A Challenge, A Contusion, A Little Brain Confusion

So I was going up for a shot last week and a guy raked me across the right side of my head (and eye). A little bit later in the game, I was defending him on a breakaway at the other end of the court. As he dribbled toward me I could tell he had decided not to take a jump shot but to approach the basket and try to get a lay-in. Over the top of me. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t really set on revenge but I was determined that he would not score on me, especially after the physical play earlier.

So he jumped and I jumped. I was going for the ball, and think I got some, but unfortunately his head and my elbow also met with some force (as evidenced by the nasty contusion pictured here). I guess I should have gone for something softer. I just didn't really have time to aim.

This exchange reminds me of a time when I was goofing with friends at the church in American Falls. So after a lot of running around, I had one hand on the doorknob that led from the kitchen to outside and the other hand held a squirt gun aimed at my buddy Brad’s face. He gave me fair warning, at least, ”Walker, if you squirt me with that, I am going to break your head,” but you know what you have to do if someone puts up that kind of challenge, especially if you are a a male teenager. I got two squirts off before he started his charge across the room.

As I twisted to get the door open, I realized, too late, that it was locked. I got it unlocked and was halfway out before I felt his fist smack into the back of my head. I staggered, then turned. Brad was holding his wrist and grimacing. It seemed he was hurting at least as much as I was, and maybe more. In the end, my head hurt for a few days. But he was wearing a cast for a long while, having broken several bones in his forearm.

Not sure what kind of macho madness causes us to stop thinking when a peer throws up a physical challenge. There’s a lesson somewhere in these events; somehow I think I am yet to learn from it in a practical way.

The Pickle and the Lion

My first wife and I have been married for 23 years. (A wise man once claimed that the first 40 years are the hardest so I am reserving judgement until we pass that milestone.)  Back when we were dating, my sister Jeanie’s family was living in Springville, just 8 miles or so south of BYU. One of our early “dates” was traveling down to visit her and her kids. The highlight of one visit was the feeding of a live mouse to their boa constrictor. We also liked going to Church with them as my nephew Chris-pot-ipher T. Norton Pickle would keep us entertained during the meeting. He had the biggest smile I had ever seen on a kid; he definitely put the “beam” in Sunbeam. For him, and us, it was a fine line between being reverent and covertly having a good time. We were so fond of the young fella that we even added “pickle’ to his name. We would say it, in all its glory, and he would say, “No, not pickle,” and we would say it again and he would respond the same until our voices grew tired.

Our pickle friend grew up, however, and my sister’s lousy family moved to Ohio. We missed them, so when the wife had a conference in the area, we were able to stop and visit the Rasmussens once again. The family picked us up at the airport and I squeezed in next to Shiloh in the family Suburban. As we rolled along the road I could hear singing. At first I thought the radio was playing at an extremely low volume. But then I realized that Shiloh was singing in a beautiful, but barely audible soprano. “In the village, the peaceful village, the lion sleeps tonight.” I leaned in to listen and then, of course, just as quiet and breathy, joined in for the chorus, “A-weema-wey, a-weema-wey, a-weema-wey, a-weema-wey.” This was long before The Lion King made the song more widely known and popular. Thinking about Shiloh singing never fails to makes me smile. I wish I had a recording of her singing it at that age. But the recording always falls short of the live performance and I can still hear her voice in my head when I think back.

Our Ohio trip coincided with the Pickle’s baptism. He was very excited for this event and we were so pleased to be there to share it with him. After the splash, we were back in the Suburban, and headed back to their house. The young fellow, the newest member of the Church, was in the very back area of the vehicle and when it was time to exit, he lost his balance and tumbled out onto the ground. “Well, I guess I’m not perfect any more,” he exclaimed. We laughed and were glad that our little friend still had his big smile and sense of humor.

Frog Frenzy

I so enjoyed my thirteen-year-old’s latest English paper, I thought I would share it with all of you:

Every year we go to a family reunion at Alturas Lake in Idaho. One time when I was looking around by the lake I found a swamp filled with tiny frogs. The frogs were small, no larger than your thumb. They looked as most frogs did; some were grey and some were green. They blended in so it was hard to find them in the swamp. Their skin was rubbery and wet but they weren’t as slimy as you’d think.

My cousins and I decided it would be fun to catch some of them. So we went into the swamp and caught a bunch of frogs. We put them all in the bucket and brought it to the lake. They tried to escape from the bucket with their sticky little feet, but when one crawled up, we just poked it down.

Then William, my cousin, shoved the bucket over and shouted, “Be free! Be free!” Then my cousin Davis shouted at him, “William, you’re such an idiot!” The frogs were hopping around and swimming in the lake. The only problem was that the fish in the lake eat frogs. We collected the surviving frogs and decided they needed a place to stay in. So we built a sand fort and put them in it. But then we heard an engine get louder and louder and the waves started to get bigger and bigger.

The boats had loud engines, which were followed by intense waves. Whenever we heard a boat we knew we going to have our fort destroyed. At the end of the day we released the frogs back into the swamp. We had come to the lake with many, but we returned with few.

