eerily chilly as if the night were laughing at us for leaving so early and ignoring the dangerous of the darkness. My dad always said he wanted to beat the heat and by leaving at four in the morning for a 50 mile bike ride we should be home around one or two in the afternoon. Even though I always felt like puking this early in the morning, there was something special about the earth while it was sleeping, everything seemed so crisp and the possibilities of a future day seemed endless.
Those ignorant feelings of possibilities left rather quickly and just a few minutes into the big ride I was falling behind and using all of my energy to stay within spitting distance of my brother’s tire. My dad always just went a little too fast for me to keep up. Now that I am an adult I love cycling, but in all honesty I couldn’t stand it as a kid and the only reason I went was to be with my family, and to avoid being teased about being a wimp. I always found it hard to understand why anybody would enjoy doing what I was doing. I was trying desperately to keep up with my father knowing that at any turn I could be lost and never find my way home. Most of the trip to my Uncle Doug’s my head was filled with complaints and my muscles ached. I dreamed that every car going by would take sympathy on me and offer me a lift. At least I wasn’t as bad off as Alex or Dallin. Alex had to be pulled the whole way (an act that was terribly hurtful to his self-image, to this day when we go on bike rides Alex asks one of us to bring a rope just in case) and Dallin was at least half a mile behind us the entire trip due to the fact that he could not reach the pedals. Both of them were too short for their bikes so my dad had taken off their seats and replaced them with some gray foam padding that he had duct taped to the frame of their bikes. They looked rather ridiculous and once the sun made an appearance people came out of their houses to see our most amazing caravan. I always felt sorry for my little brothers because a thin foam pad was never enough to prevent horrible blisters.
Now that it was light and traffic had gotten a little thicker we were as vulnerable as ducklings crossing the street. In my mind the wind was always against us and most of the time kept us at a two mile an hour pace. Diesels would zoom past us and my dad always thought it an intelligent idea to use them to draft, which is why he always insisted on taking the roads with the most truck traffic. I will say that when drafting happened to work those huge trucks would give us a break from the wind, not to mention a tremendous push, but to me the scariness of the whole ordeal was not worth the brief increase in speed.
We had come to a four way stop and after waiting his turn, my dad proceeded through the intersection. A car coming from the north decided that traffic rules did not apply to bicycles and proceeded at the same time as our caravan.
“Footsacker!” my father screamed at the driver while simultaneously swerving toward the car on purpose. He swung his foot and kicked the door of the car with his powerful foot. One thing about my dad that did not need to be communicated even to strangers was that you don’t mess with him. He could be nice if he chose to be, but he could also rip the arms off of an 800 pound gorilla. I am sure he left a dent in the door and the driver in surprise, but I was so petrified that I had my head down and was speeding through intersection as if it were the end of the world.
“Please let me live, please let me live!” I repeated over and over in my head. I heard Alex let out a girly squeal and I noticed that Andy was so busy singing Mary had a Little Lamb that he did not even notice what was going on. Dallin, still a half mile behind came barreling through the intersection without even looking up as several other cars came to a screeching stop.
The rest of the trip went without incident, just yellow stripe after yellow stripe, and mile after mile of boring landscape. Despite the pain in every muscle in my entire body, the worst part of this endless death march was my boredom. I could never focus my mind and it was always spinning, looking, searching for something exciting among the fresh road kill. If I would have discovered music by that age a simple walkman might have eased my woes, but as it was I spent hours staring at the back tire of my brother Andy.
As we approached home I was at last glad that I had decided to go on the ride. I could spend the rest of the day lying around and whining with good reason. After sitting on a bike for six hours all by myself, without having a conversation outside the confines of my own mind, sympathetic attention from my mom was a great reward. I had made it home safe from another frightening family outing, and I didn’t have to worry about another adventure for at least another week.
The day Andy came home with his black Fuji XC I jumped on good old Wild Fire and decided to prove my father wrong. I rode and rode that bike until I had given it everything I had. About 20 minutes later I pulled into our driveway all worn out. To my dismay my mom greeted me as if I had been there the whole time.
“Hi honey,” was all that she said.
Did she not notice the gallons of sweat pouring off my face? Or did she just think that I had hyperactive sweat glands? What use was it to throw a temper tantrum if I didn’t get any attention from it?
My drama never did pay out any dividends, but I did eventually get my bike a little while later, about the same time as my other two younger brothers.
It was four in the morning when my dad came up to our room to wake us up.
“Come on let’s go boys, daylight is burning,” Dad cheerfully hollered through our door as if it were lunchtime.
A couple of moans came back as a reply, but we knew not to mess with Dad so despite our weariness we were up and dressed in just a couple of minutes.
Downstairs mom was ready to greet us with a nice homemade breakfast of off brand cereal. I don’t know if you have ever tried to eat when your entire system is still asleep, but for some strange reason it just doesn’t work.
“Bryan you have got to eat if you are going to have enough energy for the whole bike ride,” my mom said as if she knew what she was talking about. I wasn’t even sure that my mom knew how to ride a bike, except for a vague, scary memory of my mom riding a bike to an exercise class in huge, fat socks and a leotard.
“Okay Mom,” I obediently replied as I shoved down the stale cereal into an ungrateful digestive system.
Outside it was eerily chilly as if the night were laughing at us for leaving so early and ignoring the dangerous of the darkness. My dad always said he wanted to beat the heat and by leaving at four in the morning for a 50 mile bike ride we should be home around one or two in the afternoon. Even though I always felt like puking this early in the morning, there was something special about the earth while it was sleeping, everything seemed so crisp and the possibilities of a future day seemed endless.
Those ignorant feelings of possibilities left rather quickly and just a few minutes into the big ride I was falling behind and using all of my energy to stay within spitting distance of my brother’s tire. My dad always just went a little too fast for me to keep up. Now that I am an adult I love cycling, but in all honesty I couldn’t stand it as a kid and the only reason I went was to be with my family, and to avoid being teased about being a wimp. I always found it hard to understand why anybody would enjoy doing what I was doing. I was trying desperately to keep up with my father knowing that at any turn I could be lost and never find my way home. Most of the trip to my Uncle Doug’s my head was filled with complaints and my muscles ached. I dreamed that every car going by would take sympathy on me and offer me a lift. At least I wasn’t as bad off as Alex or Dallin. Alex had to be pulled the whole way (an act that was terribly hurtful to his self-image, to this day when we go on bike rides Alex asks one of us to bring a rope just in case) and Dallin was at least half a mile behind us the entire trip due to the fact that he could not reach the pedals. Both of them were too short for their bikes so my dad had taken off their seats and replaced them with some gray foam padding that he had duct taped to the frame of their bikes. They looked rather ridiculous and once the sun made an appearance people came out of their houses to see our most amazing caravan. I always felt sorry for my little brothers because a thin foam pad was never enough to prevent horrible blisters.
Now that it was light and traffic had gotten a little thicker we were as vulnerable as ducklings crossing the street. In my mind the wind was always against us and most of the time kept us at a two mile an hour pace. Diesels would zoom past us and my dad always thought it an intelligent idea to use them to draft, which is why he always insisted on taking the roads with the most truck traffic. I will say that when drafting happened to work those huge trucks would give us a break from the wind, not to mention a tremendous push, but to me the scariness of the whole ordeal was not worth the brief increase in speed.
We had come to a four way stop and after waiting his turn, my dad proceeded through the intersection. A car coming from the north decided that traffic rules did not apply to bicycles and proceeded at the same time as our caravan.
“Footsacker!” my father screamed at the driver while simultaneously swerving toward the car on purpose. He swung his foot and kicked the door of the car with his powerful foot. One thing about my dad that did not need to be communicated even to strangers was that you don’t mess with him. He could be nice if he chose to be, but he could also rip the arms off of an 800 pound gorilla. I am sure he left a dent in the door and the driver in surprise, but I was so petrified that I had my head down and was speeding through intersection as if it were the end of the world.
“Please let me live, please let me live!” I repeated over and over in my head. I heard Alex let out a girly squeal and I noticed that Andy was so busy singing Mary had a Little Lamb that he did not even notice what was going on. Dallin, still a half mile behind came barreling through the intersection without even looking up as several other cars came to a screeching stop.
The rest of the trip went without incident, just yellow stripe after yellow stripe, and mile after mile of boring landscape. Despite the pain in every muscle in my entire body, the worst part of this endless death march was my boredom. I could never focus my mind and it was always spinning, looking, searching for something exciting among the fresh road kill. If I would have discovered music by that age a simple walkman might have eased my woes, but as it was I spent hours staring at the back tire of my brother Andy.
As we approached home I was at last glad that I had decided to go on the ride. I could spend the rest of the day lying around and whining with good reason. After sitting on a bike for six hours all by myself, without having a conversation outside the confines of my own mind, sympathetic attention from my mom was a great reward. I had made it home safe from another frightening family outing, and I didn’t have to worry about another adventure for at least another week.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
The Treehouse
When you read the word treehouse you will automatically picture a small strucure about 10 feet off the ground built out of wood with a couple of walls and a roof. A more imaginative mind might also picture a rope, trap door, and some windows. Wrong. To me, this is not a treehouse. The image that I have just described I would call a small structure about 10 feet off the ground built in a tree. A treehouse is at least 50 feet tall and some 20 feet wide. Yes, there is some wood, but it is mostly built out of metal. A treehouse has hundreds of firepoles, and ropes, a few giant tennis net hammocks, a tent, several benches, a pulley system, electricity, lounge chairs, airplane controllers, flags, street signs, and a basketball court. It is not that I was blessed with an imaginative mind, this description was for my family a reality. For 15 years, this treehouse was my dad’s every spare second, his childhood dream made a reality by a black walnut tree, and we were his little elves that assisted him every perilous step of the way.
