46 . . . 64 . . . Hut . . . Hut

We used to bark out the play, “242, 242, hut, hut,” when, as youths, we played football on the cherished turf across the street from our home in Buhl, Idaho. Today, however, fours and sixes seem more appropriate as I was born in 64 and am now an unprecedented 46. It's odd for me to think that I am slowly creeping up on 50; it must be even more so for my ancient siblings.

Anyway, a long time ago in a city not too far away, I made my grand entrance here on planet earth. I thought I might share a few thoughts from the two people who made me possible. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad. I’m truly grateful to be a part of my family. When we are together, there is never a dull moment.

Two decades ago, when I was taking a family history course, I had my parents write down what they remember about my original birthday. Dad had his secretary type up his recollection on official Idaho Power letterhead.

I recall on the day you were born I took your mother to the hospital. It was the wrong hospital but it was close. Probably the dense fog and the feeling of impending doom had something to do with my loss of direction. As we were a little late they whisked your mother away and I settled into an engrossing article in the Field & Stream magazine. Right close by was an obvious first time father-to-be in a state that could only be described as a full bore vertical panic. His overdue spouse was making the delivery room ring with her suffering. In fact I am sure that the citizens of Meridian, 11 miles away were also aware of her vocal miseries.

Being an eight time father whose only problem was finding the hospital and driving fast enough, I appeared a little too calm about the whole process to suit the aggravated expectant new father and his mother-in-law, who was also in a stressed-out condition. Glares and nervous threatening motions made up our associations as I became enthralled with the piscatorial epistle I was reading instead of joining in the great procreative adventure with them.

Almost immediately Doctor Hulme appeared in the waiting room, his face was one big exhibition of teeth. Obviously pleased, he brought this blanket-covered, still-not-cleaned-up boy child over and handed you to me. He said, “He was such a beautiful big boy, I had to show him to you right now.” I thanked him and said, “The least you could have done is let me finish my story!” This flip answer did not go well with my waiting room comrades whose center of attention was still focused on the wails and cries of their loved one. I beat a rapid and wise retreat from their veil of tears and visited your mother. I never did get to finish the story! Luv Dad.

Mom’s handwritten letter is as follows. (Feel free to take break here, pop some popcorn, pour some grape juice, whatever you have to do.)

When we were first married as as we discussed having children, we decided we’d like to have at least eight. So when you were born 3 boys and 5 girls later, we called you our “bonus.” You didn’t like to be called a bonus until you knew the definition (something of value added to what we’d already received). And you truly were that: a sweet, gentle child; and, as you grew, a sweet gentle, fun-loving, creative young man.

Statistically, you were born 3 December, 1964 at St. Luke’s Hospital in Boise, Ada, Idaho to Verna Weeks and Hal Wilson Walker. You weighed in at 10 lbs., 10 oz. and were 23 inches long. We named you Michael Richard: Michael, because we’d always liked the name, and Richard, after a good friend of ours.

We lived in a big older home on the corner of Harrison and Irene. It was a lovely big family home with a main floor and a finished basement. A clothes chute in the hall by the bedrooms went down to the utility room below. Later on, you enjoyed dropping the cat down (into a box of dirty clothes) again and again until he grew tired of the game and scratched you in protest. Needless to say, you also grew tired of “that” game.

Since you had  five older sisters and 3 older brothers who really enjoyed tending you, you were well taken care of. Lissa, who is 5 1/2 years older than you, loved to play with you and do things for you. You called her “Mama Seesie.” Most of the friends of your brothers and sisters did not have a baby in their home so you were a favorite of the neighborhood. Our neighbor, Vesta Martin (whom we called Nan Nan) tended you on occasion and would complain because you slept all the time you were there.

There's more but I'll save it for later.

The Latest Buzz from the Beehive State

A bee adds to the hexagonal structure of its honeycomb.

I love small flying things both furry and feathered. It started, I believe in Buhl, Idaho where we had a row of mountain ash trees in front of our house. When they bloomed they attracted thousands of honeybees. I loved to go out with a quart canning jar and see how many I could gather in it. I wouldn't stop until more escaped than were captured each time I opened the metal lid to try and squeeze one more in.

The magic number was around thirty. When I released the bees, they never scared me or stung me; I stood with no fear in their midst.

I graduated to bumblebees. My sister Lissa likes them too, well enough to pet the unlikely aerial acrobats when they land on the flowers in her lovely garden.

In recent years I have transferred all of this affection  and awe to hummingbirds.

But this spring, as a neighbor turned beekeeper and his wandering swarms visited our apple tree, resulting in more fruit than ever before, my thoughts buzzed back to my little friends from days before.

Then last month, both beecause I like bees and for the beewildering potential for puns, I went to a lecture by artist Rose-Lynn Fisher who had taken a seriously close look at bees—with an electron microscope. As she examined the curve of the bee's eye, she noticed that it was made up of hexagons, the same shape that makes up the honeycomb in a beehive.

A bee's eye at 370x magnification.

Could it be that what a bee sees somehow influences what it creates? A scientist told her that hexagons are just nature's efficient way of packing circles together; but her artist's soul expressed to her that this similarity in structure was much more than convenient coincidence.

Beeyond the bee-yootiful images and the hexagon connection, the artist engaged in punning, showing the bee's knees, the beehind (including a closeup of the stinger, because that's the point) and ended by reminding us all that beauty is in the eye of the bee holder. I left wanting to get me a hive.

Duly impressed, I am trying to get permission to print some bee scans in Bee Why You Magazine. (Okay, I'm done with the puns for now.)

The photos and some live bees are on display in BYU's Bean Museum, not far from Shasta the Liger. But that creature is another story, or maybe just a song, for another day.

To read the artist's lovely introduction to her bee art and to see the stinger or bee's knee, you can follow this link: http://www.rose-lynnfisher.com/beepage.html

Add a Little Fiber to Your Diet

I don't know if I could stomach a lowtop but I like the look of this one. Shiny!

The Problem with Puppies

A gajillion years ago, it seems, I bought my oldest son his first pair of Air Jordans. I picked up my first pair of Air Jordan Xs at the same time (circa 1995) and when they started wearing thin, my brother, gave me a pair of the same shoe, same color, with the straps cut off the back. I still have them all, though the Toddler size 7s (pictured above) are being worn by a foot-high abominable snowman in my office.

Back in the day we decided to have my son put on my size 13 shoes and take shots on the short hoop out on the driveway of the rental we were living in. Then this past week I had him make the same moves on our hoop out in the woods by our house . . . to celebrate a brand new pair of Jordan Icons in Idaho Vandals colors (the Cougar Blues were not on sale). Anyway, I thought y’all would enjoy the comparison. Now he just needs to wear those out on a hardwood court so we can get another pair!

There is Only Now . . . and Now . . .

I am watching (again) what I consider to be one of the best television shows I’ve ever seen. Life. It only lasted a couple of seasons but it made an impression on me. A cop show but with a twist. Detective Crews goes away for a murder he didn’t commit, gets beat up a lot, reads a lot about zen, is exonerated, then goes back on the job . . . with an eye for the real killer and a taste for fresh fruit (you don’t see a lot of that in prison I hear). Some people don’t get this show because on the surface it looks like a gritty police drama. But its true message is in how the detective reacts to the world swirling around him in unpredictable ways.