Game Changer

If you are reading this, you qualify as “unusual.” Please consider revising your will to reflect my good fortune.

Seven-Year Mohawk Payment

So as I went to set up online payments for our Mohawk carpet bill I searched my e-mail archive for “mohawk.” What I found there made my day. Remember to take lots of photos while your children are young (and silly).

 

And, if you are young and silly yourself, you should e-mail your photos to all of your relatives with a note like this: “Once upon a time there was a girl. She did something interesting with her hair. YAY. It was a beautiful day...until mom got home.” Then in seven years you can laugh really hard. (Somehow, this makes paying for carpet a little less painful.)

Hammer Time and Imagination

Mjolnir. If you know what that name means, then this one is for you. Many are the times my dad dressed up for a parade. I remember when we lived in American Falls, he was fully Fred Flintstone . . . in character as he walked along in a life-sized replica of a foot-propelled car, saying “Yabba Dabba Doo.” And long before I was alive, he draped himself in a furry tunic, grabbed a long-handled hammer, and became Thor, god of thunder. That picture, taken in Kimberly, Idaho, has become one of my all-time favorites. The lesson is obvious. Never take yourself too seriously and life will be a lot more fun.

Thor’s hammer, Mjolnir. Symbol of his strength and the reach of his power. I had the Idaho equivalent of Mjolnir when I was living there as a youth. I think my Dad must have been out of his mind when he fashioned this weapon for me out of a power line’s crossarm—the wooden riser that holds an insulator (and electrical line) turned upside down and cut off short was the perfect “hammer.” He wrapped the handle with black electrical tape, and attached a leather wrist strap. Man did I have fun swinging that hefty chunk of wood-imagined-metal from one side of our backyard to the other. Somehow I never broke the basement windows with my superhuman accessory though I remember distinctly leaving healthy divots in the dirt on our hillside. Can you imagine arming a child with such a thing today? Madness.

I grew up in a home where we didn’t have a lot of store bought toys. Man am I glad. We spent hours with my brother, consulting on our houses in cities drawn in full color on a piece of poster board. We drove our Hot Wheels down two-lane streets, past fluffy green trees, dutifully came to a complete stop at intersections (where STOP was clearly labelled), and then parked our rides on paper driveways, in front of clean, shingled roof houses. Picture a GoogleMaps perspective but with black lines and bright colors.

We would play “guns,” a game of hide and seek but with moving human targets. Our fingers cocked and ready, we would hide behind the red rocker or at the bottom of a stairway, lying in wait for anyone whose heart rate, bladder, or boredom made it necessary to roam. Suddenly you would hear “BLAM!” and someone would drop to the floor, forced to count to a predetermined number before resurrecting and hunting once more.

Often we played football at the lawn at the Lutheran School across the street from our house in Buhl. While players came and went (the draft, free agency) it was usually my brother Justin versus my sister Jeanie and me. My brother Clair was the quarterback on both teams and would draw out the passing routes in his hand and we ran them with precision. We became whichever great player Clair esteemed at the time. I recall Jeanie was often Jim Brown, the phenomenal running back for the Cleveland Browns. Today I smile to think of a skinny white girl from Idaho catching passes out of the backfield, pretending to be a bruising black man from Georgia. We would play barefoot in snow or sun. Where the grass ended, there was an area topped with  gravel and stickers. When the ball went in there, we would walk in, grab it, walk out, pick the stickers out of our feet, then go back to the game. If the game got too physical or heated, I would run into the house, tears streaming, complaining to my parents that the game was unfair or too rough. I was informed that it was my choice whether or not to “play with the big kids.” It didn’t take me long to figure out that it was more fun to play and I’d go back out, where I was always welcomed back.

By the time we moved to American Falls, my head was filled with a hundred adventures and games. Those were days when I entertained myself by playing "basketball" with a tennis ball and a plastic ice cream bucket—bottom cut out, staple-gunned high on the wall of the shed. Or I strapped my sixgun (Ruger .22) to my leg and went out hunting lizard. My right hand hovering, ready just above my weapon, I'd turn a rock over with my left hand, step back, and, if a lizard scrambled out, practice my quick draw. "Wanna see it again?" I'd say in my best cowboy drawl. Or, if the weather were bad, I'd just read some Robert Heinlein, the Great Brain series, or a Louis L'Amour.

So back to Mjolnir. Ask a teen today and he will explain that it’s the name of Master Chief’s armor. You know, the soulless main character in the popular first person shooter video game Halo. Anyway, I often feel sad that the latest generation will hear the name of Thor's hammer and likely not know its history nor have the experience of personalizing myths by doing something imaginative and physical outside. For I was Thor, hurling his hammer. I was the Beast from the original X-Men, bounding around barefoot in the back yard.  (I did have unusually large hands and feet at one time . . .  I just happened to grow into them.) I was the avenging cowboy (my apologies to the horned lizard population). I was part of a rock band where I played a mean tennis racket and sang with my sister and brother. I was Kolchak the Night Stalker. For that one, Dad made me a lovely wooden cross/pointed stake just perfect for repelling or impaling vampires.

