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."

300 Cubits of Opportunity

So I watched part of a silly movie, Evan Almighty, about a month ago. It was pretty lame, except for one scene with some great dialogue. It has stuck with me so I thought I would share.

God (played by Morgan Freeman), is disguised as a waiter and appears to the wife of a modern Noah (in a New York diner). His name tag says “Al Mighty.” (ha ha) He has the following conversation with Joan (ha ha) about her husband building a modern-day ark. Interesting take on how God might be answering prayers.

God: I love that story, Noah and the Ark. You know, a lot of people miss the point of that story. They think it’s about God’s wrath and anger. They love it when God gets angry.
Joan: What is the story about, then? The ark?
God: Well, I think it’s a love story about believing in each other. You know, the animals showed up in pairs. They stood by each other, side by side, just like Noah and his family. Everybody entered the ark side by side.
Joan: But my husband says God told him to do it. What do you do with that?
God: Sounds like an opportunity. Let me ask you something. If someone prays for patience, do you think God gives them patience? Or does he give them the opportunity to be patient? If they pray for courage, does God give them courage, or does he give them opportunities to be courageous? If someone prayed for their family to be closer, you think God zaps them with warm, fuzzy feelings? Or does he give them opportunities to love each other? Well, I got to run. A lot of people to serve. Enjoy.

Often you find truth in the strangest of places.

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 Latest Buzz from the Beehive State

A bee adds to the hexagonal structure of its honeycomb.

I love small flying things both furry and feathered. It started, I believe in Buhl, Idaho where we had a row of mountain ash trees in front of our house. When they bloomed they attracted thousands of honeybees. I loved to go out with a quart canning jar and see how many I could gather in it. I wouldn't stop until more escaped than were captured each time I opened the metal lid to try and squeeze one more in.

The magic number was around thirty. When I released the bees, they never scared me or stung me; I stood with no fear in their midst.

I graduated to bumblebees. My sister Lissa likes them too, well enough to pet the unlikely aerial acrobats when they land on the flowers in her lovely garden.

In recent years I have transferred all of this affection  and awe to hummingbirds.

But this spring, as a neighbor turned beekeeper and his wandering swarms visited our apple tree, resulting in more fruit than ever before, my thoughts buzzed back to my little friends from days before.

Then last month, both beecause I like bees and for the beewildering potential for puns, I went to a lecture by artist Rose-Lynn Fisher who had taken a seriously close look at bees—with an electron microscope. As she examined the curve of the bee's eye, she noticed that it was made up of hexagons, the same shape that makes up the honeycomb in a beehive.

A bee's eye at 370x magnification.

Could it be that what a bee sees somehow influences what it creates? A scientist told her that hexagons are just nature's efficient way of packing circles together; but her artist's soul expressed to her that this similarity in structure was much more than convenient coincidence.

Beeyond the bee-yootiful images and the hexagon connection, the artist engaged in punning, showing the bee's knees, the beehind (including a closeup of the stinger, because that's the point) and ended by reminding us all that beauty is in the eye of the bee holder. I left wanting to get me a hive.

Duly impressed, I am trying to get permission to print some bee scans in Bee Why You Magazine. (Okay, I'm done with the puns for now.)

The photos and some live bees are on display in BYU's Bean Museum, not far from Shasta the Liger. But that creature is another story, or maybe just a song, for another day.

To read the artist's lovely introduction to her bee art and to see the stinger or bee's knee, you can follow this link: http://www.rose-lynnfisher.com/beepage.html

Add a Little Fiber to Your Diet

I don't know if I could stomach a lowtop but I like the look of this one. Shiny!

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.

Goodly and Good-Looking Parents

I figured a picture was worth a thousand words but Lissa's awesome comment proved worthy of upgrading. Here's what she wrote: "They did love to come to the ocean! Dad always turned into a big kid—chasing abalone in the waves and then the waves would chase him. I will never forget when he turned his back on a wave and got drenched from behind! Hilarious! And Mom—just plain loves the ocean—especially "Mom's Beach" at Vandenberg!"

Two Sweet Things

Count 'em.

1. Awesome birthday cake. I believe it is topped with White Mountain frosting.

2. Classic VW bus. We rode in that tricked-out jalopy all the way from Idaho to New York City! But that's a story for another day.

