Boing Boing

This animated loop shows how some of my favorite players react to a shot bouncing on the rim. The free throw shooter gives a little lean, hoping the shot will spin and go in. Three hopeful rebounders jockey for position, readying for the impact of the fight for possession. Another player, well, it seems like a perfect time to adjust his jersey. (I miss you guys.) Have a great Thanksgiving. (And a shout out to Andrew who provided video.)

If you click on this, I think it will expand to a larger image.

Hearing My Dad Laugh

So back in the mid-90s, Julie and I sat down with Mom and Dad and chatted about their early life, from Dad's work on the railroad, on through the war years, and up to the time when my oldest brother was born. This is how I learned that Lorin was a "persnickety" kid among other things.

Our intent was to do more interviews but we pretty much wore them out with this session and never really got back to it. I am just grateful we got what we did. Fair warning: The video quality is not great. I am going to try to import it again later and get a cleaner picture but I was able to improve the audio quite a bit so you can hear the voices a lot better than in the original.

So here is 38+ minutes for you to watch when you have the time. I think you'll agree that there really is nothing better than hearing my dad tell a story and laugh at his own jokes on Father's Day. Except maybe for mom laughing at everything but his jokes. :)

Here you go.

Of This and a Lexus

Out of every family trip comes at least one phrase or moment that forever lives in infamy. We were heading to Boise this past weekend when a white Lexus sedan starts honking at the car in the left turn lane in front of it, trying to get it to proceed even when it was obvious that there was not space or time to do so safely. So, in response, Austen says, "What the heck?, white Lexus." So we instantly adopt this as our family's catch phrase. 

Feeling the need to document this gem before it was lost, I attempt to use my voice-activated smartphone. "Siri, make a note of this . . . " The phone cuts me off, and before I can say the words, "What the heck?, white Lexus," this comes up on the screen:

The universe (and its many smartphones) do indeed make fun of us all.

Hardley Speaking

2007 Excalibur Gray 200cc Vespa

So I wrote the majority of this post a week after I bought my scooter. Since then, I received a package from my brother that gave me instant street creed… a matte-black Harley cruiser half helmet… with a couple minor scratches that give it just the right amount of character. And Clair’s subsequent text message gave the Vespa its bemusing name: “  thought it was a perfect scooter helmet for your Hardley.” I laughed until I teared up… it was perfect. (FYI, it’s the third definition of bemusing: to cause to have feelings of wry or tolerant amusement.)

The perfect scooter helmet

So… I am close to doubling Hardley’s original 400 miles and have found it difficult to keep from smiling every time I ride it, bugs be damned.

Ever since I took my motorcycle safety course last summer, I have done a lot of thinking about how we move through life, physically, yes, but mostly psychologically.

If you’ve had any kind of contact with me recently then you know that I now scoot down the mountain to campus on my 2007 Excalibur Gray 200cc Vespa. I bought it from a Colorado football coach who was sad to see it go but needed the cash to help fund his next ride, an 80s-era Land Cruiser. I think he was tired of his fellow Coloradans thundering by in their redneck pickups, hollering, “Get a horse!” He bought it from a guy in Twin Falls, Idaho who must have never driven it. It had just over 400 miles, almost like new . . . except for a scratch on one fender. I guess it was parked and rolled over onto its side one time. I have found that it is easier on me to buy things with at least one scratch so I don’t feel the pain of putting the first one on there myself.

Anyway, after a maiden voyage on a Sunday, a spring snow storm, and morning rain only let me ride the scoot to work once the first week. I started formulating flimsy excuses to ride. Um, I need to run down to my wife’s office to see why she is working so late. Oh looks like she’s already home, guess I better head back home now.

After posting my new ride on Facebook, my SUV-and-testosterone-fueled neighbor suggested that my owning a scooter would necessitate my clipping a corner from my “man card.” While I generally can withstand the winds blowing from the insecure, this did get me to thinking. Are we defined by our possessions? By our mode of transportation? To some extent I think they are reflections of our taste, our style, maybe even our personality. But they are essentially tools, what we use to create, to participate. And that’s the important thing, I think.

I definitely love things that are well designed, that “fill the measure of their creation,” that have forms that aesthetically meet their function. I love the design and function of a pair of retro Air Jordans, the ones that I wear three times a week and the pair in the box that has the potential to carry me down the hardwood and help me elevate to hit a jumpshot. I love space pens because they are beautiful and dependable writing implements. I love the iPad mini I scored in a local drawing... again more for what it allows me to do that for what kind of status it might gain me in social circles. I love my  decades-old Stumpjumper mountain bike and would not trade it for a brand new bike with a lighter frame or better components worth thousands more. It has taken me down too many trails and roads, I understand how it rides, and we are comfortable together.