Today we have to throw ourselves in front of the TV and push our kids outdoors. They accuse of being mean but, in reality, we grew up entertaining ourselves and understand the  value of that process. We don't just want their eyes to get big . . . we want their brains to go there too.

I don't necessarily believe that imagination is dead. I just think it is less imaginative . . .  The storyline spoon-fed on a screen in front of your brain instead of being created and visualized inside of it. As with anything, I guess, it's about finding a balance. But I like the idea of leaving the screen every once in a while and going outside to play. I think I'll do that now.

Rusty Pipe Dream House

A wise electrician once told me, “there’s only two things you need to know about plumbing: 1. Crap runs downhill, and 2. Don’t lick your fingers.”

And a wise couple (who toured our five-year, uncompleted remodeling project, well, five years ago) said, “This house looks like a lot of work; you’ll want to consider that before you buy it.”

At least we listened to the wise electrician.

We love a lot of things about our house:

1. A young deer named Scruffy. My wife and son love him so much they plant an annual salad bar just for him and his friends.

2. Hummingbirds. We get to watch some serious dogfights above our front patio. And these are hardcore, high-altitude hummers, nothing like the soft, city dwellers in the valley below.

3. Spring. When the scrub oak and maples and mulberry trees all leaf out, we feel removed from the city, enveloped in our own verdant patch of forest (sans Ewoks).

4. Location. We live just down the street from a legendary football coach. He’s our Sunday School president. And it’s just over a mile to work, allowing us to walk, bike, or simply enjoy our fuel savings as we coast down to our jobs. It feels like we are at Sundance but town is just a short scrub jay's flight away.

But here’s where the plumbing (and some hate) comes in. (And what may have prompted me to watch a movie about a man who crawled through an underground pipe to escape from prison . . . see previous post.)

We got a letter from the city saying we had used an excessive amount of water this last month and that we likely had a leak on our side of the water meter (meaning, “your problem, not ours”). So after ruling out water sources in the house, I twisted the shutoff, walked out to the meter and watched as it continued to creep steadily along. Leaky line, yay. So we got a couple of bids, then went with the guy that seemed more likely to save a few of our scrub oaks rather than the one who was ready to bulldoze an eight-foot swath from our mailbox all the way to our front door. (In the end, it was bad but could have been much worse.)

Short story long, they pulled out the old line, a piece of rusty galvanized junk, then discovered three repair patches. Everyone we had talked to had emphatically expressed that you do not repair a leaky line, you replace it. Seems a pipe with one leak will probably leak again and soon. Three patches. I almost said a swear when I found out. If only such a thing were lawful in this state, I might have.

Anyway, thousands and thousands of dollars later (goodbye Hawaii, hello Ramen) we have a dark blue pipe running through our yard, some thick cement-like mud pancaked (now dry) on our street and neighbor’s driveway, and a fashionable drywall door in our storage room. Our water pressure is now reduced so our appliances don’t explode, but it is a definite adjustment when you are used to faster water.

One more thing I guess that we never expected to repair. At least we can sleep better at night knowing that we are piping water into our house instead of into the ground.

Now we only have to think about retaining walls . . . oh, and a fireplace treatment . . . and the deck . . . expanding the carport shed . . . . I guess we can rest when we are dead.

Bright Feathers and Redemption

On Saturday I watched The Shawshank Redemption, again, for the dozenth time. I’ve seen it on cable, VHS, DVD, and now as a streaming movie from Netflix on my iPad.

I always think that I can just sit down and enjoy the storyline and not get all caught up in it. Not so. I sob like an abandoned baby at the same points in the film every single time. It hits me hard and I can only watch it every couple of years as it is emotionally draining. I find that spring is a good time to screen it as the beauty of the season can somewhat offset the dreary gray tones of the movie.

After spending decades together in prison, the two main characters, Red and Andy are separated, in a good way (I’ll try to be vague and not spoil the movie, in case you haven’t seen it. Nope. Sorry, I have to share this, to make my point.) Spoiler alert. Andy escapes through the sewer line and Red remains in prison. And this is how Red sums up being left behind.

Red: [narrating] “Sometimes it makes me sad, though . . . Andy being gone. I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.”

People come and go in our lives. Those with whom we develop long, deep relationships are the ones that, when they are gone, due to distance or death, are the ones that we miss the most, the ones that we have the most difficulty reconciling their absence from our days.

In this solemn prison movie, I recognize some of myself in Red, a short-sighted man who lacks hope, perhaps too accepting of whatever hand he is dealt. In Andy, I see my brother, gone now 15 years this May. He lived briefly but intensely. He loved his family deeply. But, in the end, he sacrificed for others, was put through a torturous measure of hell, then was dealt a mortal blow. I believe in my heart that he has now received some measure of redemption and is in a better place.

Red thinks of his friend Andy like this: “When I picture him heading south in his own car with the top down, it always makes me laugh. Andy Dufresne... who crawled through a river of [crap] and came out clean on the other side.

