Ode to an Apple

Yeah I know that Mom just blogged about apples so you may or may not appreciate another riff on doctor prevention. But I really can’t help myself as I just polished a sample and it sits here reflecting dimly the light from my Apple computer display. And now it is sliced, photographed, and being eaten as I write this. It’s a baking apple and not terribly sweet; obviously a kindred spirit.

As fall frosts into winter, I am glad that I have a box of apples to remind me of the crisp days of the past few months. I have not been able to find really good cooking apples for a while but I stopped by our local orchard retail outlet (where we get all of that sweet corn in late summer) and they had harvested a crop of plump, burnished-red Jonathans. Usually Jonny’s are smallish and you have to peel a lot of them but these are almost Rome-size. There will be pie. And likely an upside-down cake or two coming out of this find. (Mmmm. Cherry apple mixed, we like to call it “chapple.”)

As prelude to fall canning marathons, we used to road trip down to Utah to pick fruit. We would load the back of Big Red (our spacious GMC suburban) with bushels and bushels of apples, pears, peaches, apricots, plums, cherries, grapes . . . I would sit in the back seat, flip the ash trays, then bask in the sweet amalgam of odors rising up from our fruiteous bounty. Then I would get to work because canned or frozen goods are tasty but there is absolutely nothing better than fresh, hand-picked fruits or vegetables. For some inexplicable reason, I was never hungry for dinner when we got back home in Idaho.

When I was young, it seemed that any time I wanted, I would ask mom or one of my sisters to slice me up an apple and they always would. It was always such a treat, made better by the knife-wielding hands of beautiful women who loved me. Today I keep a knife and cutting board in my desk drawer at work and eat apples all through the fall. Without fail, the tart and earthy flavor sends my mind back to “borrowing” unripe undersized green apples from neighboring orchards or to a framed mental picture of my dad “scrumping” an apple or other fruit off the ground near, I believe, any and every fruit tree he ever had proximity to. The look on the man’s face, no matter his age, was youthful, mischievous, and unforgettable. He was always glad to pay for boxes or bushels but he also believed that if it was on the ground, it was a free sample. I completely agree.

This year I begrudgingly planted another apple tree out in the wild part of our property, and a pear tree, one of my wife’s favorite fruits. She got the little starts on clearance, of course, and we finally threw them in the ground. We’ll see how that goes.

I’ll admit it. I love huckleberries because of their rarity, their amazing color, and flavor. But I love apples because they take me home.

Take it One Cougar at a Time

This is for my nephew who is a prolific writer and kindly offered encouragement for me to blog more. Always be careful what you ask for. :)

Writing is a lot like being mentally ill. There are voices in your head and they all want you to document their existence, tell their story in such a way that other people can truly understand and relate to them.

And when you are working on one of those stories, all of the other ones start screaming, “My turn, tell my story!” So you close the document and try to find an excuse to take a nap. But you can’t because of all of the voices in your head.

That’s when I turn to Annie Lamott (who I just channeled) and the best book on writing that I’ve ever read, Bird by Bird.

When it’s a huge and daunting task and the deadline is already past (yep this sometimes happens), I first think of the advice Annie’s father offered her older brother as he lamented the impossibility of working on his report on birds (due the next day). “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.” For me it’s been “cougar by cougar” . . . but I really don’t want to talk about it . . . even though Cosmo’s birthday is tomorrow; I’m trying to focus on how I’ve survived.

Anyway, the most important thing, Annie says, is to just start writing. Get the words out there even if they’re “let’s-pretend-she-says” crap. Allow yourself to have a crappy first draft. And then hope you don’t die before you can revise what you wrote and make it into something less crappy because somebody will find your crappy first draft and think you really write that way.

The thing that gets in our way, she says, is perfectionism. And she devoted a whole chapter to it. I think this is applicable to more things in our lives than just writing.

Here’s how the chapter begins:

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a “crappy” first draft.