Not a lot of people have heard of Scott Yost but he writes a column for a newspaper in North Carolina. And a few years back he told a story I continue to think back on. Here is an excerpt:

“A few years ago I was driving down some of the mountainiest mountains in North Carolina and I saw something that just blew me away. I mean, it floored me. A friend and I had been driving down these incredibly steep mountain roads—you know, the ones that are like straight down and wreak havoc on truck brakes. As you drive down this stretch of mountain road, if you have your windows open, you can often smell the truck brakes burning.

We had been down miles and miles of steep road, and that’s where I saw it. Off to the side of the road was one of those exits that goes straight into a huge sand pile. The DOT puts them at certain treacherous parts of mountain roads so that, when truck brakes burn out, those truck drivers don’t have to keep careening down the mountain to certain death—instead, they can exit the road, run into the mound of sand, and, with any luck, stay alive.

With this particular mound of sand that I saw, after miles and miles of steep downward road, someone had strung a little chain across the front of the exit and hung a “closed” sign on the middle of the chain.
As soon as I saw it, I started laughing, because it hit me: You might try, but you can’t really close those truck ramps. I mean, let’s say you’re a truck driver barreling down the mountain at like 150 miles an hour because you have no brakes left, and you’re doing everything you can just to keep your out-of-control loaded-down truck on the road, and you come around this corner on two wheels just looking for some way to stay alive. And you see this ramp off the road with a big pile of sand at the end put there for the specific purpose of keeping you alive in this very situation. But then you see a little chain across the ramp and the “closed” sign. So, of course, you would just say to yourself, “Dang, just my luck – closed! Oh well, maybe there’s another one a few miles down. I guess I’ll just keep careening down this mountain, picking up speed, no doubt to certain death.”

I very seriously doubt it.

Whoever put up that closed sign and that little chain committed an error I think a lot of us make all the time: he (not to be sexist, but I’ll bet it was a he) thought he was in control of something he really had no control of.”

Yost continues:

“In fact, I would venture to say that one of the principal mistakes we all make in life is pretending we have control over things we really have no control over at all.

Let me cut to the chase and give you a complete list of things you have control over. Here goes:

Yourself. You know—your actions and how you react to things.

Oh, and here’s a list of things you have no control over whatsoever: everyone and everything else in the world.”

Then he wraps it up with some excellent advice:

If you are facing a really big problem right now . . . Ask yourself what things about the situation you can control; then completely let go of everything else, and—and this is the important part—maniacally take control of all those things you actually do have control of. I promise you, you’ll be able to solve your problem almost every time.

What you will find in 99 percent of the cases is that you have so much extra energy and time and focus because you aren’t worrying about those things you can’t control that you will get through your crisis quite nicely, thank you very much, simply by putting your time and effort into those parts of the situation that you actually can control."

Have a great week. Let’s all find things we can take control of in positive ways. And bite into some fresh fruit to celebrate your freedom.

Goodly and Good-Looking Parents

I figured a picture was worth a thousand words but Lissa's awesome comment proved worthy of upgrading. Here's what she wrote: "They did love to come to the ocean! Dad always turned into a big kid—chasing abalone in the waves and then the waves would chase him. I will never forget when he turned his back on a wave and got drenched from behind! Hilarious! And Mom—just plain loves the ocean—especially "Mom's Beach" at Vandenberg!"

Two Sweet Things

Count 'em.

1. Awesome birthday cake. I believe it is topped with White Mountain frosting.

2. Classic VW bus. We rode in that tricked-out jalopy all the way from Idaho to New York City! But that's a story for another day.

3. Oh, wait. The title just said two things. But she got sweeter as the years went by. ;)

Potential

Every time I look at this picture, I peer into the face of a little boy with his whole life ahead of him. He could be an actor, a police officer, an athlete, a college professor, a comedian, a writer, anything he set his mind to be. I feel some regret as I think of a more focused life I could have created. Sometimes I still contemplate being a fireman. That last thought alone might explain why that did not happen.

I was in the high school choir, part of the bass section. I sang only one solo; the rest of the time I performed in the background. I played leads in a few high school plays but mostly because I could memorize the longer lines. I never made the basketball team, but made it as a defensive lineman on the worst football team you can imagine. (I started off on offense but after discovering how bad it was, switched over so I could play against those guys in practice.)

I’ve always been mediocre at just about everything I’ve tried, never focused, never really outstanding.
I guess the point here is back in the picture. If you look even closer at the little boy in the picture, his big sister is holding his hand. The people who matter most are there for me when I need them.
I don’t need a big audience to be a success. I may be “small” but I’ve got family, both then and now. And that kind of support can’t be beat.

Respect and Love

That's all the words I've got for this photo. I've been digging through my archive and am going to post a few favorites.

Looking Over Hurricane Pass

We thought we ought to walk awhile

So we left that town in a single file

Up and up and up

mile after mile after mile.




We reached the tree line and I dropped my pack

Sat down on my haunches

and I looked back down

Over the mountain

Helpless and speechless and breathless.

These lyrics from the James Taylor’s song, Gaia, describe precisely the forced march through the Tetons undertaken by many of the Walker clan way back in August 1982. It was truly the most epic adventure I had experienced up to that point in my life. Many suffered on the trek and after but my 17-year-old body felt little gravity. What I would give to have those legs now. Youth is truly wasted on the young. Anyway.

Lorin Walker, Merle Egbert, Mike Walker (get a haircut), Doc Miller, and Randy Drake somewhere near Alaska Basin. This picture, like some pie, may be part of a different hike. I'll verify.

We rode the Jackson Hole tram up in order to gain some altitude; thankfully, because from there it seemed that for every time the trail dipped down, it would veer straight up twice as many times. We climbed hard for more than eight miles, sweating in the summer sun, grateful for every shady switchback and verdant alpine meadow. We camped near Fox Creek and woke up sore. We hit the dusty path again. I had no idea of the greater reward waiting for us just up the next incline.

As the trail disappeared, suddenly replaced by sky and thin white clouds, we leveled off into an area called Hurricane Pass (10,372 ft.). It is still the most beautiful natural panorama filed in my memory: looking over a glacier and the eon-sculpted valleys at the three massive peaks of the Tetons (the Grand Teton at 13,770', the Middle Teton at 12,804', and the South Teton at 12,514'). Cool air streamed up and over the glacier near the pass where we stood, adding to the neck tingling initiated by the beauty of the scene. Pausing, reveling, before the blue sky, mountains, and water, you could feel your soul expanding to fit into all of that space—helpless and speechless and breathless.

Not my photo but it’s the closest to what I remember . . . thanks Matt on Picasa.

I Used to Care Less

Have I done any good in the world today?
Have I helped anyone in need?
Have I cheered up the sad,
and made someone feel glad?
If not I have failed indeed.

Has anyone’s burden been lighter today because I was willing to share?
Have the sick and the weary
been helped on their way?
When they needed my help was I there?