In the end, they meet again on a Pacific ocean beach . . . a “warm place with no memory.” I can’t always see the last scene because it’s blurry . . . though it’s no fault of the film. But through the haze, I see a joyful reunion . . . devoid of judgment or earthly weight. Just sunshine, a boat, fresh sea air, and two men reunited for the last time.

Above is a picture of my brother, sitting on a pile of rocks on a Bolivian mountainside. Not a subtle visual, I realize, but all that I had on hand to represent the hard lot he endured toward the end of his life. His feathers were just too bright. Like Red, I just miss my friend.

So, in spite of its troubling themes, I do recommend seeing this film. It is the farthest thing I can imagine from your typical chick flick . . . there is nothing light, romantic, or comedic about it. But it is deeply moving and, for me, cathartic as I ponder life, death, and the stuff we have to go through to get to the other side, better for the experience.

Be warned: Shawshank is rated R for language and prison violence. Please watch it on a Clearplay DVD player or wait for it to show up somewhere in a form “edited for television.” Thanks.

Kindness, Respect, and Crabs

This past weekend my nephew Gus asked if he could subscribe to our alumni magazine and I promised to send him some links to the good stuff. I’ve been an associate editor for nearly 10 years—writing, editing, maintaining our Web site, and providing Mac support. And as I archive and assess some of the things I’ve written, one simple sidebar story comes to mind as one of my favorites. I thought I’d share it with him and anyone else who likes a good fable.

Quiet by Nature

"Why in the world do you walk sideways like that?" said a mother crab to her son. "You should always walk straight forward with your toes turned out."

"Show me how to walk, Mother Dear," answered the little crab obediently. "I want to learn."

So the old crab tried and tried to walk straight forward but she could only walk sideways like her son. And when she wanted to turn her toes out, she tripped and fell on her nose.

The moral: Do not tell others how to act unless you can set a good example.

"Each morning before I start lecturing, I read one of Aesop's Fables to illustrate moral values," says marine biology associate professor Lee F. Braithwaite, '59. "One year I decided to read them in class, and the students won't let me stop."

Some 16 hours from Provo, immersed in a different physical and spiritual environment, students in the marine biology term in Monterey, Calif., are offered a chance to learn and grow, tutored by their quiet but impressive friend, professor, and advisor. Braithwaite is on call 24 hours a day to guide them through any crisis, be it academic, physical, spiritual or personal.

"Dr. B. is, by nature, a very quiet person," says Robert J. Seymour, '03, who returned to Monterey in 2002 for his second season with Braithwaite, this time as a diver and teaching assistant. But Braithwaite's somewhat reserved personality does not prevent him from developing close relationships with his students, and Seymour says the professor regularly shares his wisdom on matters unrelated to the sea. "Every morning it goes prayer, scripture, Aesop's fable. And he says that should be the order of priority in our lives."

Braithwaite's personal example also influences students. "Seeing his daily life is really what hit me, what changed my life," says Seymour. "He's a professor that really does apply all the principles of good living and helps you be a better person."

Class comedian Whitney B. Wright, '03, also shares a personal bond with Braithwaite. "I really enjoyed just hanging out with Dr. B. Once I was not feeling well, and he gave me a priesthood blessing. He crossed the threshold of student-teacher relationship there. I really respected that, and I loved him for it because of how sweetly he talked to me. I could tell that he really loved me not just because I took his class but for who I am."

Melissa A. Tillack, '94, a former student of Braithwaite's who is now completing a PhD in Florida, relates this modern-day fable of kindness and wisdom: "There are nine big aquaria I took care of in the basement of the Widstoe Building on BYU campus. At the end of one of the tanks, there was a really big lobster. One day, there was a mother that came by with her three children, pushing a baby carriage. Dr. B. and I were behind the tanks but close enough to overhear the mother saying, 'Oh, look at this big crab. Isn't it neat?'

"And her children look closely and say, 'Yes, Mother. What a great crab.'

"I say to Dr. B., 'Should I go tell them that it's a lobster and then show them the other things?'

"And he says, 'No, don't do it. It's more important that you don't take away the mother's credibility in front of her children. And it really doesn't matter whether it's a lobster or a crab.'"

The moral, according to Tillack: "I guess it's the kindness to people and seeing what's really important in life, instead of proving you're the greatest. It's not about ego at all. It's just about the pause, the thoughtfulness."

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Warning: TMI Tangent

You already read the best part but if you are Gus or Curious George, the rest of the article (from 2003) can be found on our site at  http://magazine.byu.edu/?act=view&a=1231.

An archive of other stuff I've written can be accessed by typing in "Michael Walker" in the "Author" field at this address: http://magazine.byu.edu/?act=search. You can also type in Julie's name, go back in time, and read some of her magazine stuff. Happy hunting.

A Perfect Day

When you look at the center, boil it all down, dig down deep . . . all you really need to be happy is a useful role—something fulfilling but hopefully not too difficult. Maybe a job that works your muscles but also allows you to think grander thoughts while you’re doing it. And it’s an added bonus if you can do that job somewhere really beautiful. And your family is there with you—everyone working at a mutual goal. Well, I think that would be just about perfect.