I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.

Besides, perfectionism will ruin your writing, blocking inventiveness and playfulness and life force (these are words we are allowed to use in California). Perfectionism means that you try desperately not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived. Clutter is wonderfully fertile ground-you can still discover new treasures under all those piles, clean things up, edit things out, fix things, get a grip. Tidiness suggests that something is as good as it’s going to get. Tidiness makes me think of held breath or suspended animation, while writing needs to breathe and move.”

There’s some great stuff in between but this is how she ends it:

“Your day’s work might turn out to have been a mess. So what? Vonnegut said, “When I write, I feel like an armless legless man with a crayon in his mouth.” So go ahead and make big scrawls and mistakes. Use up lots of paper. Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist’s true friend. What people somehow (inadvertently, I’m sure) forgot to mention when we were children was that we need to make messes in order to find out who we are and why we are here—and, by extension, what we’re supposed to be writing.”

Good advice I think for those of us plagued with the compulsion to apologize for our areas of untidiness, both mental and physical. I’m not very good at making messes yet but thank you for letting me share some writing advice while I work to improve.

Oh. And happy birthday, Cosmo.

Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer

Miss Dahlia with her great aunt Julie.

Every time I finish a creative project (usually writing) that I really care about, writing the last few lines—no matter how pedestrian or mundane—always brings tears to my eyes (either out of relief or joy or fear . . . or some similar combination).

The only thing I can really compare it to is meeting your own child for the first time. You just stare in awe at that brand new face. And continue to stare because it is almost impossible and incomprehensible that you, you of all people, somehow managed to get something right.

Okay, in reality, you didn’t do it on your own, and possibly you just happened to be distractedly doing something else when the miracle began. But in the end, you were a part of something truly incredible and well, important for once. And you can’t freaking believe it.

Last weekend, I got to see my great-nephew Harrison and my great-niece Dahlia for the first time. It’s so awesome to meet little tiny people and to realize that you likely knew them before and you are seeing them again at the beginning of the wild ride of mortality. We stare at babies because they are tiny packages of pure potential—raw, unrefined, and limitless. And we wonder who they will become, and how we can influence them for good, and whether or not they are going to spit up. Mostly we hope they are happy and can sense just how much we love them.

Upside Down Life

I was surprised but pleased when my youngest son requested my dad’s upside down cake for his 15th birthday dinner. So I scooped out a bunch of pie cherries from my bucket and whipped up one of the better cakes in recent history . . . the crust crisp and chewy almost like caramel, the cherries tart, and the vanilla ice cream smooth and sweet. And just now, I projected back to a cookbook I once put together and a few lines I wrote:

Just a few years back, after Austen arrived on the scene, I made a cherry upside-down cake. That night, as I was putting the ingredients together, I was struck again with the sense that I was a Dad and I began to understood how much love our parents had put on the table over the years, a labor that had gone on without much notice and even less appreciation  (at least from me).

When Dad and I were alone, a few weeks before he died, he told me “…enjoy that sweetness while you can.” And while he was referring to the love between a husband and a wife and that invisible force which binds a father and his children, I think it also applies to any offering which comes from your heart. Sometimes, when you scoop out a handful of Crisco, you can feel it.”

In Three Amigos, one of the funniest movies ever, Steve Martin’s character Lucky Day says, “In a way, all of us has an El Guapo to face. For some, shyness might be their El Guapo. For others, a lack of education might be their El Guapo. For us, El Guapo is a big, dangerous man who wants to kill us.”

This has been a tough year for people I love and, on the edge of the storm, I have shared some of the turbulence and the tears. I am pretty sure they would trade in their unequal share of death, divorce, or disaster for the “big, dangerous man” in the comedy. At least El Guapo has a “plethora of piñatas” at his birthday party to help offset the pain (along with an attractive sweater). Though we are miles apart, I still feel as close as the kids in this photo and sense the unbreakable bond of true family.