Then wake up
and do something more
than dream of your mansion above . . .

I was whistling this tune as I showered for the second time on Wednesday. I tried singing it but I kept being reminded of my dad’s baritone voice booming out whenever this hymn was on the program at church. And when that happens, there’s no more singing for me. My dad was a hard worker, always willing to lend a hand. I aspire to be like that. Anyway . . .

Once a year the university allots half a day for any willing employees to volunteer with the United Way. It’s called The Day of Caring. I used to ignore it and call it The Day of Caring Less. But a decade ago I dragged myself over to the stadium and now I wouldn’t miss it. A pancake breakfast, a free t-shirt, and a chance to do something for someone else.

In 2007 I was putting siding on a house for Habitat for Humanity and got my picture in the local paper. What a poser! (Photo by ASHLEY FRANSCELL/Daily Herald)

This year I was assigned to the House of Hope, a refuge and rehabilitation center for women with children and a drug dependence. We cleared dry weeds and debris from a fence line, then cleaned screens and windows. (Upper left, you can see the university spokesperson cleaning some glass and the university photographer snapping her photo.) Looking through the shiny glass of one of the buildings, I could see a cute mom playing with some little girls at a table. She looked up at me and smiled. The work was suddenly totally worth it.

It felt great to do something for someone else, and it was a plus that it was outdoor, manly work and that I got to pitch in with a batch of colleagues past and present that I truly love to work with.

Last year we spent the morning cutting things out of paper for an elementary school. Working in the sun and getting dirty was much more satisfying.

If you get a chance to do some real work for someone else, jump at the chance. It might make you sing or at least whistle.

. . . Doing good is a pleasure,
a joy beyond measure,
a blessing of duty and love.

The Road Not Taken

I don’t recall a lot from my earliest years (in Boise), mostly just warm summer days, riding my red tricycle down the sidewalk in front of our house on Harrison Blvd. I can remember a few traumas vividly . . . my lousy sister stepping on a nail in a neighboring lumber pile . . .  and the day before we moved when I was faced with the scariest sucker (literally) that I had ever met in my life, the carpet cleaning machine. I was terrified and buried my face and ears in a pillow.

But yesterday, when Mom (G-ma) was scanning some photos, she sent me this treasure . . . along with an accumulated wave of memories. Mostly I could feel the proximity of family and the freedom of being in the outdoors. . .  if you look in the back of that car, there are fishing poles and my dad’s axe is buried in a log back by the log-flanked firepit. Our family vacations were always in the mountains . . . not too far from whichever city we were living in then.

Mom and I were thinking that this was my grandfather’s convertible. Some of you older siblings will likely have more information you can share on that.

I have sat in a lot of red cars over the years, both as passenger and driver. Here’s a sample.

I spent countless hours happily snapping the dad-blasted metal ashtrays in the backseat of Big Red, our GMC Suburban (also in the background of the picture).

In Buhl, I got a memorable ride in our Polish neighbor’s son’s mid-70’s Corvette Stingray . . . the T-top off and my hair blowing in the wind. That was an impressive car, unlike any I had ever seen. Julie’s dad has restored a similar vehicle and that is the one I opt to ride in given the choice.

I once made record time from north Orem to south Provo in a fierce red 80s-era Trans Am the year I contemplated dropping out of college to earn money selling Pontiacs and Cadillacs. I don’t recall how high the speedometer recorded but I was using most of the numbers available on the right side of the dial. And I learned why true muscle cars feel so stiff when you drive them around town . . . they only become agile and smooth when they exceed 80 or so. While it (and the job) were a fun distraction, a wise old salesman later talked me into going back to school, insisting that a degree would allow me a wider range of career choices. I don’t remember his name but I will be forever grateful for his advice.

The wind also styled our hairdos along the Pacific Coast; this time Julie and I were in a Mercedes, being chauffeured and entertained by a strategic metals importer who wanted to recruit her to produce infomercials and other video pieces. The California lifestyle was tempting but we strategically opted to stay in Provo.

Most recently, I drove G-ma and the family to a church in Boise in Mom’s red Buick. The luxury car has aged since the days when Dad and I would drive it to Hobble Creek to go golfing but it still makes its way, gracefully, to pleasant destinations. I haven’t golfed since I golfed with Dad. He loved swinging a club and I loved spending time with him. For me, golfing and fishing just kind of lost their luster without him.

Now I live in a blue town. Our vehicles are black and blue and I usually dress the same . . . “like a bruise.” But back in the day, before a football rivalry spoiled all the fun of it, there was red. And I liked it.

You May Find This Surprising

This story may sound familiar. (Here is last April's account). Or it may make your eyes pop wide with surprise. (Arthur and Chris, playing ball?!)

In my family we often use the "sister-vine," a reliable form of communication that allows one to talk to any one of my sisters and have the information disseminate quickly to nearly all of my family members. This is the efficient evolution that sprang from "telegraph, telephone, or tell-a-woman." Sometimes the details are repeated and eyes are appropriately rolled in the umpteenth telling but they are always shared at least once. This is a good thing. Most families suffer from a failure to communicate because they can't handle the truth.

Coordinating a pickup game with my brother and nephews this past weekend was a little more difficult than just telling a sister but it was definitely worth it. My nephew Chris was about to be deployed (again) as part of our military and I wanted him to have a chance to break in his latest Iconic footwear. When I asked him about joining our traditional game, he said, "I haven't played ball in a really long time, probably years." When pressed to participate, another of my favorite nephews, Arthur, had a similar response, "I used to be good at basketball. Long ago."

I thought these two would add a new, fun element to our standard Walker/Drake smackdowns. And they did. I knew they were in decent shape but truthfully I thought I would be amused… I ended up being impressed. Both of them attacked the rim without fear and provided formidable defense. I truly enjoyed playing with them and would be glad to add them to my team any time. I had told them to bring some $20s and that we could set up a role-playing game after so they could back their money. They were good sports and put up with my nonsense/lies.

Gus and Sam scouted out the church gym at Bogus Basin to make sure there were no events to trump our hope for a game. Soon a text hit my phone: "At church. Looks like there might be a funeral...YOURS! Gus" And so it began. Though the severity of the trash talk was somewhat subdued this time, there were still some good hard fouls and good-natured banter among players.

We divided up and were determined to play until it hurt. Then we played some more. To save on words, here's a short video that Drew shot on his camera and then I grabbed with my phone off of an old TV set (that should explain the old-school quality). It will at least give you the flavor. (And the music may drive you bonkers after the first 20 seconds . . . prepare to mute the sound.)



Truthfully, we made a lot more shots than this video shows (or we would have played for six hours). I will try to get some other clips from Drew that better demonstrate the state of our hardwood skills.