3. Oh, wait. The title just said two things. But she got sweeter as the years went by. ;)

Potential

Every time I look at this picture, I peer into the face of a little boy with his whole life ahead of him. He could be an actor, a police officer, an athlete, a college professor, a comedian, a writer, anything he set his mind to be. I feel some regret as I think of a more focused life I could have created. Sometimes I still contemplate being a fireman. That last thought alone might explain why that did not happen.

I was in the high school choir, part of the bass section. I sang only one solo; the rest of the time I performed in the background. I played leads in a few high school plays but mostly because I could memorize the longer lines. I never made the basketball team, but made it as a defensive lineman on the worst football team you can imagine. (I started off on offense but after discovering how bad it was, switched over so I could play against those guys in practice.)

I’ve always been mediocre at just about everything I’ve tried, never focused, never really outstanding.
I guess the point here is back in the picture. If you look even closer at the little boy in the picture, his big sister is holding his hand. The people who matter most are there for me when I need them.
I don’t need a big audience to be a success. I may be “small” but I’ve got family, both then and now. And that kind of support can’t be beat.

Respect and Love

That's all the words I've got for this photo. I've been digging through my archive and am going to post a few favorites.

Looking Over Hurricane Pass

We thought we ought to walk awhile

So we left that town in a single file

Up and up and up

mile after mile after mile.




We reached the tree line and I dropped my pack

Sat down on my haunches

and I looked back down

Over the mountain

Helpless and speechless and breathless.

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

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

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

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

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

I Used to Care Less

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

You May Find This Surprising

This story may sound familiar. (Here is last April's account). Or it may make your eyes pop wide with surprise. (Arthur and Chris, playing ball?!)

In my family we often use the "sister-vine," a reliable form of communication that allows one to talk to any one of my sisters and have the information disseminate quickly to nearly all of my family members. This is the efficient evolution that sprang from "telegraph, telephone, or tell-a-woman." Sometimes the details are repeated and eyes are appropriately rolled in the umpteenth telling but they are always shared at least once. This is a good thing. Most families suffer from a failure to communicate because they can't handle the truth.

Coordinating a pickup game with my brother and nephews this past weekend was a little more difficult than just telling a sister but it was definitely worth it. My nephew Chris was about to be deployed (again) as part of our military and I wanted him to have a chance to break in his latest Iconic footwear. When I asked him about joining our traditional game, he said, "I haven't played ball in a really long time, probably years." When pressed to participate, another of my favorite nephews, Arthur, had a similar response, "I used to be good at basketball. Long ago."

I thought these two would add a new, fun element to our standard Walker/Drake smackdowns. And they did. I knew they were in decent shape but truthfully I thought I would be amused… I ended up being impressed. Both of them attacked the rim without fear and provided formidable defense. I truly enjoyed playing with them and would be glad to add them to my team any time. I had told them to bring some $20s and that we could set up a role-playing game after so they could back their money. They were good sports and put up with my nonsense/lies.

Gus and Sam scouted out the church gym at Bogus Basin to make sure there were no events to trump our hope for a game. Soon a text hit my phone: "At church. Looks like there might be a funeral...YOURS! Gus" And so it began. Though the severity of the trash talk was somewhat subdued this time, there were still some good hard fouls and good-natured banter among players.

We divided up and were determined to play until it hurt. Then we played some more. To save on words, here's a short video that Drew shot on his camera and then I grabbed with my phone off of an old TV set (that should explain the old-school quality). It will at least give you the flavor. (And the music may drive you bonkers after the first 20 seconds . . . prepare to mute the sound.)



Truthfully, we made a lot more shots than this video shows (or we would have played for six hours). I will try to get some other clips from Drew that better demonstrate the state of our hardwood skills.

The nearly three-hour sporting contest was once again wrapped up with a trip to Fancy Freeze where a record nine jumbo Boston Shakes (tasty shake on the bottom, sweet sundae on the top) were purchased by Uncle Clair, who demonstrated where he had hair by stepping up to the foul line and representing. Big thanks for the thick shakes, man! This stomach-stretching tradition once again tested Sam whose shake level was inspected several times. While it's never a contest—whoever finishes is a winner!—the seasoned veterans finished first followed promptly by the teenagers. :)

The rest of the evening was spent jawing with family members. There was a steady stream of humanity through Mom slash G-Ma's house . . . she was an awesome hostess slash dishwasher. The Walker Bed and Breakfast (and airport shuttle service) was really popular and let's face it, you can't beat the company or the price!