Life has its downs but it also has an upside. My suggestion is to flip it over when you can and add whatever ice cream you can find in its icy cold freezer. You are also invited to come visit and I’ll do what I can to help, whatever your situation. I will also gladly make you a cake.

Round Pieces of Pie

Long time no blog. It’s been a busy August but now the boys are back in school and life is back into its painful fall routine (and its painful question, “Whose turn is it to get up at 5:50 a.m.?”).

In three weeks of the last month, we jumped in icy Alturas Lake, hiked to Sawtooth Lake, jumped into the not-as-icy but still brisk Pacific Ocean near Ventura, California, hiked around Jenny Lake in the Tetons, got splashed by cold whitewater as we rafted the Snake River, and crossed state borders so many times we couldn’t count. (Of course, every time we crossed into Idaho, we would belt out the state song, “Here We Have Idaho.”)

I could easily elaborate on each of those travel adventures but, suffice it to say, we had some good times with our tall boys (currently 6-four and 6-six).

Now to the main reason for this blog: to brag and to share a favorite family recipe (just in time for fall apples). Last Friday we had a neighborhood party/carnival. Part of that was a pie-baking contest and my wife signed me up.

A wise man once said, “I like my pie in round pieces, hot or cold.” I agree and add that I’ve never had a bad pie; some have been better than others, but there is only so much havoc you can wreak when combining pastry crust and sugared fruit. Am I right? And even the bitter rhubarb can be stomached if you have a scoop or two of vanilla bean ice cream.

So, I carefully followed my mom’s apple pie recipe, cooked it golden, and carried it over to the park fresh from the oven; it was the last entry handed over to the judge.

I was concerned because local apples are not in season and I had to use Galas and Golden Delicious, two varieties that I hadn’t included before. But the crust had rolled out better than ever before and it cooked up to be exceptionally flaky.

I thought I had a shot but there are some amazing cooks here so I figured I would get an honorable mention. So I still had pulled pork sandwich on my face when they called me up to the front and pinned a blue ribbon to my shirt. One friend said I looked like “a prize steer at the county fair” . . . that still makes me laugh.

Anyway, as I mentioned on Facebook, life is too short to not share (even secret recipes). So here is my take on my mom’s classic pie recipe. Please feel free to comment with your own recipes; I am hoping there will be another contest next year and I can win by stealing your crust recipe.

Verna Walker’s “Award-Winning” Apple Pie

CRUST

Sift 2 cups sifted flour (yep, twice sifted) and 1 tsp. salt into bowl. Take out 1/4 cup. Add 3/4 cup Crisco shortening (regular or butter-flavored). Cut shortening into flour with 2 knives (or pastry cutter). Mix 1/4 cup cold water with the 1/4 cup reserved flour to make a paste. Pour over flour. Gently mix together with fork, then form 2 balls with hands (add a little water if necessary). Do not overmix. Roll out one ball to fit your pie plate. Trim excess from edge.

FILLING

Mix together:

1/2 cup sugar

4 Tbsp. flour

1 tsp. cinnamon

Sprinkle over 4 1/2 cups of cooking apples. (Romes or Jonathans if available). Put apples into pie shell and dot with butter. Roll out second ball of dough for the top, fold in half, and cut slits or vents. Moisten edges of bottom shell. Press top down on edge, trim as needed, then crimp the edge together with your opposable thumbs (if available). Place foil under pie tin, bringing sides up to cover the pie. Bake 40 minutes in 425˚ F oven. Fold down or remove foil and bake 5 to 10 minutes more to brown the top. Happy baking!

He Shoots He Scores

I miss my Dad’s voice . . . a distinctive baritone. But I have been able to listen to him as I am getting some recordings together to share with my sister Charlotte (who requested them this past week) and the rest of my siblings as soon as I am able. On Friday as I hit a nice three-point shot from the wing on the court in the Smith Fieldhouse, I thought of this story, in his own words, that I had come across the day before.

