Generous Clarity

I love headphones as much as my wife loves flashlights. And that is saying something. She loves flashlights so much.

She just got me a lovely headset that is sleek, light, bluetooth-enabled . . . meaning that they pair wirelessly with my phone and my computer. This will allow me to jog without my flailing arms catching a headphone cord and yanking the earbuds out of my ears while simultaneously pulling my phone away from my body and toward the cold, hard ground. Not that this ever happened last month when my buddy Larry and I ran more than 24 miles in our lazy man iron man challenge. Volume up is touch-sensitive . . . just slide your finger up the side of the right earpiece . . . so if you need to reach me when I am rocking out, you can just call and I can talk to you with just the touch of a button. Music resumes as soon as you finish telling me, in great detail, about all of the amazing Italian food you just ate while you were out of town . . . in case that happens again.

These headphones sound oh-so amazing. I am listening right now and they occasionally startle me when something in stereo makes a noise just behind and to the left of me. As is the case every time I get shiny new tech, I am listening to all of my favorite songs one after another and they all sound brand new.

Of course, the first really clean music came out of the stereo in my brother Clair’s room. Pablo Cruise, Loggins and Messina, America, Chicago… I understand you’ve been running from the man who goes by the name of the sandman and that your horse has no name. And music always sounds better when you have a dart wound in your kneecap. Or so I’ve heard.

I can still hear some of the amazing vinyl from a set of corded over-the-ear headphones at my sister Charlotte’s house in Jerome. The curling cable only let you go so far from the turntable and receiver so I just plopped down on the floor six feet away and listened in the dark.

And I remember borrowing my brother Justin’s Hi-fi Sony cassette player. The song playing as I traipsed from their apartment to our house in American Falls on a crisp winter day in 1977: “Don’t Fight It” by Kenny Loggins (Steve Perry of Journey doing background vocals). That guitar still rocks and rolls inside of my head. And will again . . . forever.

The first time I heard a CD . . . it was a Christmas morning in Idaho Falls. The song was Corey Hart’s remake of Elvis’ “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” The clarity of the sound burned the moment in my brain and I had to hand the earphones over to my wife so she could hear the latest wonder.

But it’s not just the music or the new technology. What it really comes down to is the generosity. Someone else always had the good stereo. And they were always willing to let me borrow it.

Finally, just before I was headed to serve a mission, I had a Christmas where I received white shirts, ties, shoes, all of the gear I needed for two years in South America. I truly and deeply appreciated each of these things. They were practical and needed and I was truly grateful. Then my brother gave me a pair of old school battery-powered FM headphones (complete with retractable antenna). Completely frivolous, unnecessary, ridiculous and exactly what I needed. He knew I couldn’t take them with me but wanted me to have the joy of music up to the last possible minute.

That’s why I love headphones. But let’s just keep that between you and me. (You can borrow mine, if you want . . . but just for a minute.)

She also bought me a book called All of My Friends are Dead but that’s a story for another day.

Stars and Pelicans

Let’s just say 2012 has not been the best year when compared to many that preceded it. And, for some odd reason, I really don’t feel like blogging when a lot of what I have to say will sound really whiny. Let’s face it; that’s not what you want to hear nor is it what I want to have recorded for the years to come. And besides you get enough of that when we’re together in person. But I thought I would share a couple of moments from this past summer that were definitely awesome and worthy of remembrance.

So for our family vacation we travelled down to Tampa, Florida to visit our longtime friend Jessica and her awesome mom, Diane. They let us stay with them, showed us some great places to eat Cuban food, and lent us their abuela’s (grandmother’s) Ford Taurus to tour the Gulf Coast. We made our way down to Sanibel Island, renowned for its shelling (as it sits at an optimal angle to the gulf and thus catches all of the good stuff on its shores).