The nearly three-hour sporting contest was once again wrapped up with a trip to Fancy Freeze where a record nine jumbo Boston Shakes (tasty shake on the bottom, sweet sundae on the top) were purchased by Uncle Clair, who demonstrated where he had hair by stepping up to the foul line and representing. Big thanks for the thick shakes, man! This stomach-stretching tradition once again tested Sam whose shake level was inspected several times. While it's never a contest—whoever finishes is a winner!—the seasoned veterans finished first followed promptly by the teenagers. :)

The rest of the evening was spent jawing with family members. There was a steady stream of humanity through Mom slash G-Ma's house . . . she was an awesome hostess slash dishwasher. The Walker Bed and Breakfast (and airport shuttle service) was really popular and let's face it, you can't beat the company or the price!

Coons and Karma Will Both Gladly Bite You

Our friends had set out a live trap last night to capture some noisy, pesky squirrels and a raccoon had gone for the bait instead. Before we could get to their house this morning, a meddling neighbor had unfortunately called Animal Control. (Unfortunate for him, that is.)

We wanted to eyeball the furry bandit . . . he growled and twisted and hissed as we approached. It looked thirsty so we dropped in an apricot, which he spitefully bit and spit and stomped to dramatically demonstrate his disdain for us.

We wanted to transport him up to the mouth of the closest canyon but our hands were tied since the local officials had been summoned. So we chatted with our friend Cathy for a few minutes, said our goodbyes to the masked intruder, and left a little depressed, knowing that Animal Control would likely dispose of him. I didn't even take a picture because seeing it later would just make us sad. I guess I should have got a shot, seeing how things turned out. (Update: Our friend Cathy had snapped a few photos so here's the optical proof.)

We went to the local farmers market and, a little while later, Cathy called us with some news that made our day. The tattling neighbor had picked up the cage to move it, stumbled over some tree roots, and to avoid twisting his ankle, let go of the captured raccoon. The impact popped the cage open and the liberated animal ran "like a bat out of hell" for the bushes, across the street, and out of sight.

The neighbor then had to call to report this development to Animal Control. Later the official vehicle was seen cruising the neighborhood but there was no raccoon to be found.

We were told that, not long after this incident, the neighbor went up to an equipment shed to prepare for an Scout outing and was promptly stung above his eye by a wasp.

I think the moral of the story is 1) to mind your own business, 2) be kind to animals, and 3) be prepared for nature to bite back if you ignore rules 1 and 2.

World’s Biggest Cherry-Picker

So, for the latest health challenge at work, I tried lifting weights. After the third time in the weight room, my body parts told me I should start looking for something less painful. Now, not all body parts are trustworthy decision-makers, believe you me; but triceps know their stuff . . . they are the next best things to having eyes in the back of your head.

Luckily, today, there was a game of hoops and they needed another guy. (Pick me!) It’s not my regular MWF group, these are Tues./Thurs. guys. They play games to 11 points, counting regular shots as one point and three-point shots as two. This works for me as I love to shot outside and those shots are worth more in this style of game.

We got beat down pretty hard in one game, I think it ended 11–1. So we rallied in the next one, played some defense, got rebounds, and our shots started falling in. We were ahead 9-8 and could win it with a three (two). I was getting pretty tired (these guys are quite a bit younger) so I thought “hero or goat” and launched a shot well outside the NBA arc. It swished, the game was over, and we lined up at the drinking fountain. Truthfully? I was just too tired to work the ball inside so I threw it up there and hoped for the best.

Winners stay on for the next game but I should have known better and subbed out. I was lagging and let my team go down and defend four guys on five. Luckily our guy got the rebound off a missed shot, hurled it downcourt to me, and I got an easy lay-in. I joked about being “the world’s biggest cherry-picker” and how the fruit was definitely in season. A couple of minutes later, the same thing happened, almost an exact replay. One guy on the other team cried foul, saying, “I don’t think we should count that point.” “Really?!” I said, “I didn’t hear any complaints when you had a number advantage on the other end.”

He continued to fume and his team seriously considered the legality of a player not running down to play defense and then getting easy layups. After letting them know I was not, at any time, in the key for three seconds, I decided to sub out and let a younger player finish up the game (which I’m sure my team won).

I hit the showers where the whole situation struck me as truly funny and I began to laugh out loud. I had never been faced with anyone who wanted to win so badly that he was willing to discount points made by a cherry-picker. I began to think of different scenarios where you could try to trim points. Anybody up for “He didn’t say ‘bank!’” This was not a game of horse. Count the basket, baby.

Born in the U.S.A.

I'm a long gone Daddy in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.
I'm a cool rocking Daddy in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.

A bus in South America is a strange place for a tall gringo to be feeling patriotic. But when the driver reached up and boosted the volume on his overhead FM/cassette player and Bruce Springsteen's pop anthem accompanied the slightly cooler air coming in through the half-open sliding windows, I started bobbing my head and singing along. While I was enjoying my lengthy immersion in a foreign land, in that moment, I was fiercely proud to be from the United States.

One of my most memorable Fourth of Julys was spent in Tulcan, an Ecuadorian city just to the south of the Colombian border. I was part of a small district of missionaries (pictured below, right) and we decided that we would have a big "birthday" party for Henry, a local Church member. We really liked Henry so we decided to splurge a little and procure some exciting party favors at a local shop for the celebration to be held in the cement courtyard behind the chapel.

There was some butterfly-shaped firecrackers, just a piece of paper, really, wrapped tightly around two tight wings of gunpowder with a string/fuse tied down the middle. These would violently explode with a flash and a bang, twice . . . always sooner than you expected. But the real highlight was a bottle rocket unlike any you've ever seen. The propulsion section and explosive combined to be the length of a Pringles can but half the diameter. This was attached to a 5- or 6-foot piece of bamboo. We would lean one of these against a chair, light the fuse, and retreat rapidly. The rocket/bomb would shoot up into the night sky and explode in a brilliant burst of fire. Mesmerizing. Then every time, we would realize, almost too late, that a smoking chunk of broken bamboo was hurtling back to earth. It was then time to quickly locate the projectile and move nimbly to dodge it. Thankfully no one was injured as these were above and beyond your typical pinched Whistling Petes or even Wyoming fireworks.

Okay, I just checked my journal and the bottle rockets were only 3-feet tall. Hmm . . . odd how fish grow every time you tell the tale. Here's the rest of the journal entry in case I try to exaggerate again:

"We ate cake, listened to music, and oh, they whacked Henry 29 times with a belt, once for each year. He just stood there and took it. . . . Then we had a little "appreciate Henry" program, then set off fireworks. (Snuck a little U.S.A. tradition in the party, on the 4th of July, even, IMAGINE THAT?!) 3-foot bottle rockets (big ones!!) and double boom firecrackers that made your ears ring. Wild, they were super loud and very dangerous!"

After 21 months of the natives suspecting I was CIA (dark suit, tie, believable cover as a missionary), I returned to the U.S. on my birthday (the longest b-day ever, as the 747 crossed several time zones.)

The airport in Miami felt like something out of Star Wars, all shiny and ultra-modern. Then, the other fresh RMs and I spied something gleaming partway down the airport terminal. We began to shout, then started sprinting, pushing each other aside as we jockeyed for position. We must have been quite a sight for the other travelers as we slid to a stop at a drinking fountain and started gulping down water like we had been stranded in the Sahara. Clean, cold water at the touch of a button. Quite a miracle if you think about it.