“I played Church basketball and softball until I was 57 years old. I never quit until I was in American Falls. We went to All-Church which was the big thing in those days. If you beat everybody in your end of the state, you would go down to All-Church and they put you up in a hotel for a couple of nights, then they had a big All-Church Tournament. They don’t do that now but in those days it was a big thing. I was 27 years old and I remember they had the Smith Fieldhouse that had a floating floor in it. It was one of the first elevated floors with some kind of a support system set in there separate, anyway it was fancy. We went down to All-Church and I was the oldest person on our team from Oakley. And I remember going down and shooting that jumpshot out of the corner, the first shot, and I gave a big jump and kicked that up out of the corner, and it went swoosh. And the great feeling that was to go to BYU and play in All-Church. I’ve got a little trophy about yay big with him shooting a basketball. That was a big deal.”

I love being able to play in the same building where my old man played back in the day. I think he was a big deal.

Sock It to Me!

Every few years I try to organize and edit my closet. And inevitably, in my mostly-failed attempts, I come across a white sock with the number 30 carefully inscribed with a permanent marker on the heel. This find almost always has me howling with laughter.

A long time ago in a subdivision far far away, our friend Jessica, a young BYU student, adopted us and, at some point, practically started living at our house. Once, when she was doing laundry, we noticed that each pair of her otherwise identical white cotton quarter socks were labelled with numbers . . . let’s just say that Jessica was highly organized, maybe even a little obsessive with her things; she enjoyed keeping her world labelled and neat.

Given her personality and our family situation at the time (toddlers do not contribute to consistently tidy homes), we decided it would be hilarious to steal one of her socks. Not a pair . . . just one . . . that way she would retain a reminder of how unpredictable and disorderly life can be at times. We believed this would be beneficial to her regimented lifestyle as she loosened her psyche and moved forward.

So, with a nudge and a wink, my wife and I slipped a sock from the dryer and carefully hid it. (I’m not sure where we put it and, over the years, it has travelled from place to place, surfacing when least expected.)

In 1999 my wife suggested that we create some pictures of interesting places that 30 Sock had travelled to, then we could send the sock and the pictures to Jessica and have a good laugh. Well, I built some photos and then 30 Sock again went missing. Then every few years 30 would reappear. And I would laugh every time.

Now Thirdee Socks has her own facebook page. And, if you are silly (go ahead, take a moment and decide), you are welcome to go and visit the photo gallery.

Travels of 30

Socks are important but friends more so. In the near future, we intend to travel to Florida and deliver Thirdee to her rightful owner. If we can find it.

A Friend I Met on Saturday

After spying a rack of navy BYU shirts at 25 percent off, I parted ways with my wife and her mom; they headed up the Macy’s escalator to women’s clothing and I began the hunt for something bigger than a large.

Behind me came a high voice, full of personality, “Do you like BYU football and basketball?” I turned with a smile as the tone and inflection reminded me of the animated way my dad used to read The Wide-Mouthed Frog.

My new friend stood about 5 feet tall, a bit portly, a short crop of hair, glasses . . . his bus pass proudly displayed on a lanyard hanging from his neck. I said, “Yes, actually I love BYU basketball and football and I watch all the games. In fact, I love BYU so much I even work there.”

“Really, what do you do there?” “Well, I’m a writer.” “Really?! My mommy’s a writer, too. She was published once in Seventeen magazine but it’s mostly a hobby for her. . . . How do you get to be a writer? You must go to school… how many years of school do you have to go to to be a writer . . . a lot, huh?”

It continued like this for a few minutes, him asking questions, me answering, then asking him a few. He lives in a group home, it seems, and travels by bus to the mall so he can walk around and, obviously, make new friends wherever he goes. When he was ready to move on, I asked him his name. “Justin,” he said. I told him mine, said “it’s nice to meet you,” and reached to shake his hand. Unexpectedly, he reached out with both arms and gave me a monster hug. I smiled as I watched him turn and head out of the store to the rest of the mall.