There were so many shells there that you become really choosy about what you would pick up and carry around. And then, at the end of the walk, you carefully edit through to decide what to keep. We would wade and sometimes venture out to swim in the surprisingly warm and shallow water. The birds did not seem to mind our presence and would walk the shore and pick up shells right along with you. Ibises, great blue herons, gulls, and other, smaller birds would scavenge and only spook if you got right up on them. But the massive pelicans were the ones that would really steal the show.

When the boys and I were out in the water, either hauling up dinner plate-sized live sand dollars (which Julie deemed much too big and alive to keep), throwing a football around, or just swimming or splashing, the pelicans would occasionally hurtle from the sky and dive bomb right into the surf, plucking fish out of the waters around us. It seemed like they were only feet away in some cases, not caring how close we might be to their impressive descent. Sometimes the prehistoric-looking creatures would tuck their legs and float on top of the water nearby for a moment . . . but when we would stalk them, they would flap, kick, and sail out of reach with ease. Really cool birds.

Another moment that stands out was the first night at Alturas Lake this past summer. As Alex and I drove up and over Galena Summit to our favorite lake in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho, I was concerned that it would be a bad year to visit my childhood vacation stomping grounds because of the smoke generated by a forest fire near Stanley. But while it was hazy most days, that first night was clear. The second we pulled into camp, some Drakes were headed to the lake. So we hopped in their van and headed on down. I am forever grateful that we did.

We walked out to the end of the dock and looked up into the night sky. I have never ever seen so many stars nor felt that I could see so deeply into space. The Milky Way, the Big Dipper, that One Dude’s Belt, galaxies, and planets . . . it was truly incredible to view our place in the universe and to feel so blessed to live on this planet. It was humbling but also empowering to think that each of us are also one of God’s creations and of the potential and promise that holds for each of us. I did not get a photograph of that sky but the image remains in my mind and fills my soul with its infinite glimmering. (Yeah I’m not gonna write the word “twinkle” . . . I’m just not).

No coincidence that the memorable moments are when I am with family out in nature and have a moment to reflect on what’s important. Gotta find more opportunities to do that.

That’s all I got. Hope it was something. Have a great fall.

“All of this has happened before and it will all happen again.”

I realize that this post sounds a lot like some others from the past. But it never ceases to amaze me how a game so simple can always feel different and how some moments in basketball continually make me grin so big my face hurts. Yeah, that’s right, my face hurts and, I know, it’s killing you. (Ha.)


So Wednesday we are playing ball and, truth be told, we are getting beat up pretty bad because I was attempting to play defense on the other team’s best offensive player. (And I’m a horrible defender.) In the last game—because that’s the only one, historically, that really matters—we are down by three points when it becomes apparent that we are about to be kicked off the court we are playing on; about 60 or more boys attending a BYU basketball camp had filed in and were about to start their drills.

As we were losing, and time was limited, I did what I had to. I hollered out, “Next point wins,” called for the ball as I drifted to the left side of the three-point line, tossed up a shot, and buried it. The reaction from the boys on the sidelines was audible, almost palpable. I just turned away from the line and walked away like Jimmer after he made his half court shot against Utah. No big deal. :)

A Wurpee at the 10-11

So spring has arrived here in Provo. The bulk of student activity on campus and the roads I travel most is at its annual minimum (at least until the terrifying, thunderous herds of minivans descend on campus for women’s conference tomorrow). I won’t even mention that the ladies are using my basketball court for a service project. (What are they thinking?) I had my first Slurpee of the season this week and am now addicted to the sugar rush and obsessed with the purple specialty cups in all of their rolled aluminum purple glory. When our boys were little we used to take them to 7-11 often but I guess not often enough. One day Alex asked in his little boy soprano voice, “Can we go get a wurpee at the 10-11?”

So for the first time in weeks (months?) I feel like I can write something positive. If I had blogged before this today, you would have heard a lot about our cat dying unexpectedly, my back going out painfully, and a lengthy and gloomy laundry list of why life was pretty sucky. So you and I have both avoided that bit of unpleasantness.