Coming back to the U.S. was like a dream. Our gray-green money looked unreal. And there were so many white people in one place, and most of them weren't missionaries. It took me a while before Ecuador became the dream and the States the reality.

Well, it's time to cook up some ham, potato salad, mushroom soup with french fries on top, and some rice. No wait, that was 4th of July lunch in South America, as close as the “momita”—the sweet lady who cooked for us—could get to a "gringo" meal. Here, it's burgers and hanging out with the fam. Now, we just have to decide whether to watch G.I. Joe or Independence Day on blu-ray after we go and see the fireworks over the stadium.

Have a great Fourth! And a big shout out to the men and women in uniform who keep this country safe and the cold water running. Your sacrifices do not go unnoticed.

First Responders

Today my 16-year-old is in Wyoming, near Martin’s Cove, pulling a handcart over dirt trails and across streams. As my wife and I helped him prep for the experience, I learned that my grandma’s grandfather, Robert Wilson, was one of the rescuers of the Willie-Martin handcart companies back in 1856. Pretty cool. (Thanks, Mom, for typing up the details and sending it to me and the tall boy.)

Robert Wilson was 30 years old when he crossed the plains with the Willard Richards Company. According to the journal of a fellow traveller, “On Thursd 28 Sept. 1848 . . . Robert Wilson caught a Sorrel horse white feet. 3 years old. Supposed Indians or californian horse.”

Compared to the handcart companies’ experience, my ancestor’s trip sounds downright heavenly, with “wild gooseberries, grapes, strawberries found up the hollows near the mill creek – hazle nuts growing in abundance[.] very warm day, air very warm eve.”

Eight years later, on Oct. 7, 1856, just days after Brigham Young made the announcement in conference that able-bodied men should go back and rescue the suffering handcart-bearing Saints caught in the early snowstorms, Robert Wilson (age 37) and another relative, Henry Woolley (age 35), joined the rescue party. They  travelled from Salt Lake City to Martin’s Cove, Wyoming, where the handcart companies were running out of food . . . freezing . . . and dying.

To get right to the point, here is an excerpt from Robert Wilson’s brother-in-law’s (William Blood’s) life sketch.

“The summer of 1856 was very dry and grasshoppers destroyed most of our crops. Many of the Saints started from the Missouri River to cross the plains with handcarts. There were men, woman and children in the company that left there late in the season. They were caught in a severe snowstorm and a call was made for men with horse teams to go and bring them in. They were out about two hundred miles in deep snow and severe weather. There was a large company of men with teams who answered the call. Father and my brother-in-law, Robert Wilson, were among the number. When they had traveled about one hundred miles, the snow had fallen so deep that it was almost impossible for teams to get through it. Not knowing how far away the handcart company was , many of the men became frightened lest they should not be able to return to their homes in the valleys , and as I have been told, the company turned their horses and started back. Father said, “I started to meet those handcarts and I will go and meet them or die trying.” On hearing these words, Robert Wilson said, “Henry, if you go on I will go on with you”. So these two started on alone and every other man in the company started back to the valley. They soon met some other teams coming from Salt Lake City with more provisions and horse feed. Also, they had word from President Young that they must go and meet the handcart company and bring them in.

Father and Robert Wilson met the struggling Saints several days before those who turned back could retrace their steps. They found the poor handcart company without food, some dead, and others badly frozen. They gave them what relief they could, then traveled on to the very last of the companies and moved them up to the main body. They loaded those fartherest behind into their wagons, and leaving the old handcarts, they came towards the valleys. They made a big camp by clearing the snow off and building big fires. The next morning the two teams returned and brought more into the camp and so on, until all the people had been brought into the camp. In this way they continued to work until they were met by those who had turned back. Here all the people were placed in wagons and they traveled as rapidly as possible to their homes in the valley. Some of those who were severely frozen lost their limbs and some died from hardships of the journey. It was a very trying time but the Lord blessed the brethren and enabled them to meet the belated immigrants and bring them and bring them into Salt Lake City.”

First on the scene. Sacrificing to help those in need. I feel blessed to have some of that blood running through me.

(If you have a pioneer ancestor who crossed the plains, you can find out their company and read trail excerpts on this cool site I used. http://www.lds.org/churchhistory/library/pioneercompanysearch/1,15773,3966-1,00.html) Here’s another great bit of writing I encountered as I researched this: http://www.lds.org/churchhistory/library/source/1,18016,4976-6178,00.html. The Ann driving the single team of oxen (at age 12) married Robert Wilson four years later in Salt Lake City.

The Month I Would Be King

My old friend, the empress of design, traveled from New York City to lowly Provo to visit her fam. And she slummed it a little yesterday, stopping by to see us and tour our remodel in progress. Her appearance here is the fodder from which this blog is formed. (Blog form fodder? Say that three times fast.)

Given a choice of king or court jester, I would definitely choose both. Here’s proof. More than a decade ago, I was working for the university’s TV and radio stations as the editor of publications. I built my little digital publishing kingdom as best I could but my ambitions surpassed my stewardship.

Once upon a time, a designer named Jeff and I zoomed way in on a photo (using Photoshop), and added a smiley face to the dot on a man’s tie. When we zoomed back out, you could not see the smiley, only the dot. So off it went to the press, a tiny secret, not visible to the naked eye. What fun we had, and it wasn’t even Easter.

A few years and another student designer later, Jen and I were working on the next month’s program guide. You know how sometimes something starts out as a joke and then  you think, hey it’d be funny if we really ----> insert thing you should not do here <---- . . . ?” Well, we were revising the staff box and I made myself king and she made herself empress. Then we passed the proofs along to our bosses to see if they would catch us in the devious deed. It was in the issue with funny man Bill Cosby on the cover and an article on Danny Kaye, Red Skelton, a few other classic comic greats inside. So we waited to see if they caught our early April Fools joke. Ha ha.

Well, as usual, we were the only ones who actually proofread the text that month. Then on a last minute whim, I decided to let it go to press. I grinned as I checked the press proof. I chuckled as I saw the thousands of printed copies in which I had eternally usurped the throne. Of course, I was still in lower management and the day of reckoning always comes.

A few weeks later, my boss, wielding a copy of the Bill Cosby edition folded over to page 1, burst into my office, pointing at it, pointing at me, red-faced and breathy. After I failed to convince him that we sometimes take ourselves too seriously and offered to give him a better title (supreme ruler, ambassador, despot) in the March issue, I was sent down to the directors office to meet my fate. After enduring another humorless sermon, “You know, that’s a very childish thing to do . . .,” I wandered back up to my office, sat in my office, and smiled for two years.

After that I left that job and went to “a better place,” a place where my supervisors treat me like royalty, giving me support and praise and true appreciation. “Associate editor” will suffice when you work with people like that.

The king is dead. Long live the king.

Me and T

So here’s my little grandson-in-law (yeah, I know . . . read below) poking his head in and saying “‘Sup?!” this past weekend.

Here are his parents. (This picture is not from the weekend but it captures their essence perfectly. They are not particularly big. But they compensate by being hugely silly.)

Here is their daughter, whipping up some banana bread with her great aunt.