I often think back to June 1997—to a perfect day. It was not too hot or too cold. I can remember it easily because no other day has really compared in both its simplicity and beauty. In that perfect day were sequences of perfect moments. On a broad, uncrowded beach just steps from our little rented cottage in Seaside, Oregon, we were digging in the sand.

We had built Walker Castle, next to Walker Lake, just downstream from Walker River. At first we wanted to have the river meet the great  Pacific and thus draw a constant supply of saltwater into our handcrafted reservoir. The only flaw in this plan was that we were too far away from the water—we didn’t want to get all wet while we worked, after all.

So it became my job to hike out to the shallows, fill my bucket with water, return, then dump the salty liquid into the river. My 3-year-old son’s job was to make the river deeper. My 1-year-old son’s job was to cover himself in sand and occasionally take a bite of that same whole grain goodness. Okay, he only took one bite and learned his lesson. Chomp. Wah. (See video on Facebook . . . http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=734124491649&saved)

The water would disappear immediately into the thirsty sand. So I would hike out to the waves again. Return, rinse, repeat. The boys were too young to fight much or to be teenager annoying—they were actually pretty sweet, as they always are on the beach. After an easy day’s work, we all retired to the faded cedar beachhouse to watch the sunset burn down into the advancing Pacific. We turned on the TV but all was on was us . . . and upside down kids! (See another video on Facebook . . . http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=734123533569) We laughed hard, then after a few hours, we grabbed a flashlight and went outside again in search of sea creatures abandoned by the tide.

Perfect.

Sharing a Couch

Ok, so I was looking through some of the first digital photos stored on my computer and this one made me laugh. Five years ago, it seems the boys were having a hard time sharing the couch because they both wanted to stretch out and heaven forbid they should actually touch each other in the effort. They are much taller now and this scene will never be duplicated. (The 16-year-old is now officially a half-inch taller than his old man.)

Writing and Patience

Me: You have to love it when someone you truly admire writes something nice about you. Especially when that person is an excellent writer himself. Our magazine staff hosts a private blog that we share with a magazine class on campus. Here is our editor’s blog post. I don’t think he will mind my sharing it. Wherever he says “author” he’s talking about me. In case you are wondering, this made my day:

I just finished working with an author on an article, and the progression is really rather remarkable. I thought it worth describing to you.

A few weeks ago, the author gave me the first draft. There were elements of brilliance in the writing—poetic, beautiful language in a couple of places. The structure of the text, however, wandered a little and needed a bit of direction and focus. I offered some ideas for how to structure it differently and gave it back to him.

Last week, the author gave me a second draft. As he worked through it, the structure I had suggested wasn’t working for him, so he tried something different in parts of it. I thought it was working better for the most part, but a few elements now seemed outside the focus of the story or didn’t fit with the organization. Some of the things I recommended, actually, in the first revision didn’t seem quite right with the new direction. So I suggested cutting several parts (saving them for caption material) and moving a couple of things around.

Earlier this week, I got a third draft. I didn’t read it this time, knowing he had mostly done what I suggested. Instead I passed it on to two other editors for review. Those editors responded to me mid-week with their recommendations. Most of their edits were small things (now we’re getting into correcting grammar and style and so on), but they each commented on the focus of the piece a bit.

There were a couple of paragraphs that still seemed tangential and the focus wasn't as clear as it should be.

Yesterday I discussed this feedback with the author. Today he gave me the final text. I read it. I was amazed.

The transformation from the first—even from the second—draft to the final was dramatic. There were more instances of great language use. The focus was clear and the flow was logical. The conclusion, which was a bit abrupt in the third draft, was beautifully handled.

It struck me as I read this last draft that great writing—and great writers—often need this sort of refining process. Yes, the editors along the way gave some good suggestions, but the author is the one who, in the end, solved the problems and surpassed our expectations. Often as writers we simply need a few critiques, someone to point out weaknesses in the writing and suggest we try again, and again, and again. And in the process of leaving the text alone and then coming back to it we come up with new ways of approaching things. And the text gets better and better.

I’ve given a presentation about multiple-draft editing a few times. And in that presentation I use a few quotes that seem appropriate here:

Interviewer: How much rewriting do you do?

Hemingway: It depends. I rewrote the ending of Farewell to Arms, the last page of it, 39 times before I was satisfied.

“Revising is part of writing. Few authors are so expert that they can produce what they are after on the first try.”
—Strunk and White, The Elements of Style

“Rewriting is when writing really gets to be fun. . . . In baseball you only get three swings and you’re out. In rewriting, you get almost as many swings as you want and you know, sooner or later, you’ll hit the ball.”
—Neil Simon

To me the message of this is to be patient. As you are writing, be patient with yourself and remember you may have to go through it a few times to get it right. And you may need someone to give you some critiques to help you in the process. And as an editor, remember to be patient with your writers. Your job is to help them create great writing. Sometimes—often—that takes more than one draft. If the first draft isn't what you wanted, don't despair. And even if the second draft isn’t quite there, remember that sometimes it takes a third or even a fourth. And that is just fine. If Ernest Hemingway and Neil Simon can rewrite and rewrite and rewrite, certainly we can.