I had just made myself a very pleasing snack and ready to plunge my big white (I had exceptional teeth) into a peanut butter and Clover Club chip sandwich when my dad came in through the back door.
“I need your help; we are going down to Stoker (an old elementary school that had been recently sold to the University of Utah) to get something.”
I put down my sandwich reluctantly and headed for the door. I knew that for the next few hours I would be involved in another one of my father’s interesting, and possibly life threatening projects. When we got down to Stoker I could see what my dad wanted. The treasure he sought entailed three huge metal screens that had recently been taken off the basement windows of the school. These pieces of metal were about 12 feet long and 6 feet wide and weighed just about as much as a 12x6 piece of metal should weigh. Each of us grabbed a corner and we paraded, like some sort of freakish circus act, back to our house with this huge monstrosity between us. We had become very agile bike riders having had retrieved several such objects over the years. I was beginning to see myself as some sort of modern day pirate, only instead of gold and silver our treasure was everybody else’s’ junk, stuff that could have no possible use for anyone but my father. My dad could turn an old pig trough into a fashionable wading pool, or an old disgusting garbage can into a water heater, in fact he had invented both of these items as well as several other inventions of questionable legality.
After making the third trip I was extremely tired, but little did I know that the fun had just begun.
“Alright boys. Now that we have these here we are going to tie a rope to two of the corners and pull it up there.” He pointed to a spot in the tree about 20 feet off the ground. “Andy, you come up in the tree with me. Bryan and Dallin you stay down on the ground and guide it up to us, once it has left the ground run up and join us in the tree.”
“That’s imposs-ible!” Dallin whined, sounding just like Mark Hamil.
Just then Heath, a neighbor who was about Andy’s age saw the commotion and came over to
help. It was a good thing too because Dallin and I would have been squashed like bugs if he would not have shown up.
Everything went smoothly lifting the beast up to the huge branch where it would eternally rest, the problem came trying to get this new platform up and over that branch. As I ran up the tree I could see Andy starting to teeter. I jumped branch to branch agile as a cat in an attempt to save my brother from a scary death. Just before I got to my brother my foot slipped. Luckily my shin took one for the team and broke my fall, leaving me a permanent reminder of this blissful experience.
Now that Andy had gained his balance I turned to look at my dad. He was standing on a 12 inch wide branch with one foot while he had both hands on the metal platform pulling it over the branch.
“Wow,” I thought, “he could be a female gymnast with that balance.”
Working together as a team we finally got the platform into place, but if I had any thoughts of devouring my delectable, custom made sandwich, they were quickly dashed. I ended up holding up support beams and side railings for more than four hours. About two hours into our covert operation my arms felt like they had been run over by a bus as a side effect from holding them above my head until all of the blood had run into my feet. My dad was welding a couple of feet above me and I had my head down, away from the scary bright light of the fire, not to mention the dangerous sparks flying everywhere. All of the sudden I felt a warm sensation a on the back of my head. I remained reasonably calm for about a half of a second until I saw a huge chunk of my hair zoom past my face.
“What the,” is all I had time to say before I realized what had happened and I started screaming like a mad cow, “Help, help, help, I’ve been hit HELP!”
My dad and brothers watched me run around like a chicken with its head cut off for about 30 seconds before I stopped, realizing that I had no pain due to the fact that my nerve endings had been melted off by liquid metal. For the next couple of weeks my head sported a fashionable bald spot that made me look like I had recently received a lobotomy.
And so went the construction of the ominous treehouse that looked more like giant scaffolding. Piece by piece, hour by hour, day by day for 15 years. For 15 years I spent at least part of every Saturday in that black walnut tree usually suspended in some strange position dangling 30 feet above a concrete driveway. It was all for a good cause however, and I will never forget the endless hours I spent with my family literally clinging for my life while building the world’s biggest and most interesting treehouse. One day future generations will thank me for my sacrifice.
I had just made myself a very pleasing snack and ready to plunge my big white (I had exceptional teeth) into a peanut butter and Clover Club chip sandwich when my dad came in through the back door.
“I need your help; we are going down to Stoker (an old elementary school that had been recently sold to the University of Utah) to get something.”
I put down my sandwich reluctantly and headed for the door. I knew that for the next few hours I would be involved in another one of my father’s interesting, and possibly life threatening projects. When we got down to Stoker I could see what my dad wanted. The treasure he sought entailed three huge metal screens that had recently been taken off the basement windows of the school. These pieces of metal were about 12 feet long and 6 feet wide and weighed just about as much as a 12x6 piece of metal should weigh. Each of us grabbed a corner and we paraded, like some sort of freakish circus act, back to our house with this huge monstrosity between us. We had become very agile bike riders having had retrieved several such objects over the years. I was beginning to see myself as some sort of modern day pirate, only instead of gold and silver our treasure was everybody else’s’ junk, stuff that could have no possible use for anyone but my father. My dad could turn an old pig trough into a fashionable wading pool, or an old disgusting garbage can into a water heater, in fact he had invented both of these items as well as several other inventions of questionable legality.
After making the third trip I was extremely tired, but little did I know that the fun had just begun.
“Alright boys. Now that we have these here we are going to tie a rope to two of the corners and pull it up there.” He pointed to a spot in the tree about 20 feet off the ground. “Andy, you come up in the tree with me. Bryan and Dallin you stay down on the ground and guide it up to us, once it has left the ground run up and join us in the tree.”
“That’s imposs-ible!” Dallin whined, sounding just like Mark Hamil.
Just then Heath, a neighbor who was about Andy’s age saw the commotion and came over to
help. It was a good thing too because Dallin and I would have been squashed like bugs if he would not have shown up.
Everything went smoothly lifting the beast up to the huge branch where it would eternally rest, the problem came trying to get this new platform up and over that branch. As I ran up the tree I could see Andy starting to teeter. I jumped branch to branch agile as a cat in an attempt to save my brother from a scary death. Just before I got to my brother my foot slipped. Luckily my shin took one for the team and broke my fall, leaving me a permanent reminder of this blissful experience.
Now that Andy had gained his balance I turned to look at my dad. He was standing on a 12 inch wide branch with one foot while he had both hands on the metal platform pulling it over the branch.
“Wow,” I thought, “he could be a female gymnast with that balance.”
Working together as a team we finally got the platform into place, but if I had any thoughts of devouring my delectable, custom made sandwich, they were quickly dashed. I ended up holding up support beams and side railings for more than four hours. About two hours into our covert operation my arms felt like they had been run over by a bus as a side effect from holding them above my head until all of the blood had run into my feet. My dad was welding a couple of feet above me and I had my head down, away from the scary bright light of the fire, not to mention the dangerous sparks flying everywhere. All of the sudden I felt a warm sensation a on the back of my head. I remained reasonably calm for about a half of a second until I saw a huge chunk of my hair zoom past my face.
“What the,” is all I had time to say before I realized what had happened and I started screaming like a mad cow, “Help, help, help, I’ve been hit HELP!”
My dad and brothers watched me run around like a chicken with its head cut off for about 30 seconds before I stopped, realizing that I had no pain due to the fact that my nerve endings had been melted off by liquid metal. For the next couple of weeks my head sported a fashionable bald spot that made me look like I had recently received a lobotomy.
And so went the construction of the ominous treehouse that looked more like giant scaffolding. Piece by piece, hour by hour, day by day for 15 years. For 15 years I spent at least part of every Saturday in that black walnut tree usually suspended in some strange position dangling 30 feet above a concrete driveway. It was all for a good cause however, and I will never forget the endless hours I spent with my family literally clinging for my life while building the world’s biggest and most interesting treehouse. One day future generations will thank me for my sacrifice.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Camping
It was Wednesday morning I had been waiting for weeks for this day to arrive. My dad was coming home early from work and we were headed off to Payson Lakes for a few days of leisurely family vacation. My grandparents were the camp rangers so we always got the best spot. My mom was not coming this year because she was “pregnant.” Actually as I remember it she only came to one of our camping trips and that was because she felt guilty that her three year old daughter was brave enough to sleep without a night light, but she still had reservations. If there was something more exciting than camping to a 11 year old kid, I wasn’t aware of it. This was the one time all year when my dad would get out his baby, a 1974 black and silver Chevy, we could play in the dirt, and mom didn’t harp on us about cleaning our rooms. Dad had pulled out his truck the day before so we could get all packed. That truck was a thing of beauty and nobody got to touch it but my dad. My mom used to drive it until she backed down our brick wall with it, I always thought it was kind of funny, but it was not the type of memory that was okay to talk about.