We had a really fun Memorial Day weekend. My niece and her fam came to visit. She has pretty much summed it up on her blog so you can just read that and get the gist. Anyway, my pal Tenzin and I had a blast at the farmer’s market and on the basketball court (I lowered the hoop and helped him dunk a number of times) and at the duck park and at the pool. I guess I’m his great uncle but that really doesn’t begin to cover it, so I tried “super uncle” but that just sounded over the top. I think I’ve settled on “Outlaw Grandpa” since I am his grandma’s brother. That seems to best define the relationship because I've been missing the little dude and his fam ever since they left. As they walked out to their car, Lili yelled, “Hey! Why are you following us?” Truthfully? I was sad to see them leave.

Finally, of course, I took this great picture of us hamming it up. (Julie always try to take the credit for the really good pictures but it’s always all me. Ha ha ha.)

Changing of the Guard

Truth be told, I think of a great pair of well-worn Jordans the same way I feel about my brothers in the military and officers of the peace. They have protected me so well for so long during the worst and best of times, there’s really no way to express the sentiment in words. (Admittedly, these are just shoes and not people in uniform so, obviously, it's not an equal comparison.)

Anyway, today I played in a brand new pair of Jordan Icons, the same shoe Ray Allen (Boston Celtics) is wearing this year (see 'em tonight in the playoffs). My brother raved about their court performance, so I picked up a pair the second they went on sale. They are keepers. So I will take the old guard home and wear them on the church court for a while, then it’s out to the blacktop in the woods by my house. Welcome home, old friends.

A Challenge, A Contusion, A Little Brain Confusion

So I was going up for a shot last week and a guy raked me across the right side of my head (and eye). A little bit later in the game, I was defending him on a breakaway at the other end of the court. As he dribbled toward me I could tell he had decided not to take a jump shot but to approach the basket and try to get a lay-in. Over the top of me. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t really set on revenge but I was determined that he would not score on me, especially after the physical play earlier.

So he jumped and I jumped. I was going for the ball, and think I got some, but unfortunately his head and my elbow also met with some force (as evidenced by the nasty contusion pictured here). I guess I should have gone for something softer. I just didn't really have time to aim.

This exchange reminds me of a time when I was goofing with friends at the church in American Falls. So after a lot of running around, I had one hand on the doorknob that led from the kitchen to outside and the other hand held a squirt gun aimed at my buddy Brad’s face. He gave me fair warning, at least, ”Walker, if you squirt me with that, I am going to break your head,” but you know what you have to do if someone puts up that kind of challenge, especially if you are a a male teenager. I got two squirts off before he started his charge across the room.

As I twisted to get the door open, I realized, too late, that it was locked. I got it unlocked and was halfway out before I felt his fist smack into the back of my head. I staggered, then turned. Brad was holding his wrist and grimacing. It seemed he was hurting at least as much as I was, and maybe more. In the end, my head hurt for a few days. But he was wearing a cast for a long while, having broken several bones in his forearm.

Not sure what kind of macho madness causes us to stop thinking when a peer throws up a physical challenge. There’s a lesson somewhere in these events; somehow I think I am yet to learn from it in a practical way.

The Pickle and the Lion

My first wife and I have been married for 23 years. (A wise man once claimed that the first 40 years are the hardest so I am reserving judgement until we pass that milestone.)  Back when we were dating, my sister Jeanie’s family was living in Springville, just 8 miles or so south of BYU. One of our early “dates” was traveling down to visit her and her kids. The highlight of one visit was the feeding of a live mouse to their boa constrictor. We also liked going to Church with them as my nephew Chris-pot-ipher T. Norton Pickle would keep us entertained during the meeting. He had the biggest smile I had ever seen on a kid; he definitely put the “beam” in Sunbeam. For him, and us, it was a fine line between being reverent and covertly having a good time. We were so fond of the young fella that we even added “pickle’ to his name. We would say it, in all its glory, and he would say, “No, not pickle,” and we would say it again and he would respond the same until our voices grew tired.

Our pickle friend grew up, however, and my sister’s lousy family moved to Ohio. We missed them, so when the wife had a conference in the area, we were able to stop and visit the Rasmussens once again. The family picked us up at the airport and I squeezed in next to Shiloh in the family Suburban. As we rolled along the road I could hear singing. At first I thought the radio was playing at an extremely low volume. But then I realized that Shiloh was singing in a beautiful, but barely audible soprano. “In the village, the peaceful village, the lion sleeps tonight.” I leaned in to listen and then, of course, just as quiet and breathy, joined in for the chorus, “A-weema-wey, a-weema-wey, a-weema-wey, a-weema-wey.” This was long before The Lion King made the song more widely known and popular. Thinking about Shiloh singing never fails to makes me smile. I wish I had a recording of her singing it at that age. But the recording always falls short of the live performance and I can still hear her voice in my head when I think back.

Our Ohio trip coincided with the Pickle’s baptism. He was very excited for this event and we were so pleased to be there to share it with him. After the splash, we were back in the Suburban, and headed back to their house. The young fellow, the newest member of the Church, was in the very back area of the vehicle and when it was time to exit, he lost his balance and tumbled out onto the ground. “Well, I guess I’m not perfect any more,” he exclaimed. We laughed and were glad that our little friend still had his big smile and sense of humor.

Frog Frenzy

I so enjoyed my thirteen-year-old’s latest English paper, I thought I would share it with all of you:

Every year we go to a family reunion at Alturas Lake in Idaho. One time when I was looking around by the lake I found a swamp filled with tiny frogs. The frogs were small, no larger than your thumb. They looked as most frogs did; some were grey and some were green. They blended in so it was hard to find them in the swamp. Their skin was rubbery and wet but they weren’t as slimy as you’d think.

My cousins and I decided it would be fun to catch some of them. So we went into the swamp and caught a bunch of frogs. We put them all in the bucket and brought it to the lake. They tried to escape from the bucket with their sticky little feet, but when one crawled up, we just poked it down.

Then William, my cousin, shoved the bucket over and shouted, “Be free! Be free!” Then my cousin Davis shouted at him, “William, you’re such an idiot!” The frogs were hopping around and swimming in the lake. The only problem was that the fish in the lake eat frogs. We collected the surviving frogs and decided they needed a place to stay in. So we built a sand fort and put them in it. But then we heard an engine get louder and louder and the waves started to get bigger and bigger.

The boats had loud engines, which were followed by intense waves. Whenever we heard a boat we knew we going to have our fort destroyed. At the end of the day we released the frogs back into the swamp. We had come to the lake with many, but we returned with few.

Game Changer

If you are reading this, you qualify as “unusual.” Please consider revising your will to reflect my good fortune.

Seven-Year Mohawk Payment

So as I went to set up online payments for our Mohawk carpet bill I searched my e-mail archive for “mohawk.” What I found there made my day. Remember to take lots of photos while your children are young (and silly).

 

And, if you are young and silly yourself, you should e-mail your photos to all of your relatives with a note like this: “Once upon a time there was a girl. She did something interesting with her hair. YAY. It was a beautiful day...until mom got home.” Then in seven years you can laugh really hard. (Somehow, this makes paying for carpet a little less painful.)

