Glimpsing Heaven

We had traveled long miles to be there—my brother at the wheel of a Jeep grand wagoneer, his eldest son then in his earliest years, his mom, my mom, my big sister. We rolled into the camp in Snow Canyon quietly and unseen. We hid out in a trailer overlooking the tents and fire circle. We peeked out through the curtains obscuring the wide, short windows to see men milling about, making preparations for dinner. When I poked my head up and scanned the camp, I spotted my Dad. The old, unsuspecting buffalo was talking, smiling, and laughing with owls, foxes, and other Wood Badge attendees. He did not realize that his family was watching him, nor that he was about to receive Scouting's highest service award, the Silver Beaver.

Thankfully our presence was made known before dinner, rather than after (I was a hungry teen). Dad was absolutely surprised and after huge smiles and hugs, we grabbed plates and got in line. One of the men let us in on a great Scout leader secret: in the cast iron pot, hidden beneath the layers of hamburger patties, were thick, juicy steaks and, as honored guests, we should dig deep.

I sat down near two men, Chuck Loveless and Bill Birch, both grinning, obviously happy to have a new, captive audience as the jibes started with no delay. Chuck leaned in toward me and began, "So I can tell that you are not two-faced . . . Or you wouldn't be wearing that one." Pun folllowed one-liner followed playful insult, the two winking and elbowing. I started to laugh and,  overcome with the suspense and now, the humor, I laughed until it hurt, barely choking down the meal with happy tears.

That was one of the best moments, hiding in a trailer with my family, waiting to surprise my Dad and see him honored by his peers for serving others. Today, it feels like we are all in the trailer again, though he is the one who is waiting and watching for us. It will be nice to hear him laugh.

Dad’s Pancakes

My dad passed away in 1998 and I do not believe anyone who knew him will ever recover from the loss. Nothing fills that void but I have found that, somehow, his pancakes can help a little. Thankfully I acquired some of his recipes before his earthly departure and found time (a decade ago) to put them into The Dad-Blasted Walker Family Cookbook which I shared with siblings and a few other persistent relations and friends. I am still working on my own copy; the laser-engraved aluminum cover currently sits unused in a box. Here’s the page with the recipe, in case you need some comfort food (for breakfast or dinner!) in the midst of this cold winter.

Fünfundvierzig und Mutter

Last Sunday a speaker asked us what we were doing back in 1964. My mom and I started laughing. For most of that year, she was 35 and I was zero. She and I were doing what we have been the last two weeks: hanging out together as much as possible.

My mom was always the straight man, the foil to my dad's ongoing joke- and storytelling. I know why he enjoyed her company so much: she is actually quite funny, a great sidekick as well as a source of humor. Mom is always up for an adventure and encourages the rest of us to be, as she is, forever young. Here's some highlights from her current visit.

A week before Thanksgiving, we had finished shopping at Walmart and were putting stuff in our car. A man approached us, asking, "Excuse me, sir, would you like to buy some tamales?" I responded automatically, the way I always do to unsolicited soliciting, "No thanks." As he walked away, I turned to close the car door for my mom. Before it shut, I heard her say, quietly, "Those might be the best tamales you've ever had." I smiled, then walked over and bought a dozen tamales.

So we watched Up the other night and when we switched back to cable, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was on. My mom asked my wife if she had ever read that book. I mentioned that I started it, but it was too deep for me. Mom asked, in all seriousness, "Really?" I laughed 'til I cried (and it hurt).

Then, the other day, we were in another parking lot, but driving this time, when she spotted a minivan. "There's an Odyssey." (Noteworthy because that's what one of my sisters is driving these days.) I mentioned that it was Homer's favorite vehicle; he liked it almost as much as the Iliad. She almost asked me who Homer was, but then caught on, and shook her head in disgust . . . the perfect response to a bad joke.

Yesterday, my younger son had peeled an orange and left the remains on a plate. Before Mom threw them away, she pointed at some white stuff and said, "This is my favorite part because it has the bioflavonoids." Not much later she referred to the decorative treads on her socks as "doodleywhips." She's a walking, fictive, vocabulary lesson.