After breakfast I went upstairs with Andy to pack our things. “Hey Ernie (he had ears that were too big for his head), don’t forget to pack enough undies, remember what happened last time,” I jokingly reminded Andy.
“Oh, be quiet it wasn’t my fault. I thought that squirrel was a bear, it was huge!”
“Whatever Bambi, just be more careful if you are going to sleep on the bottom of the trailer with me.”
My dad had made an old garbage trailer into a camping trailer that would sleep 4, two on the top and two on the bottom. Being the oldest, Andy and I got the most comfortable spots on the bottom and Dallin and Alex had to sleep on the top.
Once our bags were packed we all went out to clean up our bikes. Andy had already claimed Wild Fire so I took Double Jeopardy. All of our bikes had names, I know that most people don’t name their bikes, but most people don’t have some 200 bikes to choose from either. Naming the bikes was just easier that saying the blue one, you know not the blue one with the white wall tires and not the blue one with a red seat, but the blue one that has some green on the pedals. Wild fire got its name because it had a sign on it that said Wild fire, not too complicated. Double Jeopardy was called Double because my dad had welded a second set of handle bars on top of the original ones. We also had Triple Jeopardy, Black Beauty, Knight Rider, as well as several other names. Wild Fire was the best, I have no reason for this, we just all knew that hands down Wild Fire was the best bike to ride. Dallin took Triple Jeopardy. Alex was so short he didn’t have much of a choice so he just took the shortest bike, he had just turned four and was just out of diapers, but he could ride a bike better than most 5 year old girls.
Just before lunch we heard the roar of Dad’s 1977 brown Mustang, with a custom black racing stripe painted down the middle, come around the corner. After lunch we would be off to the mountains. All of the other camping equipment had been loaded the night before because it was no small project, we were not what you would call casual campers. My dad had invented everything from as simple as a camp bathroom to a camping shower, water heater, and smokeless fire. We might not have had a nice family camping trailer, but we did camp in luxury, at least during the part of the camp that was between put up and take down. It took at least 3 to 4 hours to set up camp and to take it down. Then, after arriving at home it took a good day to clean and put away all of the wonderful treasures. My dad was very particular and had to have everything done a certain way. Everything was organized, but not in a way that anybody else could ever figure out.
“Andy, Bryan get out here and help me get these bikes on the back of the trailer,” my dad commanded in a mater of fact way.
Once the bikes were loaded, we were loaded. I climbed into the back of the truck after Dallin and Alex climbed between all of the gear and nestled in somewhere underneath all the camp stuff like a couple of little rodents. After Andy got in it was time for the food. The coolers were the last to be packed in. One went on my side and another at my feet. I was as packed in as any sardine ever has been. I hoped that I wouldn’t get an itch on the way to our destination as my arms had been pinned to my sides. It wasn’t too bad, only an hour and a half trip and although I couldn’t see out of the truck, or any of my siblings, I was able to look at the blue sky, which stayed pretty much the same until we pulled into the canyon and I could see the tops of some of the trees. Without being able to see anything, including my watch, I felt like we were driving to the moon.
At last we had arrived, and not a moment too soon because I was beginning to get a cramp in one of my legs. Our bikes were unloaded first. Andy and I had mounted them like lightning and were about to take off.
“Not so fast boys, we have got to get camp set up before the fun begins,” my dad loved to spoil the fun.
The next few hours were not only boring, but painful. I hated holding poles in place and this year my dad had added a few features to our camp site so we had even more labor to perform.
“This is completely stupid, it’s going to be dark soon and we are still doing stupid things that nobody cares about except for Dad,” I secretly and defiantly complained to myself. From the looks on my brothers’ faces, I could tell that they were thinking the same thing. I looked over at Dallin and he was digging away in his nose with his finger up to his knuckle. Then I noticed Alex in the corner of my eye pulling a bug apart prior to its consumption. I broke out in laughter as I pointed out the fiasco to Andy. The vibration from our laughter made the poles swing back and forth. The repercussions were quick and we at once realized our error and straightened to attention. The sudden pressure inside my head from holding everything in exploded with a fury, snot flew everywhere. My brothers couldn’t hold back any longer and the tarp came crashing to the ground. The good thing about my dad was that his temper was quick and furious, but it usually did not last. How he didn’t find a boy trying to hold a metal pole still while covered in snot hilarious I’ll never know. With the camp set up to my father’s approval Andy, Dallin and I sped off on our bikes while Alex stayed behind to eat more bugs and dirt. For some reason riding bikes in the mountains is so much more exciting than riding bikes in the city.
There was a paved trail that went half-way around the lake. After the dam the trail turned to dirt. We decided to take the trail all the way around instead of turning back. Not long after that decision we realized that we had made a mistake. Not only was the pathway dirt, but there were fallen trees all along the pathway. As the evening grew darker, the woods grew scarier; at one point I swear I saw a dragon.
“Stop!”
I turned around to see that Dallin had twisted an ankle trying to climb over one of the fallen trees. We were still quite a ways form our camp or any help at all. Andy and I took off as fast as we could to get help and left Dallin to fend off the dragon with nothing but a stick and some rocks. The going was tough, but I was brave, so brave in fact that during the long trek to find my dad I came up with a name for myself; Super Bike Boy. In my mind I became a superhero and as such I would have a difficult, but rewarding life ahead of me.
The next morning my superhero dreams came to a crashing end when I realized that a good superhero would not play in Stinging Nettle and be covered head to foot in a horrible rash. Dallin and Alex had a fun time of my misery, but there was nothing funny about it. Try accomplishing simple daily tasks like walking or going to the bathroom with an awful rash. After the rash subsided the rest of the camping trip was filled with boating, bike riding, hiking and bugging our grandparents, I think they were extremely relived to see us go after three long days of tracking dirt into their gently used trailer equipped with a toilet, full kitchen, and comfortable beds.
The trip, like many others that would come in the future, was filled with memorable moments, moments that could only be worth something if they are shared with others. I learned on our camping trips that even though brothers smell funny in the morning, and were extremely annoying they were my best friends. Not only did we enjoy being around each other, but we accepted each other as we were and we made each other stronger.
After breakfast I went upstairs with Andy to pack our things. “Hey Ernie (he had ears that were too big for his head), don’t forget to pack enough undies, remember what happened last time,” I jokingly reminded Andy.
“Oh, be quiet it wasn’t my fault. I thought that squirrel was a bear, it was huge!”
“Whatever Bambi, just be more careful if you are going to sleep on the bottom of the trailer with me.”
My dad had made an old garbage trailer into a camping trailer that would sleep 4, two on the top and two on the bottom. Being the oldest, Andy and I got the most comfortable spots on the bottom and Dallin and Alex had to sleep on the top.
Once our bags were packed we all went out to clean up our bikes. Andy had already claimed Wild Fire so I took Double Jeopardy. All of our bikes had names, I know that most people don’t name their bikes, but most people don’t have some 200 bikes to choose from either. Naming the bikes was just easier that saying the blue one, you know not the blue one with the white wall tires and not the blue one with a red seat, but the blue one that has some green on the pedals. Wild fire got its name because it had a sign on it that said Wild fire, not too complicated. Double Jeopardy was called Double because my dad had welded a second set of handle bars on top of the original ones. We also had Triple Jeopardy, Black Beauty, Knight Rider, as well as several other names. Wild Fire was the best, I have no reason for this, we just all knew that hands down Wild Fire was the best bike to ride. Dallin took Triple Jeopardy. Alex was so short he didn’t have much of a choice so he just took the shortest bike, he had just turned four and was just out of diapers, but he could ride a bike better than most 5 year old girls.
Just before lunch we heard the roar of Dad’s 1977 brown Mustang, with a custom black racing stripe painted down the middle, come around the corner. After lunch we would be off to the mountains. All of the other camping equipment had been loaded the night before because it was no small project, we were not what you would call casual campers. My dad had invented everything from as simple as a camp bathroom to a camping shower, water heater, and smokeless fire. We might not have had a nice family camping trailer, but we did camp in luxury, at least during the part of the camp that was between put up and take down. It took at least 3 to 4 hours to set up camp and to take it down. Then, after arriving at home it took a good day to clean and put away all of the wonderful treasures. My dad was very particular and had to have everything done a certain way. Everything was organized, but not in a way that anybody else could ever figure out.
“Andy, Bryan get out here and help me get these bikes on the back of the trailer,” my dad commanded in a mater of fact way.
Once the bikes were loaded, we were loaded. I climbed into the back of the truck after Dallin and Alex climbed between all of the gear and nestled in somewhere underneath all the camp stuff like a couple of little rodents. After Andy got in it was time for the food. The coolers were the last to be packed in. One went on my side and another at my feet. I was as packed in as any sardine ever has been. I hoped that I wouldn’t get an itch on the way to our destination as my arms had been pinned to my sides. It wasn’t too bad, only an hour and a half trip and although I couldn’t see out of the truck, or any of my siblings, I was able to look at the blue sky, which stayed pretty much the same until we pulled into the canyon and I could see the tops of some of the trees. Without being able to see anything, including my watch, I felt like we were driving to the moon.
At last we had arrived, and not a moment too soon because I was beginning to get a cramp in one of my legs. Our bikes were unloaded first. Andy and I had mounted them like lightning and were about to take off.