I’ve never really had much tolerance for strangers inserting themselves into my space but my new friend had such an innocence and sweet personality and . . . let’s face it, he started with BYU sports. Also, I am working on the lesson from my own blog lecture on being kind, and I had recently met my brother’s friend Raymond and he was a cool dude, and, well, to be honest, I always cut guys a lot of slack if their name is Justin. So, really, being open to making friends when you least expect to, can be unexpectedly inspiring.

While I still have a ways to go to fulfill my goal of being kinder (and of acquiring more Polynesian friends), I’ve now added one more to my “other” category. And now I only have to hit the mall to see my new special friend. His bus doesn’t leave until 8:30.

I Went to Kansas City on a Friday, By Saturday I Learned a Thing or Two

I just returned yesterday from a trip to Kansas City, Missouri, where we attended a funeral for Lin, my oldest brother Lorin’s wife. It was a somber and reflective trip but also a time to reconnect with family, to laugh, to cry, and to share stories.

Even though years may pass between Walker family gatherings, I do not feel like a stranger. We’re are close, even with, in this case, 1,105.9 miles between us. Everyone at the cottage welcomed our arrival—it also helped that a goofy adolescent photo of me hangs on their “family wall,” which is described in my eldest brother’s blog here: http://walkerswalkabout.wordpress.com/2011/01/17/family-wall/

The room where Lin spent her last days felt peaceful . . . and sacred. Birds continued to fly in to the bird feeder outside the picture window. Lorin was also there and everywhere, comforting each visitor who was in need of comfort. (I also got hugs from my sister Charlotte and nephew Austin . . . two of many who had gone the extra mile to care for Lin as her cancer progressed.)

At the Saturday funeral, as Lin’s life sketch, eulogy, and a letter to her children were read, and musical numbers played, it emphasized to me that each life is a collection of memories and experiences. And when life ends, whatever relationship we have at that point is precisely what we are left with, at least for a time. This added perspective and motivation for me.

It was good to hear the stories; many I had heard before through the family grapevine but a few were new because each speaker had a different perspective and different interactions with Lin.

Her life is an excellent pattern we can use as we add stitching to our lives. In all of my experiences, I can honestly say that Lin was never unkind to me. I can be annoying and at the age that we saw each other the most, I could be truly unbearable. But she never broke.

Back in the day, her young son Austin and I had been running and splashing through the deep gutters of Orem; a system for watering the orchards that used to dominate the landscape there. Of course we were barefoot and eventually Austin’s small foot found a sharp piece of glass. I carried him on my shoulders the blocks back to the house, blood dripping down my t-shirt.

When we arrived home, there was some concern but there was also a calm, and once the injury was deemed not life-threatening, there were smiles. Admittedly, I was and can be annoying, always looking for attention, finding buttons to push. But I never recall hearing an unkind word from Lin. I am impressed with Lin's ability to let boys be boys, to “let him do him own thing.” Unflappable, calm, classy, but more than these, she was kind.

She accepted imperfections and she radiated kindness. I am not always kind… and that gives me something to work on. How we treat the people around us is more important than we realize. The funeral reminded me that we will be remembered for our words and deeds forever—be they kind or otherwise. Did I mention we should be kind? It's really important. That point made I can move on.

What I initially planned to share here is a story that wasn’t told at the funeral but at my mom’s 80th birthday celebration in the Sawtooth mountains where Lin made a dramatic surprise appearance. . . mentioned here in my mom’s blog: http://vwwalker.blogspot.com/2010/08/of-woman-of-courage.html

I had previously solicited stories about my mom (Verna Walker) for the birthday party and Lin predictably responded with a true gem. I feel that I must share it here for anyone who might have not heard it.