Me, again: I admit it, I am a slow and tangent-plagued writer. I will exceedingly try an editor’s patience (and my own) as I work through a piece. Patience, with yourself and others, really is the key. All of this talk of multiple drafts reminded me of Anne Lamott’s great book, Bird by Bird. In there she describes the writer’s block, the self-doubt, as well as the joy of finding and sharing truth through writing. The main piece of advice I gleaned from her is to allow yourself to write crappy first drafts. (If you read her book, be forewarned, she does not say crappy.) Getting your ideas out is the hard part. Allow yourself to write something truly awful, then refine it into something that others might enjoy. That technique has been truly liberating when I blankly stare at a blank white screen.

Handing Out a Whipping

The last two times we have had family come and visit, I have taken them to my awesome office where we have a ping pong table in the basement. Its name is Hector, an acronym for Hand Eye Coordination Therapeutic Occupational Resource. It’s addictive and a lot of fun. After a few rounds of doubles with my sister Charlotte, my nephew Sam, and my youngest boy, we decided to call it a night. I must have played pretty well because my son drew this to illustrate how things went. (That’s a whip made out of ping pong paddles, in case you were wondering.) That boy is subtle . . . and cracks me up all the time.

Off the Top of His Head

Like every good fisherman, Dad had a sturdy felt hat. His was faded from the sun and discolored dark above a thin leather band. The molded crown had lost any of its previous features and was now a simple rounded dome. It had character gained over time, scars and splatters, the remnants of sunshine, rain, and live bait.

Whenever we went fishing, the gray-green hat went too. It came to symbolize one of our most precious possessions—time outdoors with our dad. It fit him and us; anytime we wanted to put it on, it was ours for the wearing.

It was atop his head for long hours at Alturas, our favorite lake in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho. His green plastic fishing creel was always there as well, smelling of hard marshmallows, pungent red salmon eggs, and traces of trout. The evening meal was often the fresh fish pulled from the lake earlier in the day.

The next morning, pancakes were cooked in the same electric frypan that had seared the lightly floured, peppered fish. While the pan had been carefully scoured, you could sometimes still taste a little of yesterday’s spinning reel success. And strangely, you didn’t mind.

When I was young, still in grade school in Buhl, Idaho, Dad took us out to Clear Springs to fish. There were large fish in there and plentiful as you were casting into a glassy slow moving stream near the fish hatchery.

As we fished, a brisk gust of air whooshed down the valley, snatching  Dad’s hat from his head and sending it top over brim right out into the water. Just out of reach, it then slowly began to drift away. As the hat moved beyond the shallows, we were still anxious to dive in and recover it. We were pretty good swimmers and it was still pretty close. But we would need to jump in quickly. Dad put out his arms and let us know he wasn’t about to allow any of us to venture into the undercurrents of that cold, clear stream.

Instead he tried once to cast in with his pole and retrieve the relic, hoping to snag it with his line. But it was in vain. The hat began to take on more and more water as it floated slowly away. A sense of longing and loss came over us as the fishing hat got smaller and smaller, bobbed one last time, then disappeared below the surface.

It seemed strange to let something go that had been a part of us for so long. At the time I couldn’t understand why Dad wouldn’t let us jump in and swim back with the hat.

But now that I’m a dad, I get it. It was just a thing, easily replaced. And while he often joked—when his children were in a situation with potential peril—that “it’s easier to get another one, than to worry about it,” there is good reason to believe he never truly meant it.

Full Bleed: Winning and Losing

I play on a BYU intramural team comprised of university employees—accountants, graphic designers, and other administrators. I recruited a handful of guys from the group I play with three times a week: a strong inside player, a mid-range shooter, a three-point sharpshooter, a defensive force . . . all willing to pass the ball to a teammate with a better shot. While older than the students on other teams, these guys can really play. I had a few shots go in, but my guys are the ones that really wreaked havoc, averaging 3.7 points per minute (89 points in two 12-minute periods . . . this is with a running clock).

The previous game we had a similar fast start but then had a letdown after halftime, only winning by 3 or 4 points in the end.We were determined to not repeat that mistake and played hard the entire game. The obvious question, I suppose, is, at what point should a team “take it easy,” and not run up the score? One of my teammates shared this quote after the game.

“We do not train to be merciful here. Mercy is for the weak. Here, in the streets, in competition: A man confronts you, he is the enemy. An enemy deserves no mercy.”


 —John Kreese (Cobra Kai sensei), Karate Kid, Part I

I’ve been on the losing end of athletic contests before. In two years of high school football, our team won only one game (to the Shelley Russets . . . that’s a potato, if you don’t know . . . the only mascot our Mighty Beavers could dominate. I have a warm spot in my heart for Shelley, and potatoes, even now.)

We lost our Homecoming game to the Preston Indians 76–0. It is still vivid as I played the whole game and never stopped trying to get to the quarterback. In the end, there’s nothing I hate more than a team that gets a big lead and then stops playing. Win or lose, I want to fight until the buzzer sounds, and leave feeling I did my best and so did my opponent.