“Not so fast boys, we have got to get camp set up before the fun begins,” my dad loved to spoil the fun.
The next few hours were not only boring, but painful. I hated holding poles in place and this year my dad had added a few features to our camp site so we had even more labor to perform.
“This is completely stupid, it’s going to be dark soon and we are still doing stupid things that nobody cares about except for Dad,” I secretly and defiantly complained to myself. From the looks on my brothers’ faces, I could tell that they were thinking the same thing. I looked over at Dallin and he was digging away in his nose with his finger up to his knuckle. Then I noticed Alex in the corner of my eye pulling a bug apart prior to its consumption. I broke out in laughter as I pointed out the fiasco to Andy. The vibration from our laughter made the poles swing back and forth. The repercussions were quick and we at once realized our error and straightened to attention. The sudden pressure inside my head from holding everything in exploded with a fury, snot flew everywhere. My brothers couldn’t hold back any longer and the tarp came crashing to the ground. The good thing about my dad was that his temper was quick and furious, but it usually did not last. How he didn’t find a boy trying to hold a metal pole still while covered in snot hilarious I’ll never know. With the camp set up to my father’s approval Andy, Dallin and I sped off on our bikes while Alex stayed behind to eat more bugs and dirt. For some reason riding bikes in the mountains is so much more exciting than riding bikes in the city.
There was a paved trail that went half-way around the lake. After the dam the trail turned to dirt. We decided to take the trail all the way around instead of turning back. Not long after that decision we realized that we had made a mistake. Not only was the pathway dirt, but there were fallen trees all along the pathway. As the evening grew darker, the woods grew scarier; at one point I swear I saw a dragon.
“Stop!”
I turned around to see that Dallin had twisted an ankle trying to climb over one of the fallen trees. We were still quite a ways form our camp or any help at all. Andy and I took off as fast as we could to get help and left Dallin to fend off the dragon with nothing but a stick and some rocks. The going was tough, but I was brave, so brave in fact that during the long trek to find my dad I came up with a name for myself; Super Bike Boy. In my mind I became a superhero and as such I would have a difficult, but rewarding life ahead of me.
The next morning my superhero dreams came to a crashing end when I realized that a good superhero would not play in Stinging Nettle and be covered head to foot in a horrible rash. Dallin and Alex had a fun time of my misery, but there was nothing funny about it. Try accomplishing simple daily tasks like walking or going to the bathroom with an awful rash. After the rash subsided the rest of the camping trip was filled with boating, bike riding, hiking and bugging our grandparents, I think they were extremely relived to see us go after three long days of tracking dirt into their gently used trailer equipped with a toilet, full kitchen, and comfortable beds.
The trip, like many others that would come in the future, was filled with memorable moments, moments that could only be worth something if they are shared with others. I learned on our camping trips that even though brothers smell funny in the morning, and were extremely annoying they were my best friends. Not only did we enjoy being around each other, but we accepted each other as we were and we made each other stronger.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Firewood
Collecting firewood was one of the Neanderthals favorite activities. After a long night of sleeping on fairly uncomfortable rocks they were always filled with joy when in the morning they got to leave their campsite in search of things to burn. This type of behavior was fine for a few hundred years ago, but in this day and age when coal is not even used to fuel the furnace, it simply does not make any practical sense. I am not a Neanderthal and as a non-Neander I also am not a fan of hunting and gathering, in other words I am an Anti Neander-Hunter-Gatherer, we even have our own bumper stickers. Even after making this point of my philosophy clear to my parents, they still insisted that I help with the family’s annual fall gathering of firewood, although they did allow me to keep my Anti Neander-Hunter-Gatherers club. I suppose that I should not complain about this amazing opportunity to help warm my home, after all it did bless me with several burns, cuts, bruises, calluses and muscles.
“Hold it still!” my dad yelled without looking up.
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” I attempted to reply to my dad’s command, but it wasn’t to be heard over the loud hum of the circular saw. I really was trying to hold the 2x4 steady, but I happened to not only have a fear of loud sounds, but of machines that could cut off my arm as well. My dad was strong and extremely capable of controlling dangerous power tools, but for some strange reason I still got nervous when my hand came only inches from a sharp, moving blade. Saturday mornings in the fall were always occupied by the same activity, cutting up pallets. Just like other kids I would rush to the front window when I heard my dad’s truck engine signaling his arrival home from work. Unlike other children, however I was not necessarily rushing to the window as a giddy schoolboy in anticipation of seeing my father. I was searching for something different; pallets. I was crossing my fingers hoping, praying that he would only have a few pallets in the back of his truck. On those all too often occasions when I saw the truck full of pallets, I knew that at least half of my Saturday would be eaten up in cutting and hauling firewood. My parents had a furnace installed in their home solely for cosmetic purposes, the beast had no functional purpose. In the 19 years that I lived in my parents’ home I never once remember the furnace being used for anything more than a good place to hang interesting magnets. My family did however own three wood burning stoves. These stoves were our sole source of heat for the winter. My father worked at ANR, a trucking company, and his company was always happy to give him all of the broken pallets that he wanted. This is one reason why my nighttime prayers always include a blessing on the pallets; that they would be whole, strengthened and not break.
After cutting the pallets, the hauling began. All of the boys who were of age, which meant that we were able to walk, were required to haul all of the cut up pieces of wood to the backyard. This was our penance for warmth during the winter. Even though the circular saw had been turned off, danger still loomed. Every Saturday at least one of the boys would run in to mom screaming because they had a splinter the size of a beam protruding out of one of their fingers. Unless this injury happened to occur towards the end of the wood’s migration to the backyard, we were always expected to return. The splinters were not the scariest part of this child labor. The journey to the backyard included a perilous “squeeze” between my dad’s two prize trucks a 1974 Chevy with a custom paint job (no scratches) and a light blue 1952 Heavy Chevy. I remember on more than one occasion losing my load of wood and hitting one of the two trucks. Even though the trucks were covered in multiple layers of blankets, the repercussions for such an act were, shall we say extremely “uncomfortable.”
After we had hauled all of the wood to the wood pile it was time to clean up the mounds and mounds of sawdust. I would grab the broom and one of my brothers would grab our “pooper scooper” shovel and we would throw the sawdust over the garden. To this day when I see the scars on my fingers and forearms I remember those cold winter days huddled in front of a warm fire and sipping my mom’s extra creamy homemade hot chocolate.
“Now aren’t you glad that you helped your father today. Without the wood you kids would be freezing?” my mom asked.
“We do have something called a furnace,” I grumbled. “Then we could actually be warm in all parts of our house and we could stop using my bedroom as an extra freezer.”
“You are being very ungrateful, what do you think we would do with the cow that we had the butcher cut up without the extra freezer space?”
When it came right down to it I knew my mother was right, frostbite was much better than starvation.
“Hold it still!” my dad yelled without looking up.
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” I attempted to reply to my dad’s command, but it wasn’t to be heard over the loud hum of the circular saw. I really was trying to hold the 2x4 steady, but I happened to not only have a fear of loud sounds, but of machines that could cut off my arm as well. My dad was strong and extremely capable of controlling dangerous power tools, but for some strange reason I still got nervous when my hand came only inches from a sharp, moving blade. Saturday mornings in the fall were always occupied by the same activity, cutting up pallets. Just like other kids I would rush to the front window when I heard my dad’s truck engine signaling his arrival home from work. Unlike other children, however I was not necessarily rushing to the window as a giddy schoolboy in anticipation of seeing my father. I was searching for something different; pallets. I was crossing my fingers hoping, praying that he would only have a few pallets in the back of his truck. On those all too often occasions when I saw the truck full of pallets, I knew that at least half of my Saturday would be eaten up in cutting and hauling firewood. My parents had a furnace installed in their home solely for cosmetic purposes, the beast had no functional purpose. In the 19 years that I lived in my parents’ home I never once remember the furnace being used for anything more than a good place to hang interesting magnets. My family did however own three wood burning stoves. These stoves were our sole source of heat for the winter. My father worked at ANR, a trucking company, and his company was always happy to give him all of the broken pallets that he wanted. This is one reason why my nighttime prayers always include a blessing on the pallets; that they would be whole, strengthened and not break.
After cutting the pallets, the hauling began. All of the boys who were of age, which meant that we were able to walk, were required to haul all of the cut up pieces of wood to the backyard. This was our penance for warmth during the winter. Even though the circular saw had been turned off, danger still loomed. Every Saturday at least one of the boys would run in to mom screaming because they had a splinter the size of a beam protruding out of one of their fingers. Unless this injury happened to occur towards the end of the wood’s migration to the backyard, we were always expected to return. The splinters were not the scariest part of this child labor. The journey to the backyard included a perilous “squeeze” between my dad’s two prize trucks a 1974 Chevy with a custom paint job (no scratches) and a light blue 1952 Heavy Chevy. I remember on more than one occasion losing my load of wood and hitting one of the two trucks. Even though the trucks were covered in multiple layers of blankets, the repercussions for such an act were, shall we say extremely “uncomfortable.”