A Texas Christmas Story

by Lin Walker

Mom and Dad came to visit us in Texas for Christmas one year.  Micah’s #1 desired gift that year was a pellet gun and that fact got mentioned in the course of conversation with Mom. She seemed a little taken aback at his request but, as it so often goes in households with lots of little kids, the conversation was soon on to something else and we didn’t pursue it.

So on a particularly bitterly cold Christmas Eve, Mom asked if we had gotten Micah’s gift yet.  We said “yes” we had.  She asked where it was and we said we were keeping it in the trunk of the car until after the kids had gone to bed. She looked a little concerned but didn’t say anything.  A while later as the Texas winds howled, she asked very politely if we didn’t think it was a little cold to be keeping Micah’s gift outside. Now what was that all about—never heard of a pellet gun that was picky about its environs!

On further questioning we realized that she thought we had gotten Micah a pelican rather than a pellet gun. To this day, I have this hilarious mental image of a poor bewildered pelican shivering in the trunk of the car!

And the really telling fact is, she knew our family was probably weird enough to buy a pelican!

A Perfect Day in Virginia

So if this photo of my sister-in-law were taken today it would look something like this.

Thankfully there was no way back in the early 70s to hit delete or crop a slide . . . and so real life was captured in all of its cheesy splendor.

I will admit that when I first saw this image that Crecia shared, I laughed until I cried. I showed it to my wife and she said, ”I just love it so much,” and she also laughed until she cried.

Previous to this discovery, I only had the image below to remind me of that perfect day long ago in Virginia. We had just undertaken a cross country road trip from Idaho to New York City to visit my oldest brother, Lorin, his wife, Lin, and my nephew Austin.

It was Grandpa Rosel and Grandma Elaine and Mom and Dad and seven of the nine kids all packed into a VW bus. It seems we had ham sandwiches for every meal and sang a song declaring that fact every time we were asked if we wanted another.

We saw the sites in Washington, but most impressive to me was Arlington Cemetery, especially the flame burning near John Kennedy’s grave and the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

The best part of the trip, however, was when we visited Lin’s parents in Virginia. They had a pool, and not a public city pool, but a private one right by their house! And, magically, their freezer was overflowing with ice cream. I remember some vague explanation that a refrigeration unit had failed somewhere and Lin’s dad had more ice cream than he could freeze; the important thing to me was that we were encouraged to eat as much as we could. Every perfect day has its challenges . . . there were monster horse flies that would bite you painfully hard, but that was offset by being able to slap your sibling from behind and explaining it away.

When night fell, there was more magic. Fireflies! You don’t see many of those in Idaho. We popped the top of the VW and set up the small sleeping area there. Through the mesh screen you could see these fanciful creatures flitting through and landing on the branches of the trees. Full of ice cream and tired from swimming, you could only keep your eyes focused on them for a few minutes before drifting off into a sweet dream.

I'm Getting Paid for This?

This has been a week of interviewing intern applicants and reviewing student essay contest submissions and restarting servers and writing captions and looking through photos for something that will look good on two pages. Admittedly none of this is backbreaking work but it can be tedious if heaped on all at once. Then, the other night, my job was to go to the BYU/CSU basketball game and look at the signs that fans make and hold up during the basketball game. We've been following fan signs all season so there were a few new ones but mostly they were repeats: What Would Jimmer Do?; Emery, Thou Shalt Steal; Jimmer, Will You Marry Me?; and Fredette About It, to name a few.

Anyway, while I was standing next to the security officer and other event staff maybe 10 feet from the BYU bench (pictured), I had one of those moments that occasionally accompanies this job; where I look around and think, "Am I really getting paid for this?" This usually happens when I am on assignment. Like when I had to interview Danny Ainge in Boston or Andy Reid in Philadelphia for magazine stories I was writing. Or when I was standing next to a dinosaur dig with Walter Cronkite, having lunch a few tables over from Gordon B. Hinckley, or shaking hands with Fred Rogers (that's Mr. Rogers to you). Or when I was hiking Sicilian volcanoes and Swiss alps with geology students, observing falcon nests in Alaska, or collecting algae samples on Monterey Bay with biology students (and harbor seals). Anyway, you get the idea. There's plenty of unglamorous work but then there are some unbelievable moments. And I have been truly blessed with cool opportunities, big and small.