If you show up to play, there is no expectation that the other team should “take it easy” so you can feel good about yourself. True players want to earn respect through their efforts. So when a game is out of reach, and you see that one guy who looks a little foolish because he continues to play as hard as he can? He’s the one who loves the game the most.


TANGENT 1: My pathetic football career had a bright side. It helped me to build character. (I’m a character . . . ask anybody.) And, thankfully, my parents were in England at the time and did not have to witness it. My sweet big sister, however, would faithfully show up to the games. I think losing is always harder on the spectators than the athletes. For her support then and myriad other reasons, I love her even more than potatoes.

TANGENT 2: The team name is Full Bleed, which means “to be printed so as to run off one or more edges of the page after trimming.” Seems appropriate.

Parting Shots

Last Saturday I showed up at our stake center ready for some rousing Church ball. I had awakened early, cooked one slice of french toast, ate a banana, and chilled some Gatorade to go. Soon, I went through the glass doors of the building and, while there were quite a few cars in the parking lot, things felt a little quiet inside. Finally, I heard a ball bounce in the gym. There were six guys shooting around but nobody from my team yet. They informed me that the games had been canceled due to a funeral later that morning but invited me to play in a pickup game if I wanted.

I waited to see if any more guys would show so maybe our team could still play together against these six. We had a few appear but most opted out, not wanting to play, I guess, unless it was an organized game . . . with officials, a scoreboard, compressed competition. Me? If there’s a ball bouncing, I just want to play . . . I prefer to call my own . . . no refs to mess with the flow.

A couple more willing guys showed and we ran the court. I got to play the whole time and nobody criticized anyone else. No yelling. Very little fouling. It was really fun. When an older gentleman appeared and asked us to wrap it up, someone said, “Next point wins!” I threw a pass inside but the big guy’s inside shot attempt went long. But the other team also missed at the other end. Back on offense, someone threw a nice pass to me on the left side of the arc and I popped a three to end it. Game winner . . . but nobody carried me off the court on their shoulders. No cameras were rolling. The only accolade was the satisfaction of putting in the last shot in before going home.

That done, we helped set up chairs so they would have overflow seating for the funeral. As I was exiting the building, I noticed the open casket and the white-haired gentleman whose time had come, there in a side room, readied for the viewing. Such a contrast from the flurry of activity I had just been a part of. This made me appreciate even more the amazing nature and potential of our human bodies. Also, that we should take advantage of what time we have because none of us get out of here alive.

Finally, I am hopeful that when I die, no basketball games will be canceled or postponed on my behalf. Or maybe there should be a pickup game. Or perhaps just free throws. And while I’m sure there is some convention (or even law) that will prohibit this, I really wouldn’t even mind if you wheel my casket out to the gym and put it right under the rim. And everyone can take a turn and shoot a free throw and it can bounce unceremoniously right off the lid over my head. (Lid closed, please.)

TANGENT 1: When I was young, sleeping on the bottom bunk, my siblings used to drop toys and other items off the top bunk onto my head. They were usually unsuccessful in their attempts to wake me and would have to find heavier items to drop.

TANGENT 2: My cute little niece who, in my mind, will always be a toddler, could always be convinced to sit directly under the net of the mini basketball backboard while her dad and I practiced shots in their living room. Thankfully that ball was softer than the toys of my youth and she only experienced slight brain damage.

TANGENT 3: My wife already thinks I spend too much time playing, watching, shopping for, thinking about basketball. She may not allow any shenanigans at my funeral. She’s probably right but I love the idea of casket free throws. (Shoot! Casketball . . .  just think of the dead-on potential for puns!)

A Thing of Beauty . . .

Last October another package arrived from my brother. It was the infamous Air Jordan XIs. Now these black patent leather shoes are the pinnacle of shoe design and the “holy grail” of many shoe collectors. My big brother Clair first gave me the pair back in 2001 when I changed jobs. You can see the letter from all those years ago --->

A few years ago I had given the “Space Jams” back to him but now, like a shiny black penny, they had returned. These shoes are a curious thing. They are cool to have, fun to look at and maybe try on every year or two, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to wear them. My Dad used to enjoy quoting Keats: “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” That comes to mind every time I pull these out of the box. I can’t imagine an occasion that would merit my wearing these—perhaps a championship game or my son’s weddings? We’ll see. For now they sit in my closet and wait. The shoes, unworn, would have sold last year for between $300-500. The Jams were re-released in December, and the new shoes are selling for at least $225.  I would never sell them so it doesn’t really matter. They are just fun to have even though they are just “stuff”—the bond with my brother is so much more important to me.

When the new Jams came out in December, he and I hopped on our computers and tried all of the online retailers with little success. Eastbay crashed and Finish Line’s site was slow and quirky; in the end, I was able to get two pair from Champs. While the hunt for rare kicks was fun, the hour and a half that I got to talk to my brother on the phone was better than scoring a pair. From football on the lawn to basketball in the gym, sports and the requisite accessories have given us reasons to spend time together. And if you boil it all down, spending time is really the most important thing in relationships.