Hammer Time and Imagination

Mjolnir. If you know what that name means, then this one is for you. Many are the times my dad dressed up for a parade. I remember when we lived in American Falls, he was fully Fred Flintstone . . . in character as he walked along in a life-sized replica of a foot-propelled car, saying “Yabba Dabba Doo.” And long before I was alive, he draped himself in a furry tunic, grabbed a long-handled hammer, and became Thor, god of thunder. That picture, taken in Kimberly, Idaho, has become one of my all-time favorites. The lesson is obvious. Never take yourself too seriously and life will be a lot more fun.

Thor’s hammer, Mjolnir. Symbol of his strength and the reach of his power. I had the Idaho equivalent of Mjolnir when I was living there as a youth. I think my Dad must have been out of his mind when he fashioned this weapon for me out of a power line’s crossarm—the wooden riser that holds an insulator (and electrical line) turned upside down and cut off short was the perfect “hammer.” He wrapped the handle with black electrical tape, and attached a leather wrist strap. Man did I have fun swinging that hefty chunk of wood-imagined-metal from one side of our backyard to the other. Somehow I never broke the basement windows with my superhuman accessory though I remember distinctly leaving healthy divots in the dirt on our hillside. Can you imagine arming a child with such a thing today? Madness.

I grew up in a home where we didn’t have a lot of store bought toys. Man am I glad. We spent hours with my brother, consulting on our houses in cities drawn in full color on a piece of poster board. We drove our Hot Wheels down two-lane streets, past fluffy green trees, dutifully came to a complete stop at intersections (where STOP was clearly labelled), and then parked our rides on paper driveways, in front of clean, shingled roof houses. Picture a GoogleMaps perspective but with black lines and bright colors.

We would play “guns,” a game of hide and seek but with moving human targets. Our fingers cocked and ready, we would hide behind the red rocker or at the bottom of a stairway, lying in wait for anyone whose heart rate, bladder, or boredom made it necessary to roam. Suddenly you would hear “BLAM!” and someone would drop to the floor, forced to count to a predetermined number before resurrecting and hunting once more.

Often we played football at the lawn at the Lutheran School across the street from our house in Buhl. While players came and went (the draft, free agency) it was usually my brother Justin versus my sister Jeanie and me. My brother Clair was the quarterback on both teams and would draw out the passing routes in his hand and we ran them with precision. We became whichever great player Clair esteemed at the time. I recall Jeanie was often Jim Brown, the phenomenal running back for the Cleveland Browns. Today I smile to think of a skinny white girl from Idaho catching passes out of the backfield, pretending to be a bruising black man from Georgia. We would play barefoot in snow or sun. Where the grass ended, there was an area topped with  gravel and stickers. When the ball went in there, we would walk in, grab it, walk out, pick the stickers out of our feet, then go back to the game. If the game got too physical or heated, I would run into the house, tears streaming, complaining to my parents that the game was unfair or too rough. I was informed that it was my choice whether or not to “play with the big kids.” It didn’t take me long to figure out that it was more fun to play and I’d go back out, where I was always welcomed back.

By the time we moved to American Falls, my head was filled with a hundred adventures and games. Those were days when I entertained myself by playing "basketball" with a tennis ball and a plastic ice cream bucket—bottom cut out, staple-gunned high on the wall of the shed. Or I strapped my sixgun (Ruger .22) to my leg and went out hunting lizard. My right hand hovering, ready just above my weapon, I'd turn a rock over with my left hand, step back, and, if a lizard scrambled out, practice my quick draw. "Wanna see it again?" I'd say in my best cowboy drawl. Or, if the weather were bad, I'd just read some Robert Heinlein, the Great Brain series, or a Louis L'Amour.

So back to Mjolnir. Ask a teen today and he will explain that it’s the name of Master Chief’s armor. You know, the soulless main character in the popular first person shooter video game Halo. Anyway, I often feel sad that the latest generation will hear the name of Thor's hammer and likely not know its history nor have the experience of personalizing myths by doing something imaginative and physical outside. For I was Thor, hurling his hammer. I was the Beast from the original X-Men, bounding around barefoot in the back yard.  (I did have unusually large hands and feet at one time . . .  I just happened to grow into them.) I was the avenging cowboy (my apologies to the horned lizard population). I was part of a rock band where I played a mean tennis racket and sang with my sister and brother. I was Kolchak the Night Stalker. For that one, Dad made me a lovely wooden cross/pointed stake just perfect for repelling or impaling vampires.

Today we have to throw ourselves in front of the TV and push our kids outdoors. They accuse of being mean but, in reality, we grew up entertaining ourselves and understand the  value of that process. We don't just want their eyes to get big . . . we want their brains to go there too.

I don't necessarily believe that imagination is dead. I just think it is less imaginative . . .  The storyline spoon-fed on a screen in front of your brain instead of being created and visualized inside of it. As with anything, I guess, it's about finding a balance. But I like the idea of leaving the screen every once in a while and going outside to play. I think I'll do that now.

Rusty Pipe Dream House

A wise electrician once told me, “there’s only two things you need to know about plumbing: 1. Crap runs downhill, and 2. Don’t lick your fingers.”

And a wise couple (who toured our five-year, uncompleted remodeling project, well, five years ago) said, “This house looks like a lot of work; you’ll want to consider that before you buy it.”

At least we listened to the wise electrician.

We love a lot of things about our house:

1. A young deer named Scruffy. My wife and son love him so much they plant an annual salad bar just for him and his friends.

2. Hummingbirds. We get to watch some serious dogfights above our front patio. And these are hardcore, high-altitude hummers, nothing like the soft, city dwellers in the valley below.

3. Spring. When the scrub oak and maples and mulberry trees all leaf out, we feel removed from the city, enveloped in our own verdant patch of forest (sans Ewoks).

4. Location. We live just down the street from a legendary football coach. He’s our Sunday School president. And it’s just over a mile to work, allowing us to walk, bike, or simply enjoy our fuel savings as we coast down to our jobs. It feels like we are at Sundance but town is just a short scrub jay's flight away.

But here’s where the plumbing (and some hate) comes in. (And what may have prompted me to watch a movie about a man who crawled through an underground pipe to escape from prison . . . see previous post.)

We got a letter from the city saying we had used an excessive amount of water this last month and that we likely had a leak on our side of the water meter (meaning, “your problem, not ours”). So after ruling out water sources in the house, I twisted the shutoff, walked out to the meter and watched as it continued to creep steadily along. Leaky line, yay. So we got a couple of bids, then went with the guy that seemed more likely to save a few of our scrub oaks rather than the one who was ready to bulldoze an eight-foot swath from our mailbox all the way to our front door. (In the end, it was bad but could have been much worse.)

Short story long, they pulled out the old line, a piece of rusty galvanized junk, then discovered three repair patches. Everyone we had talked to had emphatically expressed that you do not repair a leaky line, you replace it. Seems a pipe with one leak will probably leak again and soon. Three patches. I almost said a swear when I found out. If only such a thing were lawful in this state, I might have.