After we had hauled all of the wood to the wood pile it was time to clean up the mounds and mounds of sawdust. I would grab the broom and one of my brothers would grab our “pooper scooper” shovel and we would throw the sawdust over the garden. To this day when I see the scars on my fingers and forearms I remember those cold winter days huddled in front of a warm fire and sipping my mom’s extra creamy homemade hot chocolate.
“Now aren’t you glad that you helped your father today. Without the wood you kids would be freezing?” my mom asked.
“We do have something called a furnace,” I grumbled. “Then we could actually be warm in all parts of our house and we could stop using my bedroom as an extra freezer.”
“You are being very ungrateful, what do you think we would do with the cow that we had the butcher cut up without the extra freezer space?”
When it came right down to it I knew my mother was right, frostbite was much better than starvation.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
BIrthdays
Birthdays were something special at our house, so special in fact that we often “saved them” for a better day just as a child would his or her Halloween candy, or as dogs often do with their bones. Cakes, pictures of the cakes, and fighting were all important aspects of our birthdays, in fact the absence of just one of these vital features would have made our birthdays unworthy of the name birthday.
My mom made the best chocolate cake in the entire world, or at least on our block. This cake was made from scratch, and took hours to prepare. When mom was finished we knew it because she spent the next 12 hours in her recliner recuperating. Making it necessary to either cook the cake in advance or to postpone the birthday. Mom knew how much we loved her cake so she started making double, triple, and even quadruple batches. The cakes eventually became big enough to feed three hungry boys, an annoying little chipmunk named Alex ,who always got into the cake face first thus spoiling a good portion of it for the rest of us, and a cute baby girl for more than a week. My mom had to start using giant cookie sheets and making the cake rectangular instead of circular. We were always given the opportunity to choose a theme for our gigantic, delectable pastry. I loved bread, especially my mom’s homemade French bread, so one year I decided to decorate my cake by placing a miniature loaf of bread on the top. Years later my parents would explain to me that that was the first of my many odd behaviors that led them to the decision to test me for rabies.
If the cake was important to our birthdays, a picture of the cake was essential. Even more than being a tasty treat, the main purpose of the cake was to load it full of candles, haul it outside and take hundreds of pictures with the lucky sucker who had just lived another year. Upon looking through our family’s scrapbooks you would immediately notice an abnormally large amount of different kids’ pictures all holding a lit birthday cake and sporting a forced, cheesy grin.
Fighting was never a planned part of the celebrations, but inevitably came. Much of the fighting came from pent of feelings of frustrations for not having been able to invite any friends.
“This is a family affair,” is what my parents would always say. As I look back on those celebrations now that forced “togetherness time” actually did help to create a sense of unity between my siblings and I. That feeling of unity was usually absent, however on the chosen day of glee.
One of the worst fights came on Alex’s third birthday. He was so excited to shred and eat all of his wrapping paper, but it was not meant to be. The older three boys were just returning from a bike ride with my dad. Just as we were rounding the corner to our house Dallin biffed it.
“Nice shot,” I yelled back at him just as my dad was spinning around to check out what all of the commotion was.
“Foot-sack-it!” my dad yelled (this was a phrase that he only used right before he lost it). “What did you do to the bike?” he bellowed.
By the time we walked into the backyard Dallin was in tears and my dad was even more furious that Dallin had put a scratch on the frame of his bike. Dad had not yet, however notice the blood squirting out of Dallin’s open wounds.
“David don’t you see that your son is more important than a stupid bike,” mom was furious, and we all knew better than to get in the middle of our parents at a time like this.
“Foot-sack-it!”
The next thing that we heard was the slamming of the upstairs bedroom door. Then Alex started screaming in an attempt to out scream Dallin who was screaming “Owie! Owie! Owie!” at the top of his lungs. I wanted to join in the fun so I stuck my finger into the frosting and flung it in Andy’s face just in time for mom to see it. Andy and I were sent to our room while my mom cleaned up Dallin and Alex got to enjoy his birthday running through the yard free of supervision, and more importantly unencumbered by his clothes which he had shed shortly after we had all entered the house.
My mom made the best chocolate cake in the entire world, or at least on our block. This cake was made from scratch, and took hours to prepare. When mom was finished we knew it because she spent the next 12 hours in her recliner recuperating. Making it necessary to either cook the cake in advance or to postpone the birthday. Mom knew how much we loved her cake so she started making double, triple, and even quadruple batches. The cakes eventually became big enough to feed three hungry boys, an annoying little chipmunk named Alex ,who always got into the cake face first thus spoiling a good portion of it for the rest of us, and a cute baby girl for more than a week. My mom had to start using giant cookie sheets and making the cake rectangular instead of circular. We were always given the opportunity to choose a theme for our gigantic, delectable pastry. I loved bread, especially my mom’s homemade French bread, so one year I decided to decorate my cake by placing a miniature loaf of bread on the top. Years later my parents would explain to me that that was the first of my many odd behaviors that led them to the decision to test me for rabies.
If the cake was important to our birthdays, a picture of the cake was essential. Even more than being a tasty treat, the main purpose of the cake was to load it full of candles, haul it outside and take hundreds of pictures with the lucky sucker who had just lived another year. Upon looking through our family’s scrapbooks you would immediately notice an abnormally large amount of different kids’ pictures all holding a lit birthday cake and sporting a forced, cheesy grin.
Fighting was never a planned part of the celebrations, but inevitably came. Much of the fighting came from pent of feelings of frustrations for not having been able to invite any friends.
“This is a family affair,” is what my parents would always say. As I look back on those celebrations now that forced “togetherness time” actually did help to create a sense of unity between my siblings and I. That feeling of unity was usually absent, however on the chosen day of glee.
One of the worst fights came on Alex’s third birthday. He was so excited to shred and eat all of his wrapping paper, but it was not meant to be. The older three boys were just returning from a bike ride with my dad. Just as we were rounding the corner to our house Dallin biffed it.
“Nice shot,” I yelled back at him just as my dad was spinning around to check out what all of the commotion was.
“Foot-sack-it!” my dad yelled (this was a phrase that he only used right before he lost it). “What did you do to the bike?” he bellowed.
By the time we walked into the backyard Dallin was in tears and my dad was even more furious that Dallin had put a scratch on the frame of his bike. Dad had not yet, however notice the blood squirting out of Dallin’s open wounds.
“David don’t you see that your son is more important than a stupid bike,” mom was furious, and we all knew better than to get in the middle of our parents at a time like this.
“Foot-sack-it!”
The next thing that we heard was the slamming of the upstairs bedroom door. Then Alex started screaming in an attempt to out scream Dallin who was screaming “Owie! Owie! Owie!” at the top of his lungs. I wanted to join in the fun so I stuck my finger into the frosting and flung it in Andy’s face just in time for mom to see it. Andy and I were sent to our room while my mom cleaned up Dallin and Alex got to enjoy his birthday running through the yard free of supervision, and more importantly unencumbered by his clothes which he had shed shortly after we had all entered the house.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
About Being Shy
I was born with a disease. Before you feel too sorry for me you should know that I did not have leprosy, scurvy, turrets, or any other disease in which your skin and ears fall off. Simply put, I was shy. This was not the kind of shy that is found in the famous story of The Pigfaced Man and the Man That May Be Ugly, but He Sure is A Lot Better Looking Than The Pigfaced Man. Just in case you did not have a devoted mother like I did, that read you bedtime stories every night by pressing play on the tape recorder, I will go ahead and wear out the keys on my expensive keyboard by summarizing the famous story for you. It goes something like this:
That kind of shyness did not even approach what I would deem worthy of labeling a disease like mine. No, my disease was much worse than the pigfaced man’s timidness. My shyness was debilitating, numb causing, even bowel activating.
In preschool, the other boys got together and wanted to tie me to the bridge that went over the duck pond because they thought I must be a mute. It was only my superhuman speed that would save me at the last minute, except for the fact that I happened to be wearing my red Snoopy boots that were a few sizes to big for me.
Later in kindergarten, I was so petrified of all the other students that I would stand in the corner at recess thinking to myself, “If all of these other kids just new that I was a private investigator, then I would have friends.” My favorite show at the time was Magnum P.I, and in my mind I was Tom Selleck without the mustache, but with the tiny shorts.
Unfortunately, my shyness was a disease. My poor tummy would get so upset that I would come home from school sick most of the time. I remember one time walking down to Reams, the local grocery store, with my mom. When we were in the meat section my mom was buying a few pounds of ground beef and I was staring at the dead, skinless cows hanging from the ceiling through the glass when a stranger said something to me.
“Neat, huh?” was all that the man said.
All the way home my stomach felt horrible. The pain only subsided once I was in the comfort of my home.
In all honesty if it had not been for my mom I would have never ventured from our home because of my total fear of anything that happened to living. She never told me to knock it off, grow up, or thicken up, she just listened. When I was upset, she listened. That is how my mom has always been. She cares about her kids and she wants to know what is going on in their lives, detail by detail. Unfortunately, she also wants to let us know what is going on in her life detail by detail. My siblings and I all learned an important lesson: if you don’t have an unlimited amount of time, don’t ask even the most simple question. The act of eating a piece of cheese might go unremembered by most, but not by my mom.
Once upon a time there was a pigfaced man and a man that may have been ugly, but he sure was a lot better looking than the the pigfaced man who lived in this story.