I wore the new pair of Air Jordans on Clair’s birthday. They look better at the free throw line than running down court. So go ahead and foul me.

TANGENT 1: Space Jam was the first movie my oldest son and I ever saw together in a theater. For that reason, the song “I Believe I Can Fly” is still one of my faves.

TANGENT 2: After my wedding, before the evening reception, I was at the mall with my new bride and Clair. He bought us each a pair of white high-tops to celebrate the occasion—they looked mighty fine with my Miami Vice tuxedo.

Glimpsing Heaven

We had traveled long miles to be there—my brother at the wheel of a Jeep grand wagoneer, his eldest son then in his earliest years, his mom, my mom, my big sister. We rolled into the camp in Snow Canyon quietly and unseen. We hid out in a trailer overlooking the tents and fire circle. We peeked out through the curtains obscuring the wide, short windows to see men milling about, making preparations for dinner. When I poked my head up and scanned the camp, I spotted my Dad. The old, unsuspecting buffalo was talking, smiling, and laughing with owls, foxes, and other Wood Badge attendees. He did not realize that his family was watching him, nor that he was about to receive Scouting's highest service award, the Silver Beaver.

Thankfully our presence was made known before dinner, rather than after (I was a hungry teen). Dad was absolutely surprised and after huge smiles and hugs, we grabbed plates and got in line. One of the men let us in on a great Scout leader secret: in the cast iron pot, hidden beneath the layers of hamburger patties, were thick, juicy steaks and, as honored guests, we should dig deep.

I sat down near two men, Chuck Loveless and Bill Birch, both grinning, obviously happy to have a new, captive audience as the jibes started with no delay. Chuck leaned in toward me and began, "So I can tell that you are not two-faced . . . Or you wouldn't be wearing that one." Pun folllowed one-liner followed playful insult, the two winking and elbowing. I started to laugh and,  overcome with the suspense and now, the humor, I laughed until it hurt, barely choking down the meal with happy tears.

That was one of the best moments, hiding in a trailer with my family, waiting to surprise my Dad and see him honored by his peers for serving others. Today, it feels like we are all in the trailer again, though he is the one who is waiting and watching for us. It will be nice to hear him laugh.

Dad’s Pancakes

My dad passed away in 1998 and I do not believe anyone who knew him will ever recover from the loss. Nothing fills that void but I have found that, somehow, his pancakes can help a little. Thankfully I acquired some of his recipes before his earthly departure and found time (a decade ago) to put them into The Dad-Blasted Walker Family Cookbook which I shared with siblings and a few other persistent relations and friends. I am still working on my own copy; the laser-engraved aluminum cover currently sits unused in a box. Here’s the page with the recipe, in case you need some comfort food (for breakfast or dinner!) in the midst of this cold winter.

Fünfundvierzig und Mutter

Last Sunday a speaker asked us what we were doing back in 1964. My mom and I started laughing. For most of that year, she was 35 and I was zero. She and I were doing what we have been the last two weeks: hanging out together as much as possible.

My mom was always the straight man, the foil to my dad's ongoing joke- and storytelling. I know why he enjoyed her company so much: she is actually quite funny, a great sidekick as well as a source of humor. Mom is always up for an adventure and encourages the rest of us to be, as she is, forever young. Here's some highlights from her current visit.

A week before Thanksgiving, we had finished shopping at Walmart and were putting stuff in our car. A man approached us, asking, "Excuse me, sir, would you like to buy some tamales?" I responded automatically, the way I always do to unsolicited soliciting, "No thanks." As he walked away, I turned to close the car door for my mom. Before it shut, I heard her say, quietly, "Those might be the best tamales you've ever had." I smiled, then walked over and bought a dozen tamales.

So we watched Up the other night and when we switched back to cable, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was on. My mom asked my wife if she had ever read that book. I mentioned that I started it, but it was too deep for me. Mom asked, in all seriousness, "Really?" I laughed 'til I cried (and it hurt).

Then, the other day, we were in another parking lot, but driving this time, when she spotted a minivan. "There's an Odyssey." (Noteworthy because that's what one of my sisters is driving these days.) I mentioned that it was Homer's favorite vehicle; he liked it almost as much as the Iliad. She almost asked me who Homer was, but then caught on, and shook her head in disgust . . . the perfect response to a bad joke.

Yesterday, my younger son had peeled an orange and left the remains on a plate. Before Mom threw them away, she pointed at some white stuff and said, "This is my favorite part because it has the bioflavonoids." Not much later she referred to the decorative treads on her socks as "doodleywhips." She's a walking, fictive, vocabulary lesson.

What I'm trying to say here is that my mom is a blast, a real treasure. I am spending my "Fünfundvierzig" birthday with her and my eldest brother. (Of all the languages, German makes 45 sound like the most fun.) I feel honored to be with them. My dad's stories, wit, humor, and zest for life lives on in her and all of us who remember him. I think he would be pleased.