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.