There’s Always Next Year

Yep. I kept the score book from the tourney.
It was kind of a big deal.

With less than ten seconds left on the game clock, our team was down by one point. But we had the ball and enough time to get at least one shot off. I ran down the court as fast as my 18-year-old legs could carry me, then turned to look for the ball. Our point guard had dribbled the ball past half court and decided that he would take the final shot from well beyond the three-point line. The ball sailed through the air, we looked up, and held our breath. It fell way short... an air ball... and miraculously dropped right into my hands. I turned, there was the rim, so I tossed the ball up and it went right in. The buzzer sounded, and the game was over, 65-64.

We had just squeaked by Blackfoot Post 254, our first opponent in the Explorer Olympics, a multi-day summer league tournament that featured the best high school and Church players in southeast Idaho. And we were ecstatic. We had just stolen a game from basically the same team that had taken state during that year’s high school basketball season.

At the time I was working a night shift at a potato processing plant. And these “olympic” games ran all day. So I would get home from my shift, change into my basketball clothes, plop into the back of the Weaver’s brown van and drift in and out of sleep as we travelled the 45 miles from Roosevelt Street in American Falls to Blackfoot High School. Often waves of music from the cassette deck would splash in and then retreat from my dreams, usually Boston’s “Don’t Look Back” or Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Starting Something.”

The cycle repeated—trim potatoes, change into gym shorts, sleep in the van—another day, another game. In the semi-final, we played with more consistency and we pulled off a 57-45 win over a Pocatello team (basically the Highland high school squad), qualifying us for the championship.

Potatoes, gym clothes, nap in van. We played Unit 536 (Orofino) in the final game. We led by 6 to 8 points at each break but they made a big push at the end and we only won by 4 points in the end: 79-75. I had 20 points and only 2 fouls. It is rare that I score that many but all of our starters had double figures.

My lucky 80s wristband.

I can still picture the gym in Blackfoot where we celebrated, the weight of the “gold” medal around my neck, and the feeling of playing hard, leaving it all on the floor, and winning a championship. Not having been chosen to play high school ball, it was the closest I ever came to “taking state.” Well there was that one time when I was part of a choral quartet and we were awarded a superior but that was a subjective win… you couldn’t see the points on the scoreboard. Anyway, I digress.

Having won our region, we qualified to go back to the national playoffs. As I recall, that competition fell smack dab in the middle of potato harvest and most of our team could not be spared. As consolation, we played another qualifying team from Idaho and beat them by 10 points. That team went back east, made it to the championship, and lost to a New York team by 10 points… oh, what could have been. But there are worse things than having your season end on  a win… that kind of finish is so rare—63 of 64 teams in the NCAA tourney will be going home on a loss.

I keep looking to recapture that post-season feeling by recruiting a group to play BYU intramurals. But when the median age of our team is 47 and we are playing kids half our age, we usually fall out in round 2 or 3 of the tourney. Last night, it was a second round loss. But there’s always next year and the hope of ending the season on a win.

There’s always kickball this summer or maybe innertube water polo next winter… that BYU intramural championship t-shirt still eludes me. And if that doesn’t work, well, this is the year I will finally be old enough to qualify for the Huntsman World Senior Games. I hear they have some pretty competitive teams down in St. George each October.

If I listen real carefully I think I can hear a ball bouncing and soles squeaking on some hardwood right now... just sayin’.

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.

Looking Over Hurricane Pass

We thought we ought to walk awhile

So we left that town in a single file

Up and up and up

mile after mile after mile.




We reached the tree line and I dropped my pack

Sat down on my haunches

and I looked back down

Over the mountain

Helpless and speechless and breathless.

These lyrics from the James Taylor’s song, Gaia, describe precisely the forced march through the Tetons undertaken by many of the Walker clan way back in August 1982. It was truly the most epic adventure I had experienced up to that point in my life. Many suffered on the trek and after but my 17-year-old body felt little gravity. What I would give to have those legs now. Youth is truly wasted on the young. Anyway.

Lorin Walker, Merle Egbert, Mike Walker (get a haircut), Doc Miller, and Randy Drake somewhere near Alaska Basin. This picture, like some pie, may be part of a different hike. I'll verify.

