Hitting the MZ Button

Location: Embassy Suites Hotel, San Diego ❖ 10th Floor

My wife and I get in the elevator and almost immediately half a dozen bubbly young girls stream in and line the glass walls. One of them holds the door and yells down the hallway, “Kiera, are you coming?... Are you coming or not?!”

“I’m coming!” is the reply and, seconds later, two more girls pop in from the hallway.

As the elevator descends, one of the girls looks down and, grief-stricken, blurts out, “I forgot my socks! I’ve got to go back to 10.” We didn’t yet comprehend why she was so distraught at this discovery.

“Hit the MZ button.” “We’re going to MZ,” one of the girls explains. And, lacking a “the,” we sense that she has no idea what those letters actually mean.

“What’s on MZ?” my wife asks one of them.

“It’s the most slipperiest floor ever!” the girl responds.

No socks. Slippery floor. Now it all made sense.

When we returned to the hotel later that day, we hit the MZ button in the elevator and stopped on the mezzanine level to see if we could discover why it was so magical for those girls. I expected to find some slick, polished marble or ceramic tile section of floor. But we walked the entire thing and it was all carpet. It was, however, smoother carpet than the other, more trafficked floors. The reality was not as thrilling as the imagined destination but, for those girls, killing time between sessions of their cheerleading competition, it was the place to be. But only if you remembered to wear socks.

We went next door to a cool beach-themed shop and I scored some crazy tie-dyed, striped socks (above) that I had passed on earlier because they were pricey and a little outside of my comfort zone. But after discovering MZ, I had to have them. And, well, it’s now gotten worse, or better depending on how you look at it. This is what came in the mail yesterday:

Now, when faced with a rough day, instead of saying, “Go to your happy place,” I now say “Go to MZ.” And I remember my socks.

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’.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

The Problem with Puppies

A gajillion years ago, it seems, I bought my oldest son his first pair of Air Jordans. I picked up my first pair of Air Jordan Xs at the same time (circa 1995) and when they started wearing thin, my brother, gave me a pair of the same shoe, same color, with the straps cut off the back. I still have them all, though the Toddler size 7s (pictured above) are being worn by a foot-high abominable snowman in my office.

Back in the day we decided to have my son put on my size 13 shoes and take shots on the short hoop out on the driveway of the rental we were living in. Then this past week I had him make the same moves on our hoop out in the woods by our house . . . to celebrate a brand new pair of Jordan Icons in Idaho Vandals colors (the Cougar Blues were not on sale). Anyway, I thought y’all would enjoy the comparison. Now he just needs to wear those out on a hardwood court so we can get another pair!

There is Only Now . . . and Now . . .

I am watching (again) what I consider to be one of the best television shows I’ve ever seen. Life. It only lasted a couple of seasons but it made an impression on me. A cop show but with a twist. Detective Crews goes away for a murder he didn’t commit, gets beat up a lot, reads a lot about zen, is exonerated, then goes back on the job . . . with an eye for the real killer and a taste for fresh fruit (you don’t see a lot of that in prison I hear). Some people don’t get this show because on the surface it looks like a gritty police drama. But its true message is in how the detective reacts to the world swirling around him in unpredictable ways.

Not a lot of people have heard of Scott Yost but he writes a column for a newspaper in North Carolina. And a few years back he told a story I continue to think back on. Here is an excerpt:

“A few years ago I was driving down some of the mountainiest mountains in North Carolina and I saw something that just blew me away. I mean, it floored me. A friend and I had been driving down these incredibly steep mountain roads—you know, the ones that are like straight down and wreak havoc on truck brakes. As you drive down this stretch of mountain road, if you have your windows open, you can often smell the truck brakes burning.

We had been down miles and miles of steep road, and that’s where I saw it. Off to the side of the road was one of those exits that goes straight into a huge sand pile. The DOT puts them at certain treacherous parts of mountain roads so that, when truck brakes burn out, those truck drivers don’t have to keep careening down the mountain to certain death—instead, they can exit the road, run into the mound of sand, and, with any luck, stay alive.