One day the pigfaced man was out for a walk and literally ran into the man that was ugly, but he sure was a lot better looking than the pigfaced man that was now staring down at him.
“Wow you are ugly,” said the ugly, but not too scary man.
“Oh dear,” replied a slightly embarrassed pigfaced man.
That kind of shyness did not even approach what I would deem worthy of labeling a disease like mine. No, my disease was much worse than the pigfaced man’s timidness. My shyness was debilitating, numb causing, even bowel activating.
In preschool, the other boys got together and wanted to tie me to the bridge that went over the duck pond because they thought I must be a mute. It was only my superhuman speed that would save me at the last minute, except for the fact that I happened to be wearing my red Snoopy boots that were a few sizes to big for me.
Later in kindergarten, I was so petrified of all the other students that I would stand in the corner at recess thinking to myself, “If all of these other kids just new that I was a private investigator, then I would have friends.” My favorite show at the time was Magnum P.I, and in my mind I was Tom Selleck without the mustache, but with the tiny shorts.
Unfortunately, my shyness was a disease. My poor tummy would get so upset that I would come home from school sick most of the time. I remember one time walking down to Reams, the local grocery store, with my mom. When we were in the meat section my mom was buying a few pounds of ground beef and I was staring at the dead, skinless cows hanging from the ceiling through the glass when a stranger said something to me.
“Neat, huh?” was all that the man said.
All the way home my stomach felt horrible. The pain only subsided once I was in the comfort of my home.
In all honesty if it had not been for my mom I would have never ventured from our home because of my total fear of anything that happened to living. She never told me to knock it off, grow up, or thicken up, she just listened. When I was upset, she listened. That is how my mom has always been. She cares about her kids and she wants to know what is going on in their lives, detail by detail. Unfortunately, she also wants to let us know what is going on in her life detail by detail. My siblings and I all learned an important lesson: if you don’t have an unlimited amount of time, don’t ask even the most simple question. The act of eating a piece of cheese might go unremembered by most, but not by my mom.
“How was your day, mom?” I might say.If I only had the time, I would love to write her biography. Can you imagine the detail? The funny thing is that if I have ever had a spare couple of hours, I have enjoyed listening to her rambling, pointless stories. Maybe it is because I feel guilty, or maybe it is my way of paying her back for all the times she listened to my immature whining about ridiculous boyhood problems, or maybe it’s just because she is my mom and I actually do care.
“Well let me tell you something that happened to me today. It all started when I was hungry. I had these pains in my stomach so I said to myself, ‘Cheryl you’re dying,’ but then I thought better of it and realized that it had been two whole hours since I had eaten anything and you know how sick your sister and I get if we don’t eat. So anyway I am headed to the fridge right? And what do you know but the telephone rings. I walked over to the phone and picked it up and then I said hello. It was Alex.
“I can’t talk now, but I am coming over,” was all that he said.
Can you believe how insensitive he can be sometimes? I mean here I am in a hypoglycemic state and he doesn’t even have a minute to talk to his mother. Anyway, I hung up the phone and headed back toward the fridge. As I was walking through the hall I noticed some money I had dropped earlier, but I had no time to stop because I was on a mission. I finally reached the fridge. I reached out my right hand grabbed the handle on the door and I swung open the door violently searching for a piece of cheese. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the pre-sliced piece of Tillamook that I had purchased at Costco earlier that day. Which by the way was on a great sale. I carefully opened the package and took out one piece of cheese. I then sat that piece of cheese on the counter while I closed the package and put it back in the crisper. I closed the door and turned for my prize. After removing the grease absorbing piece of paper I took my first bite. Instantly I felt my horrible sickness alleviated. It was a miracle I even made it to the fridge.”
Friday, September 19, 2008
Collecting Cans
My dad has always been what you would call a hands-on kind of guy. I suppose in a way you could say that my dad’s hands define who he is; they reflect what kind of life that he has lived. The most notable feature of his rounded (that is where Andy inherited his stubbiness from, well that and the fact that my parents kept him in the root cellar for one summer) hands was the fact that they were as hard and dense as bedrock. This toughness came from years of manual labor as well as years of conditioning his skin with products such as Chevron’s regular unleaded gasoline. Once clean and pale hands have taken on a gray, dingy hue. This is not to say that his soul is tough and spotted, but just the opposite. My dad has always given his all to everything he has ever done, and that includes parenting.
We liked money. One of dad’s favorite things to do was to ride bikes, so he came up with a plan that would appease both sides. He was going to have us collect cans. He planned to take us on bike rides after work riding in the alley ways of downtown Bountiful, and searching all of the town’s known giant sanitary waste receptacles. We would then take the cans that we had collected throughout the week and redeem them for money at the aluminum recycling truck that would come on Wednesdays at a nearby strip mall called 5 Points.
Our uniforms and tools were essential to the job, they were the difference between making enough to buy penny candy, and baseball cards, or just penny candy. With some baskets, some wheels, and a welder my dad also invented some carts that my brother and I could pull behind our bikes and fill full of cans. Dad fashioned Andy and I some pretty styling necklaces each of which displayed a large, beautiful magnet that could be used to find aluminum, or to woo young beautiful maidens on our days off. These necklaces went well with our custom made cycling hats. My mom was a seamstress and as she was concerned for our safety she made us cycling hats covered in reflectors, helmets were not yet considered safe. As later scientific research would prove hardness actually was more effective on keeping your melon in a non-squished state in the event of a head-on collision than was brightness, comfort, or style. Even so, we didn’t seem to need helmets as we understood that when a car was coming, we were to get out of the way, a skill that has somehow skipped a generation.
To inspect the troops before we set out mom decided to put us in a dark room and shine a flashlight on us.
“Nope, not good enough,” she declared.
“Onery,” Andy whispered in my ear.
“I heard that boy,” Mom said as she grabbed Andy by the wrist with one hand and yanked him out into the hallway next to the phone booth. Before we both knew what was happening Andy was in tears and I was laughing hysterically.
“That’s enough Bryan! This paddle is just warming up and you’re next if you think your brother’s misery is so funny,” cackled Mom. We both knew when we had been bested and we fell quickly back into the ranks of strict obedience that in the early 1980’s only physical pain could command.
Off we went to Main Street to purchase some reflective vests. Once dad had added a few more reflectors to our bikes and trailers mom finally declared that we would be cleared to begin our careers as entrepreneurs the next day. The morning at last arrived and from sunup Andy and I waited patiently sitting on our bikes until 4:00 that afternoon when our dad would finally get home. If nothing else came out of this whole experience, we learned that sitting on our bikes all day would definitely leave its literal mark on us in the form of an unbearable case of “chub rub.” If it had only been physical pain we would have both gotten over our misfortunes fairly quickly; however, during the next few days Andy and I both were to be labeled as being frequent marker sniffers due to our strange behavior. The other students in our class just could not understand why we chose to stand next to our desks all day instead of sitting like the rest of the class.
After my dad got home from work and Andy and I had reinforced our padding with layers of Vaseline and left over quilt batting; we were at last ready. With my dad in the lead, equipped with his car radio hooked up to a car battery that he had attached to his bike, and us following with our reflective gear and homemade carts; we looked more like something off the Red and Green show rather than a father and his two boys out for a leisurely bike ride. To Andy and me it did not matter what we looked like because we were off to make millions, and even more importantly we were with our dad.
We liked money. One of dad’s favorite things to do was to ride bikes, so he came up with a plan that would appease both sides. He was going to have us collect cans. He planned to take us on bike rides after work riding in the alley ways of downtown Bountiful, and searching all of the town’s known giant sanitary waste receptacles. We would then take the cans that we had collected throughout the week and redeem them for money at the aluminum recycling truck that would come on Wednesdays at a nearby strip mall called 5 Points.
Our uniforms and tools were essential to the job, they were the difference between making enough to buy penny candy, and baseball cards, or just penny candy. With some baskets, some wheels, and a welder my dad also invented some carts that my brother and I could pull behind our bikes and fill full of cans. Dad fashioned Andy and I some pretty styling necklaces each of which displayed a large, beautiful magnet that could be used to find aluminum, or to woo young beautiful maidens on our days off. These necklaces went well with our custom made cycling hats. My mom was a seamstress and as she was concerned for our safety she made us cycling hats covered in reflectors, helmets were not yet considered safe. As later scientific research would prove hardness actually was more effective on keeping your melon in a non-squished state in the event of a head-on collision than was brightness, comfort, or style. Even so, we didn’t seem to need helmets as we understood that when a car was coming, we were to get out of the way, a skill that has somehow skipped a generation.
To inspect the troops before we set out mom decided to put us in a dark room and shine a flashlight on us.
“Nope, not good enough,” she declared.
“Onery,” Andy whispered in my ear.
“I heard that boy,” Mom said as she grabbed Andy by the wrist with one hand and yanked him out into the hallway next to the phone booth. Before we both knew what was happening Andy was in tears and I was laughing hysterically.
“That’s enough Bryan! This paddle is just warming up and you’re next if you think your brother’s misery is so funny,” cackled Mom. We both knew when we had been bested and we fell quickly back into the ranks of strict obedience that in the early 1980’s only physical pain could command.