All of the gloom of late winter reminds me of a story of another dark day a couple of decades ago. I was driving our gray Toyota Camry on the road that circles around the south end of campus. I was feeling pretty low and actually had the thought in my head, “Can it get any worse than this?” At that precise instant, a fist-sized blob of bird poop hit the car’s windshield right in front of my face, obscuring my vision and answering my rhetorical question to the heavens. Yes, yes it can. This particular answer lightened my mood and I actually began to smile, then laugh, then count my blessings. In place of self-pity, suddenly there was gratitude, especially the thought that I come from a family with a history of depression coupled with a healthy sense of humor. Despair can be covered with poop but poop can be erased with laughter.

With leaves on the tree and a fresh blue sky (sans poop), I feel a little more optimistic and am really trying to enumerate life’s positives. We have a new cat named S.C. (slender cat) and/or Rescue Panther. While this strange auburn-black creature does not replace the eight years we had with our gray puddle of cat, Ixi, this new one is another feline source of amusement. Today my back is well enough that my opponent in noon basketball remarked that I was trash talking during a play (not just before and after, as is usual). My Celtics made the finals when, at the beginning of the season, they were really playing poorly. And a few hours ago, I got a text with four of my favorite words in the English language, “Clair box on porch.” I highly recommend liking the same sport, same teams, and growing to be approximately the same size as my big brother. Such stature and predilections have some truly cool benefits. I did have some trouble deciding to go with classic Jordan Bulls red or modern Celtics green for our trip to the 10-11 tonight. Decisions, decisions.

And, biggest blessing of all, in just one week, I will have been married to the love of my life for 25 years. And I can tell you right now, the first 25 years are the hardest. (And if you get that joke, you understand that it can extend to 40 and beyond.) Here she is in the place I found her, somewhere near 5th North, just a few years back. A tall drink of water, not a wurpee, . . . but cool and wearing purple.

It's Not How Big You Are . . .

Today I played some mediocre basketball. But it was still great fun. And as I went down to play and as I returned back to work, I thought once and again of the games of one-on-one I used to play with my big brother Justin. (Bigger in spirit, it turns out; I grew a little bigger in stature). He would have been 51 today but he gave up this earth more than 16 years ago. I wish he had been there today, to play on my team, to help me be better. Like I've said countless times, brothers and basketball are synonyms in my mind.

In April 1995 my wife, oldest boy, and I went up to visit with Justin and my folks. At one point Dusty and I played basketball out in front of the house in Mountain Home, and for a while, it was just like old times. Vestiges of his former personality came out while we were playing—as we dribbled and hustled and took one-handed “horse” shots from the old green Chevy pickup. He even laughed a little as we talked, but then, the shadows of his illness would obscure his smile and he would disappear again. It was the last time I would see him, and I am so grateful for those brief, beautiful moments.

When short guys complain about tall guys having the advantage in basketball, I always tell them that I would gladly trade in a few inches for some skills. And occasionally I will mention my brother who would consistently beat me because he was a step quicker off the dribble and had an underhanded “scoop” layup that he undoubtedly saw and borrowed from another even older brother. The scoop can only be stopped with a hard over-the-shoulder clobber foul or a good hard flagrant shove; and I often did what I had to. In the end, he taught me that it’s not how big you are, it’s how good. I learned to foul hard and to keep a defender in front of you lest you be pressed to clobber his head.

So speaking of "a ringing in both ears," Dusty Dan sent me a few audiotapes while I was down in Ecuador (in the 80s) and, regrettably, I recorded over most of them … but on one of the last ones, he is talking (and laughing) with his wife Janet, explaining the wonders of stereo recording on his fancy Sony Walkman . . . a device which he later let me borrow anytime I wanted.

Here is the short clip I listen to when I need to hear some “straight” talk. It's not a lot but sometimes you hang on to whatever you've got left.

P.S. Dusty also let me consume nearly all of his Sour Cream and Onion Lays potato chips purchased with his paper route money; I consider this to be one of the great examples of sacrifice observed in my youth.