Last summer I tooled around on my buddy Randy’s Suzuki 1150cc touring motorcycle. It’s awesome and I loved riding it. But I guess I just don’t have the patience to gain mastery over something with that much muscle. I am lazy and impatient. And while I like the power gains of a clutch and multiple gears, I just don’t need it every day. I like that I can back my new ride into a tiny parking space that is so close to the gym that I could easily huck a basketball and hit the door. I like that this scoot is pretty new and should not require a lot of maintenance. I like that it is Italian.

This week I had the glorious moment that is universal for scooter riders: when I filled the tank with premium fuel, it cost me $5.77. Before and after my transaction, the guy at the next pump was filling up his SUV, and I’m pretty sure he scowled at me. A Vespa repair blog I now frequent expressed it better than I can so I won’t even try:

“While he stands there numbly, watching as the gauge on his pump passes sixty or seventy dollars, I’m climbing back on my Vespa, and heading back out to enjoy the day. And as I pull out of the gas station I can feel his eyes on me; I can almost hear him thinking, I’ve really got to get one of those.” --t.c.

When we visited Italy, especially Naples, scooters were everywhere, a way of life for most Europeans. But in America, my new blogger friend t.c. says, “Here, well, we like our cars. The bigger the better. We have five foot, two inch soccer moms picking up their kids in urban assault vehicles that get eight miles to the gallon and that could carry ten Vespas in the back. We give our large cars large names. We have the Armada, the Expedition; sometimes they are so large we name them after mountains, as in the Denali. We take three thousand pounds of steel with us to pick up a carton of milk.” Nailed it.

Hardley's first custom item: a bad boy Cougar decal

So I guess I am trying to find a way to justify being an American and driving an Italian scooter with a name that is Italian for “wasp.” Truth be told, I have been driving a a totally uncool minivan for years. Sure we tried to call it the “swagger wagon” or the “MAV” (for Mormon assault vehicle) but there’s not getting past the fact that it is a yawn-inducing family transport. It became mine as soon as a snowy winter hit our mountain as my wife began driving our “cool” 4-wheel drive. At that point I took a moment and decided that I am not defined by what I drive or ride. I love that minivan, because it has taken my family safely to Alturas Lake, San Diego, Portland, Boise, Seattle, all over Utah. For me, it is what it does, not what it is, that connects me to it.

A scoot is not a motorcycle. But riding a scooter puts me teetering on the fringe of motorcycle culture, but definitely not powerful enough to be a rebel of the road. Does it make me a wannabe? Visually, maybe, mentally, nah. But it does make me different from what you think when you hear “biker.”   

I can still picture the big red hand-me-down red bike of my youth. It didn’t look like much when you parked it next to my siblings’ blue-gray ten speed with all those speeds and the white tape wrapped handles. But it was mine, and it got me down the rode with a smile on my face.

There are a number of ways to travel. Why do we sometimes choose to take a Sunday walk if we could hop in a car and cover the distance more quickly? Sometimes simple is a nice change from fast.

For me riding a scooter requires more strategy than hopping on a motorcycle. Of course I also like to think that lumbering down the court makes me a more intellectual ball player. Sure there are times to be aggressive and loud. But slow and stealthy can allow me time to really think something through. I guess, at least for now, slow and simple suits me more than quick or complex.

I can get away with a scoot because I work and live in a college town. So I guess, to make a short story long, if you want to feel young, do things that make you feel young. I’m not ready to start feeling old. And I see a lot of kids on two wheels.

Addendum: So last weekend I spent time with Hardley’s polar opposite, the 1963 Cadillac Sedan Deville that my dad bought back in the early ’80s. Julie’s dad and I pumped up the tires, filled it with fresh gas, put in a new battery and, after 12 years of sitting in storage in Idaho, it fired up and idled strong. (Seems Clair and Arthur put in some quality parts.) I drove it up and down the farm road a couple of times and, other than some power steering noise, it seemed to want to take off down the adjoining country highway (or maybe that was just me). That was the first time in 30 years that I had driven it. I can’t really put that feeling into words so I won’t try. Anyway, the yin and yang is complete: Hardley weighs in at 308 pounds, the Cadillac at just over 4,000.