Off we went to Main Street to purchase some reflective vests. Once dad had added a few more reflectors to our bikes and trailers mom finally declared that we would be cleared to begin our careers as entrepreneurs the next day. The morning at last arrived and from sunup Andy and I waited patiently sitting on our bikes until 4:00 that afternoon when our dad would finally get home. If nothing else came out of this whole experience, we learned that sitting on our bikes all day would definitely leave its literal mark on us in the form of an unbearable case of “chub rub.” If it had only been physical pain we would have both gotten over our misfortunes fairly quickly; however, during the next few days Andy and I both were to be labeled as being frequent marker sniffers due to our strange behavior. The other students in our class just could not understand why we chose to stand next to our desks all day instead of sitting like the rest of the class.
After my dad got home from work and Andy and I had reinforced our padding with layers of Vaseline and left over quilt batting; we were at last ready. With my dad in the lead, equipped with his car radio hooked up to a car battery that he had attached to his bike, and us following with our reflective gear and homemade carts; we looked more like something off the Red and Green show rather than a father and his two boys out for a leisurely bike ride. To Andy and me it did not matter what we looked like because we were off to make millions, and even more importantly we were with our dad.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Jumping Rope
I had a wonderful childhood inspired by parents who supported my siblings and I in all of our pursuits, or at least those endeavors that did not cost them too much money. One of my most famous undertakings actually was financially backed by my parents. One day in third grade I decided that I had what it took to be a professional jump roper, and all I needed was a jump rope. My mother saw the importance of helping my older brother and I release some of our energy so she decided to let us wash dishes for a few nights and use the money to purchase jump ropes from school. These jump ropes were not your ordinary jumping hardware, they were cutting edge, light weight and indestructible, and when they went around your head you could hear them cut through the air like a bull whip. That was a beautiful sound.
Andy and I spent weeks practicing our routine, and we surpassed even our own expectations. We were sure that people would beg at the chance of paying good money to see our stunning performance.
A description of Andy is a necessary detour at this point in our story, and as my memory is not perfect I will describe my brother as he is today. As a reader you will just have to imagine a miniature version of the image about to be painted in your mind. Andy is an intriguing person who just happens to look a lot like a hobbit. Andy has a stout, but manly shape .The abundance of coarse hair found at all locations of Andy's amazing figure screams to the eyes of the beholder, “I am of the Sire!” When Andy puts on his glasses, they are so enormous that they make his face look really, really small; only increasing his similarities with Bilbo Baggins. Another unsightly feature Andy possesses is his long forgotten, unkept toenails. Andy may be my brother, but to the eyes of a stranger he belongs in a Tolkien book. Besides being a handsome fellow, Andy is also very smart. Once he learned to read in college there was no turning back. He claims as his favorite books The Cat in the Hat, Toad and Frog are Friends, and the comics of Captain America.
That I was the star of the show there was no question. Andy, with his stubby appendages could not get the rope around fast enough to do many tricks. I on the other hand with my slender athletic build could jump on one foot, cross, go really fast, or really slow. Needless to say I had to practice in the back yard to avoid the paparazzi and star-crazed fans. Our routine was much too complicated to describe in any way that would do it justice, all that really needs to be said is that my mesmerizing skills were set to the tunes of the Beach Boys greatest hits.
Thanks to a major knee injury, that would have required surgery if it wouldn’t have been for my mother’s expert ace bandage wrapping abilities, Andy and I were not able to accomplish our dreams. We were however, able to enjoy long summer days relaxing and listening to the Beach Boys. With an injured knee I was also eliminated from my classroom jumping contest at 23 jumps in a row, even though my pre-injury best had been 324.
Andy and I spent weeks practicing our routine, and we surpassed even our own expectations. We were sure that people would beg at the chance of paying good money to see our stunning performance.
A description of Andy is a necessary detour at this point in our story, and as my memory is not perfect I will describe my brother as he is today. As a reader you will just have to imagine a miniature version of the image about to be painted in your mind. Andy is an intriguing person who just happens to look a lot like a hobbit. Andy has a stout, but manly shape .The abundance of coarse hair found at all locations of Andy's amazing figure screams to the eyes of the beholder, “I am of the Sire!” When Andy puts on his glasses, they are so enormous that they make his face look really, really small; only increasing his similarities with Bilbo Baggins. Another unsightly feature Andy possesses is his long forgotten, unkept toenails. Andy may be my brother, but to the eyes of a stranger he belongs in a Tolkien book. Besides being a handsome fellow, Andy is also very smart. Once he learned to read in college there was no turning back. He claims as his favorite books The Cat in the Hat, Toad and Frog are Friends, and the comics of Captain America.
That I was the star of the show there was no question. Andy, with his stubby appendages could not get the rope around fast enough to do many tricks. I on the other hand with my slender athletic build could jump on one foot, cross, go really fast, or really slow. Needless to say I had to practice in the back yard to avoid the paparazzi and star-crazed fans. Our routine was much too complicated to describe in any way that would do it justice, all that really needs to be said is that my mesmerizing skills were set to the tunes of the Beach Boys greatest hits.
Thanks to a major knee injury, that would have required surgery if it wouldn’t have been for my mother’s expert ace bandage wrapping abilities, Andy and I were not able to accomplish our dreams. We were however, able to enjoy long summer days relaxing and listening to the Beach Boys. With an injured knee I was also eliminated from my classroom jumping contest at 23 jumps in a row, even though my pre-injury best had been 324.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Reflections Contest
My chance to shine came frequently and often, but none more prevalent in my mind than a couple of years later when I was commissioned by my second grade teacher to enter an elite contest. I hate to brag and say that I stuck out as a protégée to my deep voiced, but loving teacher; however that is exactly what I did. In fact, to this day I always have a tendency to stick out when I am in a group of average people.
One of the many things that separated me from my peers was my mastery of the multiplication facts. If it hadn’t been for a suspiciously timed head cold I would have been the first to pass off all of my facts. To this day I remember my school lunch on Thursday tasting of arsenic. Friday I was confined to my bed with the suspicious head cold. Meanwhile at school that same morning Scott Burningham, the six foot, balding second grader stole the title of star memorizer (it wasn’t like we actually understood the concept of multiplication).
Whatever the reason, I was one of 25 students in my class selected to enter the elite contest, and I was determined not let Mrs. Hunington down. Mrs. Hunington started explaining the rules and the theme of the contest, all I needed to hear were the words, “you can choose to draw anything you want…” and I was off daydreaming of my beautiful picture. I was good at drawing gumball machines, so I was going to draw the biggest, most beautiful gumball machine that anyone had ever seen. Just think of all the pretty colors I could use on the gumballs!
For the next few days food had no taste, and sleep passed me by. During those days devoted to my masterpiece I stayed up until 9 and only ate 5 to 6 meals a day. I truly was a Michelangelo in the making. Halfway through my gumball machine my prying mom mentioned something about the theme of “freedom.” Being the helicopter parent that she was she suggested that I just write next to the gumball machine “The freedom to choose.”
“Okay, whatever Mom.” I knew better than to argue with her, it was always easier just to do whatever she wanted, because in her eyes she was always right. I use this same technique to this day not only with my mom, but with my wife as well. Not to say that the most important women in my life are nags, only that I revere their infinite, feminine wisdom.
As I sat on the stage as a winner of the elite contest I couldn’t help but be proud of my accomplishment. I had produced the finest replica of a gumball machine that had ever been created. I could tell that the sea of jealous parents were in envy of my guardians as not only the protectors of a future world-changing intellectual, but also as the curators of a future art museum.
Years later when I came home for college one day I noticed a blank wall where my masterpiece once hang. It was only then that my parents sat me down to explain that I did not win the contest on my artistic ability alone, but on my unparalleled ability to misspell. It was the phrase “Freedom to Chews” that the judges of the elite contest had been attracted to, not my stunning portrayal of a gigantic gumball machine sitting on the edge of a kitchen counter. I have since decided to retire as an aspiring artist and pursue more financially sound careers such as public education.
One of the many things that separated me from my peers was my mastery of the multiplication facts. If it hadn’t been for a suspiciously timed head cold I would have been the first to pass off all of my facts. To this day I remember my school lunch on Thursday tasting of arsenic. Friday I was confined to my bed with the suspicious head cold. Meanwhile at school that same morning Scott Burningham, the six foot, balding second grader stole the title of star memorizer (it wasn’t like we actually understood the concept of multiplication).
Whatever the reason, I was one of 25 students in my class selected to enter the elite contest, and I was determined not let Mrs. Hunington down. Mrs. Hunington started explaining the rules and the theme of the contest, all I needed to hear were the words, “you can choose to draw anything you want…” and I was off daydreaming of my beautiful picture. I was good at drawing gumball machines, so I was going to draw the biggest, most beautiful gumball machine that anyone had ever seen. Just think of all the pretty colors I could use on the gumballs!
For the next few days food had no taste, and sleep passed me by. During those days devoted to my masterpiece I stayed up until 9 and only ate 5 to 6 meals a day. I truly was a Michelangelo in the making. Halfway through my gumball machine my prying mom mentioned something about the theme of “freedom.” Being the helicopter parent that she was she suggested that I just write next to the gumball machine “The freedom to choose.”
