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!