We rode the Jackson Hole tram up in order to gain some altitude; thankfully, because from there it seemed that for every time the trail dipped down, it would veer straight up twice as many times. We climbed hard for more than eight miles, sweating in the summer sun, grateful for every shady switchback and verdant alpine meadow. We camped near Fox Creek and woke up sore. We hit the dusty path again. I had no idea of the greater reward waiting for us just up the next incline.

As the trail disappeared, suddenly replaced by sky and thin white clouds, we leveled off into an area called Hurricane Pass (10,372 ft.). It is still the most beautiful natural panorama filed in my memory: looking over a glacier and the eon-sculpted valleys at the three massive peaks of the Tetons (the Grand Teton at 13,770', the Middle Teton at 12,804', and the South Teton at 12,514'). Cool air streamed up and over the glacier near the pass where we stood, adding to the neck tingling initiated by the beauty of the scene. Pausing, reveling, before the blue sky, mountains, and water, you could feel your soul expanding to fit into all of that space—helpless and speechless and breathless.

Not my photo but it’s the closest to what I remember . . . thanks Matt on Picasa.

I Used to Care Less

Have I done any good in the world today?
Have I helped anyone in need?
Have I cheered up the sad,
and made someone feel glad?
If not I have failed indeed.

Has anyone’s burden been lighter today because I was willing to share?
Have the sick and the weary
been helped on their way?
When they needed my help was I there?

Then wake up
and do something more
than dream of your mansion above . . .

I was whistling this tune as I showered for the second time on Wednesday. I tried singing it but I kept being reminded of my dad’s baritone voice booming out whenever this hymn was on the program at church. And when that happens, there’s no more singing for me. My dad was a hard worker, always willing to lend a hand. I aspire to be like that. Anyway . . .

Once a year the university allots half a day for any willing employees to volunteer with the United Way. It’s called The Day of Caring. I used to ignore it and call it The Day of Caring Less. But a decade ago I dragged myself over to the stadium and now I wouldn’t miss it. A pancake breakfast, a free t-shirt, and a chance to do something for someone else.

In 2007 I was putting siding on a house for Habitat for Humanity and got my picture in the local paper. What a poser! (Photo by ASHLEY FRANSCELL/Daily Herald)

This year I was assigned to the House of Hope, a refuge and rehabilitation center for women with children and a drug dependence. We cleared dry weeds and debris from a fence line, then cleaned screens and windows. (Upper left, you can see the university spokesperson cleaning some glass and the university photographer snapping her photo.) Looking through the shiny glass of one of the buildings, I could see a cute mom playing with some little girls at a table. She looked up at me and smiled. The work was suddenly totally worth it.

It felt great to do something for someone else, and it was a plus that it was outdoor, manly work and that I got to pitch in with a batch of colleagues past and present that I truly love to work with.

Last year we spent the morning cutting things out of paper for an elementary school. Working in the sun and getting dirty was much more satisfying.

If you get a chance to do some real work for someone else, jump at the chance. It might make you sing or at least whistle.

. . . Doing good is a pleasure,
a joy beyond measure,
a blessing of duty and love.

Born in the U.S.A.

I'm a long gone Daddy in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.
I'm a cool rocking Daddy in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.

A bus in South America is a strange place for a tall gringo to be feeling patriotic. But when the driver reached up and boosted the volume on his overhead FM/cassette player and Bruce Springsteen's pop anthem accompanied the slightly cooler air coming in through the half-open sliding windows, I started bobbing my head and singing along. While I was enjoying my lengthy immersion in a foreign land, in that moment, I was fiercely proud to be from the United States.

One of my most memorable Fourth of Julys was spent in Tulcan, an Ecuadorian city just to the south of the Colombian border. I was part of a small district of missionaries (pictured below, right) and we decided that we would have a big "birthday" party for Henry, a local Church member. We really liked Henry so we decided to splurge a little and procure some exciting party favors at a local shop for the celebration to be held in the cement courtyard behind the chapel.