With this particular mound of sand that I saw, after miles and miles of steep downward road, someone had strung a little chain across the front of the exit and hung a “closed” sign on the middle of the chain.
As soon as I saw it, I started laughing, because it hit me: You might try, but you can’t really close those truck ramps. I mean, let’s say you’re a truck driver barreling down the mountain at like 150 miles an hour because you have no brakes left, and you’re doing everything you can just to keep your out-of-control loaded-down truck on the road, and you come around this corner on two wheels just looking for some way to stay alive. And you see this ramp off the road with a big pile of sand at the end put there for the specific purpose of keeping you alive in this very situation. But then you see a little chain across the ramp and the “closed” sign. So, of course, you would just say to yourself, “Dang, just my luck – closed! Oh well, maybe there’s another one a few miles down. I guess I’ll just keep careening down this mountain, picking up speed, no doubt to certain death.”

I very seriously doubt it.

Whoever put up that closed sign and that little chain committed an error I think a lot of us make all the time: he (not to be sexist, but I’ll bet it was a he) thought he was in control of something he really had no control of.”

Yost continues:

“In fact, I would venture to say that one of the principal mistakes we all make in life is pretending we have control over things we really have no control over at all.

Let me cut to the chase and give you a complete list of things you have control over. Here goes:

Yourself. You know—your actions and how you react to things.

Oh, and here’s a list of things you have no control over whatsoever: everyone and everything else in the world.”

Then he wraps it up with some excellent advice:

If you are facing a really big problem right now . . . Ask yourself what things about the situation you can control; then completely let go of everything else, and—and this is the important part—maniacally take control of all those things you actually do have control of. I promise you, you’ll be able to solve your problem almost every time.

What you will find in 99 percent of the cases is that you have so much extra energy and time and focus because you aren’t worrying about those things you can’t control that you will get through your crisis quite nicely, thank you very much, simply by putting your time and effort into those parts of the situation that you actually can control."

Have a great week. Let’s all find things we can take control of in positive ways. And bite into some fresh fruit to celebrate your freedom.

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.

The Road Not Taken

I don’t recall a lot from my earliest years (in Boise), mostly just warm summer days, riding my red tricycle down the sidewalk in front of our house on Harrison Blvd. I can remember a few traumas vividly . . . my lousy sister stepping on a nail in a neighboring lumber pile . . .  and the day before we moved when I was faced with the scariest sucker (literally) that I had ever met in my life, the carpet cleaning machine. I was terrified and buried my face and ears in a pillow.

But yesterday, when Mom (G-ma) was scanning some photos, she sent me this treasure . . . along with an accumulated wave of memories. Mostly I could feel the proximity of family and the freedom of being in the outdoors. . .  if you look in the back of that car, there are fishing poles and my dad’s axe is buried in a log back by the log-flanked firepit. Our family vacations were always in the mountains . . . not too far from whichever city we were living in then.

Mom and I were thinking that this was my grandfather’s convertible. Some of you older siblings will likely have more information you can share on that.

I have sat in a lot of red cars over the years, both as passenger and driver. Here’s a sample.

I spent countless hours happily snapping the dad-blasted metal ashtrays in the backseat of Big Red, our GMC Suburban (also in the background of the picture).

In Buhl, I got a memorable ride in our Polish neighbor’s son’s mid-70’s Corvette Stingray . . . the T-top off and my hair blowing in the wind. That was an impressive car, unlike any I had ever seen. Julie’s dad has restored a similar vehicle and that is the one I opt to ride in given the choice.

I once made record time from north Orem to south Provo in a fierce red 80s-era Trans Am the year I contemplated dropping out of college to earn money selling Pontiacs and Cadillacs. I don’t recall how high the speedometer recorded but I was using most of the numbers available on the right side of the dial. And I learned why true muscle cars feel so stiff when you drive them around town . . . they only become agile and smooth when they exceed 80 or so. While it (and the job) were a fun distraction, a wise old salesman later talked me into going back to school, insisting that a degree would allow me a wider range of career choices. I don’t remember his name but I will be forever grateful for his advice.

The wind also styled our hairdos along the Pacific Coast; this time Julie and I were in a Mercedes, being chauffeured and entertained by a strategic metals importer who wanted to recruit her to produce infomercials and other video pieces. The California lifestyle was tempting but we strategically opted to stay in Provo.

Most recently, I drove G-ma and the family to a church in Boise in Mom’s red Buick. The luxury car has aged since the days when Dad and I would drive it to Hobble Creek to go golfing but it still makes its way, gracefully, to pleasant destinations. I haven’t golfed since I golfed with Dad. He loved swinging a club and I loved spending time with him. For me, golfing and fishing just kind of lost their luster without him.

Now I live in a blue town. Our vehicles are black and blue and I usually dress the same . . . “like a bruise.” But back in the day, before a football rivalry spoiled all the fun of it, there was red. And I liked it.