tao of russ

Organized Memories

2011-04-03T09:48:00.001-07:00

this was a week I will never forget. it was a week with my oldest daughter. a week of laughter on the wind. music in the forest.

Dinner on Samhain

2010-10-22T15:18:00.001-07:00

The evening was unseasonably warm. I had waited, as I do every year, for this particular holiday for 364 days. I relished the entire day from the moment I got up. Halloween – the ancients called it Samhain (pronounced Sow-when) was a day I relished. Feeling the warmth of the sun, watching the changing leaves chase themselves through damp streets, and smelling the smoke come from random chimneys as they practiced for an actual cold spell.

Usually Halloween is cold in my part of the country; so cold it is hard to enjoy being outdoors. Don’t get me wrong, we still enjoyed the night with its candy and delicious frightening undertone. We created costumes that protected our skin against the cold, cowboys with jeans and chaps, pirates with long pants and boots, vampires with capes and suit coats. You understand. But this year was different. “Unseasonably warm”, the weatherman said and I believed him. I also believed the strange weather was the harbinger of something that would change me; the pricking in my thumbs was a dead giveaway.

I’ve always been a fan of the unknown and the unknowable. I admit I’ve been amused, even fascinated by the occult; palm reading, astrology and especially tarot cards have given me much pause over the years. Like every young man, I loved hearing about hauntings, ghosts who wait for loved ones and events to set them free, or vampires whose magnetic sexual prowess draws unsuspecting girls to their ultimate, yet deeply satisfying, demise. The threat of the unknown running below the surface of midnight has always been an incredible draw for me; it has been the cause of much lost sleep, undone homework and dark fantasies. I live to be scared, and quite honestly, I believe in all that hokum. I think it’s real. This gives me a chill every time I go up the stairs. Even to this day I can’t ascend the stairs without a quick check of the darkness behind me – sometimes my back to the wall as I step. Just to be sure.

Years ago when I was interested in symbols and their meanings, I got hooked on tarot cards. I was fascinated by their ancient, yet incredibly familiar, symbolism. I couldn’t get over how the original symbolism seemed to draw truth out of anyone who would give themselves over to the cards even though they had been created centuries ago. I started using them, looking for the symbolism in my own life, messing around with the deck at coffee shops. People would stop by and ask a question or show an interest and I would do a reading for them. It was strange and a bit spooky how good I was. I was able to peer into their lives for just a moment, using the old cards as a window to their personality and problems. The symbols and the person’s eyes would speak to me and I would speak the truth. It was fun and forbidden. Somehow, by opening myself to the cards, I was able to draw on an ancient or untapped power that could speak to me.

I grew up pretty religious, and I always felt a tinge of guilt as I would draw another card from the pile, turn it over and the symbols would speak through me to the person asking the question. But not guilty enough to stop. I loved the feeling of knowing secrets, of prying into a stranger’s life who I knew nothing about, and looking through those cards like windows into their private lives. I loved the feeling of playing with something I didn’t understand, so I would keep reading the cards for people. I would look for the strange, the fantastical, the eerie or the haunting or unexplained, and explore their origins, or just allow the mystery to wash over me.

When I was a kid, I had a map in my room. It was a world map, huge, and colored. The National Geographic had made it for a classroom but I had it in my bedroom. I mounted it on a large piece of corkboard, so that it could be filled with little, red-headed pins, like in the movies. I tracked things of interest to me that no one else knew or even cared about. I wanted to map the unexplained. I started with Big Foot, or Sasquatch as the Indians called him. A red-headed pin was stuck in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest, somewhere in the miles of old growth forest was a giant ape-man. A pin was stuck into a small lake in Scotland for the Loch Ness Monster, hidden in its murky depths. There was a pin for the Mothman of North Carolina, the chupacabra of the Southwest, the giant winged lizard of Texas, and dozens of others. My map blistered with pins, each red point representing some unexplained moment in human history. I was transfixed by the idea of the unknown being just below the surface and I looked for it everywhere. I was positive the mysterious was laying just out of sight.

So this particular All Hallows Eve, I found myself sitting in my living room as I did every year, watching out the windows for children to come with yells of delight while teenagers skulked around in the darkness and bushes looking for ways to trick those who deserved it. I love the silly, childish part of Halloween as much as I enjoy the dark underbelly of it all. I love watching the kids show up, smiles on their faces, bags held out at arm’s length and unflinching expectation of praise and candy. It is my second favorite part of Halloween.

