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.