“Okay, whatever Mom.” I knew better than to argue with her, it was always easier just to do whatever she wanted, because in her eyes she was always right. I use this same technique to this day not only with my mom, but with my wife as well. Not to say that the most important women in my life are nags, only that I revere their infinite, feminine wisdom.
As I sat on the stage as a winner of the elite contest I couldn’t help but be proud of my accomplishment. I had produced the finest replica of a gumball machine that had ever been created. I could tell that the sea of jealous parents were in envy of my guardians as not only the protectors of a future world-changing intellectual, but also as the curators of a future art museum.
Years later when I came home for college one day I noticed a blank wall where my masterpiece once hang. It was only then that my parents sat me down to explain that I did not win the contest on my artistic ability alone, but on my unparalleled ability to misspell. It was the phrase “Freedom to Chews” that the judges of the elite contest had been attracted to, not my stunning portrayal of a gigantic gumball machine sitting on the edge of a kitchen counter. I have since decided to retire as an aspiring artist and pursue more financially sound careers such as public education.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Ski Boots
I guess if I am honest with myself I will also share experiences that prove that I was not actually a natural intellectual. One of the many definitions for an intellectual is “a person professionally engaged in mental labor, such as a writer or teacher.” As a six year old kindergartner I was not one to be “engaged in mental labor” as the following memoir will confirm. 
As a child I lived down the hill from the elementary school. The phrase “down the hill” would be a gross understatement. If you were to pick up a classic work of children’s literature and read the phrase “down the hill” you would automatically assume a picture in your feeble mind of two little children in those tough, but cute looking German overalls, like Hansel and Gretel wore, skipping down a slight incline. The present use of the phrase “down the hill” does not refer to a slight incline, but in the eyes of a strapping six year old boy a sheer drop-off. This sheer drop-off continued for about three miles until it leveled off for a mile before the path actually reached my home. As a side note to this story the reader may be interested in knowing that the current road to the school has been modified, it is no longer very steep and has even been shortened quite a significant amount making the walk to the elementary school in modern times just over a mile.
Back to my story. I had a father with an innovative mind, uniquely innovative would actually be a more accurate description. As well as having a uniquely innovative mind, my father was also extremely cheap, in fact my father was so cheap that he would frequently not use his blinker in hopes that he would not have to replace an expensive car part. From my extensive description of the “pathway” to the school it should be quite obvious that my brothers and I walked to school. So when the snow came and my older brother and I needed snow boots we jumped in the old mustang and took off to Deseret Industries ( a local thrift store). To my father’s delight he found just what he was looking for, some cheap, durable, waterproof boots. In fact these boots were so durable that it would take more force than any elementary student had to damage them. It wasn’t until years later when I was learning to snow ski that I realized that these amazing snow boots were actually ski boots.
Since I was not to be “engaged in mental labor” at this point in my life, I neglected to employ in a debate with my father over the value of purchasing boots that I could not walk in. Luckily I had a mother that would have proudly worn the badge to represent MADSOVBPVYC (Mothers Against Destroying Shins and Other Vital Body Parts of Vulnerable Young Children), so I did not have to make the trek to school in those boots more than a couple of times.
This as well as many other humiliating experiences in Kindergarten, such as standing in the corner at recess because I was scared of other children, made me determined to take charge of my life and start speaking, at least a few words, to a few other people besides my mom, including my father. I was out of control, a renegade with no real focus; just waiting for those opportune moments in which I could shine.
As a child I lived down the hill from the elementary school. The phrase “down the hill” would be a gross understatement. If you were to pick up a classic work of children’s literature and read the phrase “down the hill” you would automatically assume a picture in your feeble mind of two little children in those tough, but cute looking German overalls, like Hansel and Gretel wore, skipping down a slight incline. The present use of the phrase “down the hill” does not refer to a slight incline, but in the eyes of a strapping six year old boy a sheer drop-off. This sheer drop-off continued for about three miles until it leveled off for a mile before the path actually reached my home. As a side note to this story the reader may be interested in knowing that the current road to the school has been modified, it is no longer very steep and has even been shortened quite a significant amount making the walk to the elementary school in modern times just over a mile.
Back to my story. I had a father with an innovative mind, uniquely innovative would actually be a more accurate description. As well as having a uniquely innovative mind, my father was also extremely cheap, in fact my father was so cheap that he would frequently not use his blinker in hopes that he would not have to replace an expensive car part. From my extensive description of the “pathway” to the school it should be quite obvious that my brothers and I walked to school. So when the snow came and my older brother and I needed snow boots we jumped in the old mustang and took off to Deseret Industries ( a local thrift store). To my father’s delight he found just what he was looking for, some cheap, durable, waterproof boots. In fact these boots were so durable that it would take more force than any elementary student had to damage them. It wasn’t until years later when I was learning to snow ski that I realized that these amazing snow boots were actually ski boots.
Since I was not to be “engaged in mental labor” at this point in my life, I neglected to employ in a debate with my father over the value of purchasing boots that I could not walk in. Luckily I had a mother that would have proudly worn the badge to represent MADSOVBPVYC (Mothers Against Destroying Shins and Other Vital Body Parts of Vulnerable Young Children), so I did not have to make the trek to school in those boots more than a couple of times.
This as well as many other humiliating experiences in Kindergarten, such as standing in the corner at recess because I was scared of other children, made me determined to take charge of my life and start speaking, at least a few words, to a few other people besides my mom, including my father. I was out of control, a renegade with no real focus; just waiting for those opportune moments in which I could shine.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Teasing Mom for Fun
The beginning of my not so unfortunate tale takes us back quite a few years to when I was but a toddler. Of course my memory is not perfect, but it went something like this.
“So what you’re saying is that Joan is actually considering not decorating her Laurel bushes this year for Flag Day? …”
Enough was enough, I had heard my mother yak for hours with a plethora of boring old ladies. How could anyone waste their time in such fruitless activity? As for myself, I was heading out, and I knew that it would take my mom minutes to notice my disappearance, I could do anything in minutes.
I slipped out the backdoor without tipping off my mom and I was off to explore the wonderful world of the backyard. It must have been at least a whole minute before before the rock path lost its luster and I suddenly realized that this whole adventure would be much more exciting if mom were chasing me. After realizing that my extremely realistic sounding growls were not getting her attention, I raised the stakes to the next level.
“Yippee! Rocks!” I whaled at the top of my lungs.
The backdoor suddenly slammed and I knew that the race had begun. I turned and ran as fast as I possibly could for my predetermined destination. I was headed for the old wooden staircase that led to the plank that crossed a clear 10 foot drop on all sides. After the wooden plank came the forbidden treehouse, I was not allowed to enter the sacred structure until I was at least four. The chase was on and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the prospect of beating mom to the treehouse. It was so exciting! I paused just long enough to revel in the thought that I had come up with this ingenious plan in less that 10 seconds.
A genius had been born.
I suppose the clumsiness that led to the terrible fall I experienced a few seconds later could have technically undone my status as a genius, as it had my future chances of becoming a circus performer, but I was tenacious, I was courageous and most of all I was intelligent.
“So what you’re saying is that Joan is actually considering not decorating her Laurel bushes this year for Flag Day? …”
Enough was enough, I had heard my mother yak for hours with a plethora of boring old ladies. How could anyone waste their time in such fruitless activity? As for myself, I was heading out, and I knew that it would take my mom minutes to notice my disappearance, I could do anything in minutes.
I slipped out the backdoor without tipping off my mom and I was off to explore the wonderful world of the backyard. It must have been at least a whole minute before before the rock path lost its luster and I suddenly realized that this whole adventure would be much more exciting if mom were chasing me. After realizing that my extremely realistic sounding growls were not getting her attention, I raised the stakes to the next level.
“Yippee! Rocks!” I whaled at the top of my lungs.
The backdoor suddenly slammed and I knew that the race had begun. I turned and ran as fast as I possibly could for my predetermined destination. I was headed for the old wooden staircase that led to the plank that crossed a clear 10 foot drop on all sides. After the wooden plank came the forbidden treehouse, I was not allowed to enter the sacred structure until I was at least four. The chase was on and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the prospect of beating mom to the treehouse. It was so exciting! I paused just long enough to revel in the thought that I had come up with this ingenious plan in less that 10 seconds.
A genius had been born.
I suppose the clumsiness that led to the terrible fall I experienced a few seconds later could have technically undone my status as a genius, as it had my future chances of becoming a circus performer, but I was tenacious, I was courageous and most of all I was intelligent.
About Being Human
Being human has its challenges. In fact after reading my story you might even assume that it would be better to be a dog than a skinny, middle-aged, elementary assistant principal. You are probably thinking that a dog only eats, sleeps, plays, poops and drools. It is quite true that a dog is always there for the party, but somehow gets away without ever having to be assigned to the planning or the clean up committee. Personally I would prefer to be a Rottweiler, Border Collie or Labrador, but I wouldn’t even mind being a mutt. This whole argument is fruitless because even though a dog is void of responsibility and therefore has no worries, concerns, or anxieties a dog is also void of responsibility and therefore does not progress, learn and know true happiness.
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