What I'm trying to say here is that my mom is a blast, a real treasure. I am spending my "Fünfundvierzig" birthday with her and my eldest brother. (Of all the languages, German makes 45 sound like the most fun.) I feel honored to be with them. My dad's stories, wit, humor, and zest for life lives on in her and all of us who remember him. I think he would be pleased.

A Shorts Story

Admittedly, I am an inconsistent performer when playing basketball. I miss far more shots than I make. Often I have said, “My shots may brick off the rim, but, man, do I look good doing it.” This is mostly due to the many shoes, shirts, and shorts bequeathed to me by my generous brother. He has always been willing to give me the shirt off his back, literally, more times than I can count.

Every six to eight months, more often if I’m lucky, I catch fire on the court. Today was one of those days where my skill level was only outdone by my modesty. I got some assists and rebounds, a lovely tip-in; and, in the end, I popped two game winning three-pointers. One of these was right after I inbounded the ball to the other team (oops) and they scored, going up by 1 point. I was already feeling foolish, so at the other end, I thought “hero or goat” and hoisted an NBA-distance three from the right side. It fell in, we won by two, and we got to stay on the court and play again.

The next game, our team dominated. Again I shot a three at the end, this time from the left baseline, adding a little extra arch to clear a jumping defender, and the ball snapped the net. I should have gone home right then . . . it could not get any better.

I attribute today’s success to wearing a new (lucky) pair of shorts. I also think eating a banana, getting a short haircut, and eating a blueberry scone (in that order) before the game also helped my energy level and aerodynamics. I will surely attempt to recreate some of that magic by combining all of those elements again (minus the haircut . . . maybe I’ll shave instead). I’ll let you know how it goes.

TANGENT 1: In high school, my parents really splurged, buying me a pair of Adidas Top Ten basketball shoes, bright white with silver stripes. These were some of the first high performance shoes, with a nice lacing system, and a pivot point placed in the perfect spot in the sole. I really think they helped bolster my confidence and my ability to move on the court. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

TANGENT 2: One of the coolest parts of the place where we live is a little meadow down in front. It has a rough basketball court and one of the hoops is backed by a tree that serves as a natural ball return. The tree is a hackberry, aptly named, I think.

TANGENT 3: When all is said and done, I have learned this about playing any team sport. If you are playing just for yourself or only to win, you will always come away disappointed. If you are playing for your team and only for fun, you will never leave disappointed. (But it’s always more fun if you win.)

The Girl For Me

When my wife and I were dating, we stopped in Pocatello, Idaho, to meet her grandparents. When her sweet little grandma, Thelma, opened the door, a delicious aroma wafted out from the kitchen. She had just baked some raisin-filled cookies and they were still warm. Those cookies, with some cold milk, were delightful, and they came with a good story.

Con Millward didn’t have a car and would have to walk several miles to visit Thelma, the girl he was dating. After a visit, Thelma brought him out some cookies to have on the long walk back home. When she put them in his hand, he thought they were really heavy, likely undercooked with nothing but dough in the middle . . . so he put them in his pocket without even taking a bite.

He started walking and, after a while, became really hungry—he was going to have to give in and try one of those lumpy thick cookies. “When I bit into that cookie and tasted that wonderful raisin filling, the thought that came into my mind was ‘That is the girl for me!’” Those “heavy” cookies became his favorite treat and Thelma was always happy to fix them for him.

Remember Who You Are

More than a decade ago I met Mr. Rogers. I was working for the local PBS station and was attending the annual meetings in Miami. My wife and I were having breakfast in a big hotel conference room when a man with bushy white hair sat down on the other side of our round table.

I glanced over and, while he looked incredibly familiar, I couldn’t quite place him. After saying hello, I said, “You look really familiar to me . . . ” and he replied, “Well, you might have seen me on TV. I’m David Newell but you’d know me as Mr. McFeely from Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.” If only he had been wearing his “Speedy Delivery” uniform.

He not only had a role in the show, he also handled public relations for the “Neighborhood.” After chatting over sweet rolls and juice, he asked us if we’d like to meet Mr. Rogers. Would we? We quickly agreed to meet up in the hotel lobby the next morning. He asked us to keep this quiet—as Mr. Rogers always takes a moment with each and every person who wants to meet him. This act of kindness would sometimes require a lot of time, and, in the spirit of speedy deliveries, he wanted to keep the group small, if possible.