Coons and Karma Will Both Gladly Bite You

Our friends had set out a live trap last night to capture some noisy, pesky squirrels and a raccoon had gone for the bait instead. Before we could get to their house this morning, a meddling neighbor had unfortunately called Animal Control. (Unfortunate for him, that is.)

We wanted to eyeball the furry bandit . . . he growled and twisted and hissed as we approached. It looked thirsty so we dropped in an apricot, which he spitefully bit and spit and stomped to dramatically demonstrate his disdain for us.

We wanted to transport him up to the mouth of the closest canyon but our hands were tied since the local officials had been summoned. So we chatted with our friend Cathy for a few minutes, said our goodbyes to the masked intruder, and left a little depressed, knowing that Animal Control would likely dispose of him. I didn't even take a picture because seeing it later would just make us sad. I guess I should have got a shot, seeing how things turned out. (Update: Our friend Cathy had snapped a few photos so here's the optical proof.)

We went to the local farmers market and, a little while later, Cathy called us with some news that made our day. The tattling neighbor had picked up the cage to move it, stumbled over some tree roots, and to avoid twisting his ankle, let go of the captured raccoon. The impact popped the cage open and the liberated animal ran "like a bat out of hell" for the bushes, across the street, and out of sight.

The neighbor then had to call to report this development to Animal Control. Later the official vehicle was seen cruising the neighborhood but there was no raccoon to be found.

We were told that, not long after this incident, the neighbor went up to an equipment shed to prepare for an Scout outing and was promptly stung above his eye by a wasp.

I think the moral of the story is 1) to mind your own business, 2) be kind to animals, and 3) be prepared for nature to bite back if you ignore rules 1 and 2.

World’s Biggest Cherry-Picker

So, for the latest health challenge at work, I tried lifting weights. After the third time in the weight room, my body parts told me I should start looking for something less painful. Now, not all body parts are trustworthy decision-makers, believe you me; but triceps know their stuff . . . they are the next best things to having eyes in the back of your head.

Luckily, today, there was a game of hoops and they needed another guy. (Pick me!) It’s not my regular MWF group, these are Tues./Thurs. guys. They play games to 11 points, counting regular shots as one point and three-point shots as two. This works for me as I love to shot outside and those shots are worth more in this style of game.

We got beat down pretty hard in one game, I think it ended 11–1. So we rallied in the next one, played some defense, got rebounds, and our shots started falling in. We were ahead 9-8 and could win it with a three (two). I was getting pretty tired (these guys are quite a bit younger) so I thought “hero or goat” and launched a shot well outside the NBA arc. It swished, the game was over, and we lined up at the drinking fountain. Truthfully? I was just too tired to work the ball inside so I threw it up there and hoped for the best.

Winners stay on for the next game but I should have known better and subbed out. I was lagging and let my team go down and defend four guys on five. Luckily our guy got the rebound off a missed shot, hurled it downcourt to me, and I got an easy lay-in. I joked about being “the world’s biggest cherry-picker” and how the fruit was definitely in season. A couple of minutes later, the same thing happened, almost an exact replay. One guy on the other team cried foul, saying, “I don’t think we should count that point.” “Really?!” I said, “I didn’t hear any complaints when you had a number advantage on the other end.”

He continued to fume and his team seriously considered the legality of a player not running down to play defense and then getting easy layups. After letting them know I was not, at any time, in the key for three seconds, I decided to sub out and let a younger player finish up the game (which I’m sure my team won).

I hit the showers where the whole situation struck me as truly funny and I began to laugh out loud. I had never been faced with anyone who wanted to win so badly that he was willing to discount points made by a cherry-picker. I began to think of different scenarios where you could try to trim points. Anybody up for “He didn’t say ‘bank!’” This was not a game of horse. Count the basket, baby.

Born in the U.S.A.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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