There was some butterfly-shaped firecrackers, just a piece of paper, really, wrapped tightly around two tight wings of gunpowder with a string/fuse tied down the middle. These would violently explode with a flash and a bang, twice . . . always sooner than you expected. But the real highlight was a bottle rocket unlike any you've ever seen. The propulsion section and explosive combined to be the length of a Pringles can but half the diameter. This was attached to a 5- or 6-foot piece of bamboo. We would lean one of these against a chair, light the fuse, and retreat rapidly. The rocket/bomb would shoot up into the night sky and explode in a brilliant burst of fire. Mesmerizing. Then every time, we would realize, almost too late, that a smoking chunk of broken bamboo was hurtling back to earth. It was then time to quickly locate the projectile and move nimbly to dodge it. Thankfully no one was injured as these were above and beyond your typical pinched Whistling Petes or even Wyoming fireworks.

Okay, I just checked my journal and the bottle rockets were only 3-feet tall. Hmm . . . odd how fish grow every time you tell the tale. Here's the rest of the journal entry in case I try to exaggerate again:

"We ate cake, listened to music, and oh, they whacked Henry 29 times with a belt, once for each year. He just stood there and took it. . . . Then we had a little "appreciate Henry" program, then set off fireworks. (Snuck a little U.S.A. tradition in the party, on the 4th of July, even, IMAGINE THAT?!) 3-foot bottle rockets (big ones!!) and double boom firecrackers that made your ears ring. Wild, they were super loud and very dangerous!"

After 21 months of the natives suspecting I was CIA (dark suit, tie, believable cover as a missionary), I returned to the U.S. on my birthday (the longest b-day ever, as the 747 crossed several time zones.)

The airport in Miami felt like something out of Star Wars, all shiny and ultra-modern. Then, the other fresh RMs and I spied something gleaming partway down the airport terminal. We began to shout, then started sprinting, pushing each other aside as we jockeyed for position. We must have been quite a sight for the other travelers as we slid to a stop at a drinking fountain and started gulping down water like we had been stranded in the Sahara. Clean, cold water at the touch of a button. Quite a miracle if you think about it.

Coming back to the U.S. was like a dream. Our gray-green money looked unreal. And there were so many white people in one place, and most of them weren't missionaries. It took me a while before Ecuador became the dream and the States the reality.

Well, it's time to cook up some ham, potato salad, mushroom soup with french fries on top, and some rice. No wait, that was 4th of July lunch in South America, as close as the “momita”—the sweet lady who cooked for us—could get to a "gringo" meal. Here, it's burgers and hanging out with the fam. Now, we just have to decide whether to watch G.I. Joe or Independence Day on blu-ray after we go and see the fireworks over the stadium.

Have a great Fourth! And a big shout out to the men and women in uniform who keep this country safe and the cold water running. Your sacrifices do not go unnoticed.

Make It Fun

Piano music, played by a thirteen-year-old, fills our recently remodeled great room. The notes echo into every corner of the house; if you're inside, you can't escape it, not even with headphones, trust me. The piano is such a pleasant respite from the clarinet. I enjoy when that instrument is left at school, as does our enormous gray cat who, from given her violent reaction to clarinet sounds, seems able to hear frequencies above and beyond that of humans.

I had my two weeks of lessons, like everybody else, but I did not have the patience nor the natural skill that my boy has. He has progressed to a point that I enjoy his practicing. I marvel at the beautiful sounds he has worked hard to produce from a hand-me-down piano that a school donated to the local thrift store and we picked up for a song.

My son’s piano teacher is a saint. Just at the point that I’m ready to rain down some hurt because he is hamming it up, dancing in place, being, in my opinion, a little too “creative” in his lesson, she encourages him by hooking him up to a microphone and grabbing her videocamera to amplify then capture his antics for eternity. His latest composition is called “Happyland Gets Destroyed.” In spite of this silliness, he is also about to do his first solo recital. I think we can all use her advice—to take our creative, spontaneous moments and apply that same feeling to everything we do in life

TANGENT 1: I used to hang out with a girl in high school just so I could sit in her living room and listen to her play the piano. I broke up with a different girl once because she liked the wrong version of a song on the radio.

TANGENT 2: Sophomore through senior years of high school, I acted in Oklahoma, Sound of Music, and played Nathan Detroit in Guys and Dolls.

TANGENT 3: I enjoyed more success on stage than I ever did on the football field. But that's a story for a different day.