We shook hands with the patriarch of children’s television the next morning. But the real bonding took place from a distance as he spoke in a huge conference room later that day. In front of a group of professional broadcasters, Mr. Rogers said, “I realize that it isn’t very fashionable in an assembly such as this to talk about something’s being holy; nevertheless, if we ever want to rid ourselves of personal and corporate emptiness, brokeness, loneliness and fear, we will have to allow ourselves room for that which we cannot see or hear, touch . . . or control.” Then he shared this story.

“I know a couple whose five-year-old son kept pestering them to have some time alone with his newborn brother. His parents were concerned that his rivalous feelings might prompt him to hurt the baby, so they kept refusing.

Finally he was so insistent that they said, “All right, you can be with the baby but for just a minute." The mother and dad watched as their five-year-old walked to the crib.  He didn’t even touch the baby. All he did was say, “What was it like? I’m starting to forget.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Rogers gave everyone another thoughtful gift—one that I’d like to pass along to you, if you’re willing. In the dim room, Mr. Rogers continued speaking with his familiar voice, the kind tone each of us, as children, had come to trust.

“Right now I’d like to give you some quiet time to think of those who nourish you at the deepest parts of your being . . . anyone who has ever loved you and wanted what was best for you in life.

Some of those people may be here today, some may be far away, some may even be in heaven, but if they’ve encouraged you to come closer to what you know to be essential about life, they’re really inside of you; and I’d like you to have a minute to think of them and all they mean to who you are. I’ll watch the time.”

Mr. Rogers gave everyone a full minute to sit in the quiet, darkened room. Just months earlier I had lost my dad to cancer. He was first in my thoughts, followed by my mom, siblings, my wife and two young sons, other family, friends. Floodgates of gratitude opened as I sat and silently wept . . . along with every other person who was there, none of them alone.

November is a great month to take a moment to be grateful to everyone who has contributed to who you are. Take 60 seconds to think. Then, for any of those people that you still can, send them an e-mail just saying thanks. I plan to send one a day until Thanksgiving. Godspeed.

Why Wondrous Swish?

Pressed to make a collage defining “me,” a school-aged me cut pieces from an awesome photo essay printed in a 1972 issue of Sports Illustrated. The prose that accompanied the images imprinted in my mind as deeply as any lines of poetry learned in my English classes.

“It is enough to gaze on the wondrous sight of a swish, or to dribble down a sidewalk . . . or just to rest after some two-on-two. . . . just lunging for a loose ball can be a marvelous act of desire, done over fallen leaves or on a court cleared of snow or in the summer when the city sizzles. A fast break is a boy's passion, and it is his training for the years ahead.”

Every time I am around my brothers and nephews, we are either playing in or planning the next pickup game. And while I didn’t play high school ball, I have always loved the game. Three times a week, I go down to BYU’s Smith Fieldhouse, lace up some Jordans, and shoot some hoops with accountants, teachers, and other BYU professionals. It keeps me sane. And it’s way cheaper than therapy, even after you figure in the cost of nice kicks. I am a happier human when I can play.

And once upon a time, I even got to justify those hours by writing about it for the magazine. Here’s the link if you’re interested.

LINK

Come to Provo anytime. We’ll work you into the game.

TANGENT 1: Hummingbirds also make a wondrous swish as they swoop and whir around our front yard.

TANGENT 2: A wondrous swish and a wondrous wish are two different things, just barely.

No Kicking the Bucket

So I pulled into Will’s Pit Stop, a local convenience store, to get a refill in my 64 oz. insulated container that I’ve had forever. It’s so old . . . the store in Provo where I bought it (Harts) has been out of business for more than a decade. I still use it because it is large and keeps drinks cold all day long. The handle broke a while back but I put it back together with some black tape.

Anyway, I am filling my jug and a handsome Hispanic guy in his 20s looks over and, in a thick Mexican accent, says, “Hey, how much do you pay for that thing?” I explain that it ranges from 80 cents to $1.15. “He looks at me, then once again at the size of my refill, and says, “Oh, man. I gotta get me one of those buckets.”