Yale Harker, physicist and expert vintage
restoration consultant extraordinaire

That car will require another blog post or two on its own… so I’ll save it for another day.

Laughter and Tears

One score and 8 years ago, after I had spent some time with my future mother-in-law, Bonnie Harker, she asked me a question, evidence that we had developed a lasting bond. “Even if you and Julie don’t get married, can we still adopt you?” We have always gotten along, mostly because she had a great sense of humor, that is, she would laugh and laugh (and laugh) anytime I made any attempt at humor. Of course, she had raised Julie, and her five brothers, all of whom are irreverent, warped, and hysterical, and it has always felt like they were as much my brothers as they were Julie’s.

Bonnie was always accepting and perhaps overly encouraging of shenanigans; and, honestly, I cannot recall a time when she meddled in our lives, or was severe or critical. She definitely was not your typical mother-in-law. But she was always up for an adventure.

For example, one of our first road trips was a clandestine visit to the Parker, Idaho Cemetery one spring. In broad daylight, we cruised in, parked with the motor running, then popped the trunk, stuffed it full of the budding gypsophila (baby’s breath) that was growing wild there, then sped off before we were noticed. (There was a lot there and I’m positive the pruning improved the plants’ future growth.)

Another time, we were sitting in the living room of my in-laws house in Idaho Falls and Bonnie spied a moose and her calf (maybe two) heading into the cemetery across the street. In seconds, she had her coat on and a camera in her hands and we were running outside into the snow, trying to get a photo. Never mind that she still had curlers in her hair, there were moose to see!

Bonnie and Yale have been there for so many family events—birthday parties, blessings, baptisms, weddings, graduations, Christmas mornings—that it’s simply impossible to count. As I’ve looked through photos this past week, I really love the ones where Bonnie is playing with her grandkids, often wearing a hat, a metal bowl, a basket, or something else silly on her head.

She would host summer “cousin parties” at her house. Her husband, Yale, would flood irrigate the yard, and the kids would tromp through the water for hours, blowing bubbles, and eating tons of snacks. I couldn’t bear that level of chaos but Bonnie simply reveled in letting the kids experience the joy of being a child.

Did I mention she was absolutely gorgeous? Back when Julie and I were dating, I looked at her mom, saw how beautifully she was aging and, since I am all about appearances, decided I needed to marry her only daughter. Best decision of my life. I am so grateful for the mother that she was and the children that she raised. They have become my dearest of friends and, while this week has been hard, I am so blessed to be with them and their dad right now.

Bonnie’s ability to remember or respond to the world around her slowly faded over the last few years due to multiple strokes. But I was able to make her laugh as we watched a basketball game just a month or so ago. The commentator had an interesting “broadcaster”voice and when I mimicked him and said something like, “That LeBron James is quite the athlete. He can take two steps and leap right out of the arena,” Bonnie chuckled at the ridiculous way I said the line. It reminded me of the time we watched Three Amigos and I would repeat parts of it in my best Mexican accent and we all laughed to the point of tears. I will miss her laughter so much.

One of the few things that have brought me some comfort this week is the thought that she has had a chance to hang out with my Dad. And he has been telling her the most terrible mother-in-law jokes imaginable. And she has laughed and laughed. First because she loves to laugh. And second, because none of the jokes have ever applied to her.

Life Is About Change

My nephew Marcus reported on his mission to Long Beach California yesterday. My mom, Julie, and I were impressed with how much he had grown in the past two years. He stood tall, spoke clearly, and delivered an impressive address about change and his experiences sharing the gospel.

My sister-in-law Janet had asked him a question before his mission and it went deep: "What do you want out of life?" He took that question, analyzed his life, and pulled three more specific, goal-oriented questions out of it.

Where am I headed?

Where do I want to go?

What do I need to do to get there?

While these prompted him to serve a mission, I think we can ask the same questions at whatever stage of life we are in, and they can help us to focus in on what is important and lead us to happier, more productive lives.

He also said that many of us live gospel principles in order to receive the blessings. (Guilty.) He called us out, saying this is "greedy." We should be doing the right thing for the right reasons.

It was wonderful to spend some time with Justin's wife, children, and grandchildren. They have grown into truly sweet, thoughtful, and successful adults, and I have a sense of just how proud he is of them. I am going to find or invent, if needed, reasons to see them more often.

From left: Adam, Janet, Ashley, Ryan (he's 6-6), Lyrissa, Marcus, and Verna. The little guys, Parker (pulling a face) and Zane, belong to Adam and Lyrissa.