Julie and I pose with Walter.

My brother had a similar angle on the All-Star game so even when I'm feeling special, he's always there to one-up me. He had a great view of Ray Allen wearing some Air Jordan 2011s in LA and I had to settle for Jimmer hitting threes in Provo. Oh well. It's all good as long as you can see the ball hit the net.

I can't wait until high noon tomorrow when BYU and San Diego meet again on their home court. I'll have to settle for a high-definition signal from CBS and a view from my couch for that one. I'll enjoy it even though it will be harder to justify watching this game as "work."

300 Cubits of Opportunity

So I watched part of a silly movie, Evan Almighty, about a month ago. It was pretty lame, except for one scene with some great dialogue. It has stuck with me so I thought I would share.

God (played by Morgan Freeman), is disguised as a waiter and appears to the wife of a modern Noah (in a New York diner). His name tag says “Al Mighty.” (ha ha) He has the following conversation with Joan (ha ha) about her husband building a modern-day ark. Interesting take on how God might be answering prayers.

God: I love that story, Noah and the Ark. You know, a lot of people miss the point of that story. They think it’s about God’s wrath and anger. They love it when God gets angry.
Joan: What is the story about, then? The ark?
God: Well, I think it’s a love story about believing in each other. You know, the animals showed up in pairs. They stood by each other, side by side, just like Noah and his family. Everybody entered the ark side by side.
Joan: But my husband says God told him to do it. What do you do with that?
God: Sounds like an opportunity. Let me ask you something. If someone prays for patience, do you think God gives them patience? Or does he give them the opportunity to be patient? If they pray for courage, does God give them courage, or does he give them opportunities to be courageous? If someone prayed for their family to be closer, you think God zaps them with warm, fuzzy feelings? Or does he give them opportunities to love each other? Well, I got to run. A lot of people to serve. Enjoy.

Often you find truth in the strangest of places.

Getting Jimmered

In honor of Jimmer “Got Range” Fredette who blew it up (43 points) in the only Top 10 NCAA matchup ever staged here across the street in the Marriott Center, I have been hoisting some beyond-NBA-range threes all this week. So far so good as I have hit three of the six that were actually “Jimmers.” (Don’t worry I missed all kinds of shots closer in to compensate.) He’s two inches shorter but I hear his feet are 2 sizes bigger than mine . . . a solid foundation for establishing position and making moves. Picture a hobbit making his way through Mordor. Actually, please don't. Okay, back to the story.

I had a feeling that this would be a special year when junior Jimmer said he was pulling out of the NBA draft and returning to play for BYU his senior year. He had talked to Danny Ainge after a workout for the Celtics, according to USA Today: "I didn't know where I was going to be picked," Fredette says. "That was concerning to me. I knew if I came back, I'd have a great year. Danny Ainge told me he had one of his best seasons his senior year." So before the season started, when my buddy asked if I wanted to share a set of season tickets, I jumped at the chance.

Wednesday night BYU played San Diego State to determine which team would lead the Mountain West Conference (may it rest in peace, we’ll be playing teams like St. Mary’s, Gonzaga, and Portland next year). More than two dozen NBA scouts descended on Provo, students stood in a snow storm to get better seats to the game, then a total of 22,700 fans found their seats well before tipoff. In my almost three decades at BYU I have seen some fierce games (against Utah, UNLV, etc.) but this was in another realm entirely. Sold out.