TANGENT 1: When I proposed to my wife one fateful Christmas Day, she was expecting a ring when she opened the black velvet box, not a stack of refill coupons from Harts. Then again, I also did not expect to have to retreat so quickly to the closet where I had hidden the actual engagement ring.

TANGENT 2: During my high school years we did not have a basketball standard at our house as it was built on a hill and what little level ground we had was either grass or a terraced strawberry patch. In one little section of driveway, however, I mounted a bucket with the bottom cut out so I could practice my jumpshots and “dunks” with a tennis ball.

TANGENT 3: Our family has a variety of interesting nicknames. One brother whom I greatly admire is called Bucket. One of his boyhood friends just started calling him that and it stuck. In a later post I will share what I know about Speckle-Nosed Trout, Dusty Dan, Wiener, and my own legacy with nicknames.

Not in the Face

The sides of my nose still hurt a little from last night but I think I’ll live. Last night, we worked on emptying the tall teen packrat’s bedroom of three years of detritus so we can do some drywall, carpet, and painting. To blow off some steam, the boys and I started throwing an undersized small, semi-flat kids soccer ball down the hall at each other. The goal was to throw it as hard as you could and hit somebody somewhere where it wouldn’t hurt enough to have to stop playing the game. The taller boy caught it in the kidneys, the younger, on his right ear. I avoided injury until the very end, when I thought the game was actually over. We were resting, sitting peacefully on the couch. Only a few feet away, the younger son had the ball, so I put my hands up and said, “Throw it soft.” Instead he threw it hard, right at my face, knocking my glasses into my nose and then off altogether. I guess I was asking for it.


TANGENT 1: As a kid we used to play a lot of catch, mostly with a real football or a frisbee, then we got our hands on a Nerf. Sometimes we played catch indoors, a little too close to Mom’s fancy antique organ lamp. The danger of it made us really focus and use sure hands.

TANGENT 2: The Tick (an awesome cartoon with many, many puns) was a superhero with the battle cry "Not in the face . . . not in the face!" which was later replaced with "Spoon!"

TANGENT 3: I enjoyed more football success in the backyard than I ever did playing high school football. But that's a story for a different day.

Bonus Moms

My brother just put up a blog post about mothers and sons (. . . hey, not yet, read this first.) It got me thinking a lot about the most important women in my life. I have a lot of sisters, five, to be precise, and each of them has four brothers. And then there’s my wife (a longer story for another post). So the challenge here will be to keep it short (not gonna happen).

This past summer my little mom turned 80. This is hard to believe because she is truly still a kid at heart, full of wonder and unconditional love. We had a party up at Alturas Lake, a tree-lined mountain lake—our family’s traditional vacation spot. We had all gathered in Smokey Lodge to celebrate with our mom. She stood up and thanked everyone for being there, despite the miles. My sister Loralyn responded, “Thanks for having us.” (Pun intended—it was, after all, a gathering of Walker children.)

Some had written some thoughts down and we had some of the younger kids read them. My sister Jeanie, 2.5 years my senior, shared this memory.

“I remember: In the house on Harrison, Mom wrapping us in towels after our bath and laying us on the carpet in the sun, very womb-like.”

I instantly realized I was one of the “us.” This gift of a forgotten memory—the clean, warm, bright, terry-cloth wrapped feeling—was sweet, vivid, and unexpectedly deep. And it preempted my current earliest memory—riding a red tricycle on the sidewalk in front of our Boise home.

I couldn’t say Lissa when I was little so I called her Mama Si-si. She was 6th and I was 9th so she was the perfect age to watch over me. This past weekend she fell off some stairs and hurt her elbow and foot. As we helped her, I began to comprehend her level of caring for me when I was small and now that I’m, well, big.

All of my sisters are warm and caring, having inherited these and other great traits from Mom. Our dad had his strengths but if you wanted a long, compassionate listen, you would go see mom. I am so grateful for these women who have watched over me. I could write a lot about each of my sisters, and I will. But, in the spirit of keeping these to a readable length, I’ll stop for now.