Anyway, thousands and thousands of dollars later (goodbye Hawaii, hello Ramen) we have a dark blue pipe running through our yard, some thick cement-like mud pancaked (now dry) on our street and neighbor’s driveway, and a fashionable drywall door in our storage room. Our water pressure is now reduced so our appliances don’t explode, but it is a definite adjustment when you are used to faster water.

One more thing I guess that we never expected to repair. At least we can sleep better at night knowing that we are piping water into our house instead of into the ground.

Now we only have to think about retaining walls . . . oh, and a fireplace treatment . . . and the deck . . . expanding the carport shed . . . . I guess we can rest when we are dead.

Bright Feathers and Redemption

On Saturday I watched The Shawshank Redemption, again, for the dozenth time. I’ve seen it on cable, VHS, DVD, and now as a streaming movie from Netflix on my iPad.

I always think that I can just sit down and enjoy the storyline and not get all caught up in it. Not so. I sob like an abandoned baby at the same points in the film every single time. It hits me hard and I can only watch it every couple of years as it is emotionally draining. I find that spring is a good time to screen it as the beauty of the season can somewhat offset the dreary gray tones of the movie.

After spending decades together in prison, the two main characters, Red and Andy are separated, in a good way (I’ll try to be vague and not spoil the movie, in case you haven’t seen it. Nope. Sorry, I have to share this, to make my point.) Spoiler alert. Andy escapes through the sewer line and Red remains in prison. And this is how Red sums up being left behind.

Red: [narrating] “Sometimes it makes me sad, though . . . Andy being gone. I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.”

People come and go in our lives. Those with whom we develop long, deep relationships are the ones that, when they are gone, due to distance or death, are the ones that we miss the most, the ones that we have the most difficulty reconciling their absence from our days.

In this solemn prison movie, I recognize some of myself in Red, a short-sighted man who lacks hope, perhaps too accepting of whatever hand he is dealt. In Andy, I see my brother, gone now 15 years this May. He lived briefly but intensely. He loved his family deeply. But, in the end, he sacrificed for others, was put through a torturous measure of hell, then was dealt a mortal blow. I believe in my heart that he has now received some measure of redemption and is in a better place.

Red thinks of his friend Andy like this: “When I picture him heading south in his own car with the top down, it always makes me laugh. Andy Dufresne... who crawled through a river of [crap] and came out clean on the other side.

In the end, they meet again on a Pacific ocean beach . . . a “warm place with no memory.” I can’t always see the last scene because it’s blurry . . . though it’s no fault of the film. But through the haze, I see a joyful reunion . . . devoid of judgment or earthly weight. Just sunshine, a boat, fresh sea air, and two men reunited for the last time.

Above is a picture of my brother, sitting on a pile of rocks on a Bolivian mountainside. Not a subtle visual, I realize, but all that I had on hand to represent the hard lot he endured toward the end of his life. His feathers were just too bright. Like Red, I just miss my friend.

So, in spite of its troubling themes, I do recommend seeing this film. It is the farthest thing I can imagine from your typical chick flick . . . there is nothing light, romantic, or comedic about it. But it is deeply moving and, for me, cathartic as I ponder life, death, and the stuff we have to go through to get to the other side, better for the experience.

Be warned: Shawshank is rated R for language and prison violence. Please watch it on a Clearplay DVD player or wait for it to show up somewhere in a form “edited for television.” Thanks.

Kindness, Respect, and Crabs

This past weekend my nephew Gus asked if he could subscribe to our alumni magazine and I promised to send him some links to the good stuff. I’ve been an associate editor for nearly 10 years—writing, editing, maintaining our Web site, and providing Mac support. And as I archive and assess some of the things I’ve written, one simple sidebar story comes to mind as one of my favorites. I thought I’d share it with him and anyone else who likes a good fable.

Quiet by Nature

"Why in the world do you walk sideways like that?" said a mother crab to her son. "You should always walk straight forward with your toes turned out."

"Show me how to walk, Mother Dear," answered the little crab obediently. "I want to learn."

So the old crab tried and tried to walk straight forward but she could only walk sideways like her son. And when she wanted to turn her toes out, she tripped and fell on her nose.

The moral: Do not tell others how to act unless you can set a good example.

"Each morning before I start lecturing, I read one of Aesop's Fables to illustrate moral values," says marine biology associate professor Lee F. Braithwaite, '59. "One year I decided to read them in class, and the students won't let me stop."

Some 16 hours from Provo, immersed in a different physical and spiritual environment, students in the marine biology term in Monterey, Calif., are offered a chance to learn and grow, tutored by their quiet but impressive friend, professor, and advisor. Braithwaite is on call 24 hours a day to guide them through any crisis, be it academic, physical, spiritual or personal.

"Dr. B. is, by nature, a very quiet person," says Robert J. Seymour, '03, who returned to Monterey in 2002 for his second season with Braithwaite, this time as a diver and teaching assistant. But Braithwaite's somewhat reserved personality does not prevent him from developing close relationships with his students, and Seymour says the professor regularly shares his wisdom on matters unrelated to the sea. "Every morning it goes prayer, scripture, Aesop's fable. And he says that should be the order of priority in our lives."

Braithwaite's personal example also influences students. "Seeing his daily life is really what hit me, what changed my life," says Seymour. "He's a professor that really does apply all the principles of good living and helps you be a better person."

Class comedian Whitney B. Wright, '03, also shares a personal bond with Braithwaite. "I really enjoyed just hanging out with Dr. B. Once I was not feeling well, and he gave me a priesthood blessing. He crossed the threshold of student-teacher relationship there. I really respected that, and I loved him for it because of how sweetly he talked to me. I could tell that he really loved me not just because I took his class but for who I am."

Melissa A. Tillack, '94, a former student of Braithwaite's who is now completing a PhD in Florida, relates this modern-day fable of kindness and wisdom: "There are nine big aquaria I took care of in the basement of the Widstoe Building on BYU campus. At the end of one of the tanks, there was a really big lobster. One day, there was a mother that came by with her three children, pushing a baby carriage. Dr. B. and I were behind the tanks but close enough to overhear the mother saying, 'Oh, look at this big crab. Isn't it neat?'

"And her children look closely and say, 'Yes, Mother. What a great crab.'

"I say to Dr. B., 'Should I go tell them that it's a lobster and then show them the other things?'

"And he says, 'No, don't do it. It's more important that you don't take away the mother's credibility in front of her children. And it really doesn't matter whether it's a lobster or a crab.'"

The moral, according to Tillack: "I guess it's the kindness to people and seeing what's really important in life, instead of proving you're the greatest. It's not about ego at all. It's just about the pause, the thoughtfulness."

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Warning: TMI Tangent

You already read the best part but if you are Gus or Curious George, the rest of the article (from 2003) can be found on our site at  http://magazine.byu.edu/?act=view&a=1231.

An archive of other stuff I've written can be accessed by typing in "Michael Walker" in the "Author" field at this address: http://magazine.byu.edu/?act=search. You can also type in Julie's name, go back in time, and read some of her magazine stuff. Happy hunting.