And intense. And loud. Especially during the last five minutes when the Cougars played some of the best defense of the year, forcing SDSU to a standstill twice; absolutely stymied and forced to squander time-outs. Then Jimmer dropped foul shot after foul shot and put the game out of reach. I have some inkling of how hard those athletes work to become proficient. So when they win at a high level and are rewarded it is really satisfying for the athlete and for those that witness the performance. At the end of the game the student section stormed the floor of the Marriott Center and Jimmer was escorted to a safe spot behind the scorer’s table.

Like everybody else at BYU (and in the national media), our staff has Jimmer fever. We will be publishing a feature on Jimmer in our April magazine; we’ve been working on it for a while now. So we get to follow the news, look at all of the pictures, watch the games, and call it work. It’s not my primary responsibility but I am doing my part to stay current and knowledgable.

One thing we are following is the creative fan signs. Favorites so far: “Chuck Norris wears Jimmer pajamas,” “Urban dictionary, Jimmer (noun) One who is in range as soon as he steps off the bus,” and finally, “We’ve got Jimmer, your chances just got slimmer.” We also have another player named Jackson Emery who just broke Danny Ainge’s steal record. A sign for him reads: “I had another sign but Emery stole it.” We’re having a blast.

We're saying Jimmer a lot . . . the player, the noun, and the verb. Being “jimmered” is something else entirely. That’s just playing your hardest and still getting beat; running out to defend a guy shooting from well beyond the arc, arriving too late, turning, and watching the ball barely touch net as it swishes. Wondrous.

I wore my Boston Celtics hat to the game, backwards like a dirtbag of course; is there any other way? I should have made a sign like the kid in the picture below. I would love to see Jimmer represent BYU on my favorite NBA team. But I’ll root for him wherever he ends up; he’s so fun to watch. For now, I am content to go to every home game from now until tournament time. It’s a special year and a special team and I am thrilled to be along for the ride.

A Band of Brothers and Basketball

A wise man once said, “My skill level is only outdone by my modesty.” I find this to be my occasional mantra on the basketball court when I hit two shots in a row. Then my legs go and my jump shot goes somewhere with them. Sometimes I envy my teenage boys their youth. Not sure if the killer instinct you develop with age would be a fair trade or not. But all of this is just prelude.

In this week where two of my brothers had birthdays, I wrote a completely different blog post. It was too deeply personal, however, and I decided to keep it to myself. Another day and another edit and maybe I can throw it out here for y’all to read. In lieu, this is all I’ve got.

For me brothers and basketball are synonyms. Ever since I can remember we have hooped it up. And, even now, with time and space separating me from my kin, I still feel their presence during a particularly good string of basketball games. Like this week. No clock, no refs, just running (walking)the court with guys who love the game. I am truly blessed to have a dependable group of guys who put up with my ridiculous behavior and inconsistent style of play.

So, in related news, we are gearing up for another year of intramural basketball. Every year (almost against my will) a coworker makes me captain of our team (named Full Bleed because of its publishing origins) and, while I enjoy playing a “real” game with bad refs against kids half my age, I am at a point in my basketball career where I enjoy my noon ball more, and the noon ball guys I play with, more than that. So I am hoping to run the scoreboard and watch my team win.

Last year I decided to infuse some noon ball into my annual captaining of this intramural ball team. I had ventured the thought of putting a team together of just “noon guys” but decided to try this integrated approach first. I liked the results. The real advantage here is my work guys are gifted  designers and create custom designed t-shirts each year. (And you all know how I am a slave to hoops fashion.) But by adding noon players John, Larry, Paul B,. and Joel into the mix, we had some fun last year, scored a lot of points, and progressed further in the tournament than ever before. The game that will live in infamy was played on our “home court” last February. We were on fire, as they say, and the final score was 89-31. Unforgettable.

So this year I am adding a few more hand-picked role players. We are using a retro logo in white on the shirts and I’m hoping for red numbers “bleeding” down the front and back. The only person more excited than me is Larry but that could be said about anything in life. First game is Jan. 21st. I’ll let you know how it goes.