Make It Fun

Piano music, played by a thirteen-year-old, fills our recently remodeled great room. The notes echo into every corner of the house; if you're inside, you can't escape it, not even with headphones, trust me. The piano is such a pleasant respite from the clarinet. I enjoy when that instrument is left at school, as does our enormous gray cat who, from given her violent reaction to clarinet sounds, seems able to hear frequencies above and beyond that of humans.

I had my two weeks of lessons, like everybody else, but I did not have the patience nor the natural skill that my boy has. He has progressed to a point that I enjoy his practicing. I marvel at the beautiful sounds he has worked hard to produce from a hand-me-down piano that a school donated to the local thrift store and we picked up for a song.

My son’s piano teacher is a saint. Just at the point that I’m ready to rain down some hurt because he is hamming it up, dancing in place, being, in my opinion, a little too “creative” in his lesson, she encourages him by hooking him up to a microphone and grabbing her videocamera to amplify then capture his antics for eternity. His latest composition is called “Happyland Gets Destroyed.” In spite of this silliness, he is also about to do his first solo recital. I think we can all use her advice—to take our creative, spontaneous moments and apply that same feeling to everything we do in life

TANGENT 1: I used to hang out with a girl in high school just so I could sit in her living room and listen to her play the piano. I broke up with a different girl once because she liked the wrong version of a song on the radio.

TANGENT 2: Sophomore through senior years of high school, I acted in Oklahoma, Sound of Music, and played Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls.

TANGENT 3: I enjoyed more success on stage than I ever did on the football field. But that's a story for a different day.

The Last Cookie

To start the week off right, one of my coworkers cooks up a batch of cookies from a book of award-winning recipes. These treats are presented in an aesthetically pleasing stack on a golden plate in our editors staff meeting, then the remains are put out on a counter in the reception area for others to enjoy. Often, the pile is reduced to one cookie by early afternoon. The last cookie. It sits on the plate longer than any other. It seems no one wants to take it. It is like the awkward, pudgy kid, picked last for a playground game at recess. When I discover its sad condition, I quickly snatch it up. It can play on my team.

TANGENT 1: I am the last of nine children. C is for Cookie. That's good enough for me.

TANGENT 2: In my opinion, cake < cookie < scone < pie < any dessert with huckleberries.

TANGENT 3: Like my father before me, I like my pie in round pieces, hot or cold.

Typo Blood and Work Gloves

I gave blood a while back. I think that was the first time I had ever given up blood in a Red Cross blood drive. I have had blood taken for a marriage license and for testing, but I had never given without a compelling reason and never in volume. I think it was because I edited an article called, “Why Giving Matters” for the magazine. It basically says that the act of giving—of serving others—yields great returns, financially, but more importantly, in levels of happiness. People who give are happier.

I know a guy who really serves others and it makes him happy, so this concept makes sense to me. He helped us remodel our house without pay (will work for baked goods) and does similar acts of service for others in need. He also gives blood regularly. Because of him and others with helping hearts, I started carrying a pair of work gloves in my car, just in case I need to stop and help. I've only used them spontaneously once but they remind me that I should be more focused on helping others.

TANGENT 1: My father's granddad was named Daniel Blood Wilson. When my sons learned of this, they wondered if he was a vampire.

TANGENT 2: In this process I was also reminded that I have Type O blood. This amused me because I'm pretty good at proofreading (but I think they misspelled it—I've adjusted that in my title).

TANGENT 3: Our intramural basketball team is named Full Bleed. I've inserted the logo here. I love the crossed X-Acto blades.

Truppa Gonfiata

My bro-in-law—and silliest friend—and I marveled at details offered by the narrator of a WWII documentary on television. In his finest British accent, he summed up an epic sortie by the Italian Air Force this way: “And when the pilots looked around, they noticed that, overnight, their ranks had swollen considerably.”

“Swollen ranks are typical,” I added, “when you sit in a cockpit for too long.” For many joyful, awful moments we jibed and punned, eyes streaming tears and stomachs tight, then painful. In that spirit, this blog will try to capture moments that evoke such emotion—stemming from the laughter, trauma, and beauty of each day on planet earth. (Don’t despair, you will also get some puns and tangential stuff as well.)