But the best part of Halloween is the history of it all – the ancient tradition of the year ending, the harvest coming in, and people waiting for the dead, on this night of transitions, to visit their ancient homes for a single night. You wait for those who come; you wait for them with honor and gifts, and those who don’t will be punished. And if you’re forced to travel, if you have to be out on the roads with those who have passed before, make sure you dress like them. Looking like a demon or ghost might get you past those actually visiting from the Other Side; if they don’t catch you, you can’t be drawn into their world beyond the veil drawn so thin on this of all nights. The point of All Hallow’s Eve is to be kind to those who have gone before you; give them honor and gifts as they deserve; do not short them or your curse will be severe.

Like all modern people I’ve been told that these old traditions, these silly superstitions, are foolish, childish, but I still do them. Because I want to believe. I want them to be real. On this night, I make an extra plate of food and leave it outside; it’s piled high with food prepared for my family and has a hefty drink next to it. I have lots of treats for everyone that comes to my door, big or small, scary or cute. Everyone gets gifts of candy and praise. I do not discriminate. Because those who refuse gifts to those too scary or too big run the risk of offending a wandering spirit only wanting to feel the warmth of humanity for one night of the year. So I play the game to protect my own soul.

This particular evening is incredibly warm, pleasantly so. The number of trick-or-treaters is huge, due to the inviting weather. Outside I hear laughter and screams; kids and adults alike are enjoying themselves more than any other year. The kids are comfortable and warm and are having a great time. My own kids are out having their own fun with friends. I’ve propped the door open so I can smell the leaves and smoke and rainy breeze and hear kids running and screaming and laughing. I’m sitting at the table, in between knocks on the door, and lazily flipping through my tarot cards. Traditionally this is the best night of the year to read your future; the line between this world and the next is thin and fragile and a deck of tarot cards is just the thing to peer through the veil of mystery and pierce the future. I draw the cards. The Fool crossed by the Four of Swords. Above is the Queen of Wands. Below is the Queen of Rods. Before is the Queen of Shields. After is the Queen of Swords. I’m surrounded by women. Not a bad start to the end of the pagan year.

There is a wind at the door. Just a breeze. And a small ash gray cat – a kitten really. She is standing there as if she is part of our household. She mews softly and looks around, her yellow eyes adjusting to the brightness of the room. She rubs herself against the doorframe and then walks into the room as if she’s been here a million times before. She walks in, jumps on the couch, does a couple of cat-turns and lies down, closes her eyes, and quietly starts to purr. A shiver runs up my back and down my arms. I look at my wife and she looks at me and we both smile and shrug our shoulders.

My wife is not really a Believer. She tolerates me and my silly beliefs, but she doesn’t really buy into it. She would rather have cutesy pumpkins and smiling ghosts on the walls, rather than cobwebs on the ceiling, pictures hung with old cheesecloth and the witches table, spread with handmade wand, Book of Shadows, ingredients of all kinds and random bones and tarot cards strewn about. She thinks it’s a bit macabre; I think it’s cool. But she puts up with me.

So when this completely out of the ordinary thing happens, she looks a bit taken back. Maybe I hide it better than she does but I’m a bit shocked as well and excited. When does a small kitten wander away from its home, only to make itself completely comfortable in a stranger’s living room? Only on Halloween. We smile and laugh, and wait for the kitten to leave, but it doesn’t. Kids come and go; the candy level drops and, as a group of kids leave, there is another visitor, this time a white one. She is the same size as the first and like the other one, doesn’t hesitate to come into the house, jump up onto the couch and curl up next to its friend. The first one opens its eyes long enough to see who is there and then closes them as the second one settles in.

There is little time to consider what this all means because soon thereafter there is a third visitor at the door. She is the same size as the first two and as black as coal. She looks at all of us, walks straight to the couch as if by forgone direction and jumps up to join her sisters. I am speechless. The three kittens, for the rest of the night, purr, fight, jostle, sit and stare. They make no movement to leave the house. They ask for nothing while they are there. For the rest of the evening, they sit and enjoy the trick-or-treaters that come to our door with us. And the occasional scratch behind the ear we give them.

The evening is over too quickly. It always is. Halloween always ends much too soon for me and moves onto the sickly sweet holidays without a backward glance. But this evening is worse. It seems only minutes and the noises from outside die down; the wind picks up and a chill touches the air. It’s getting late and the candy is running out. As if at a silent signal, all three of our guests get up from their place, stretch, yawn and stretch again and make their way to the door. There is no sweet mewing at my feet, no plaintive longing in their eyes, there is only the surety of moving toward the door and the use of a house that is only mine for this lifetime but has an older owner. For that night the house wasn’t mine, but belonged to someone else. They came and they used what was theirs, pure and simple. And the night went on; the cards were restacked and reshuffled and dealt once more; and never did those cards come up again. And the next year was bitterly cold.

Break the Chains

2010-10-04T06:45:00.001-07:00

My family and I recently took a trip to visit friends in San Diego. We left an ice-covered Utah for a balmy California. We stayed with friends we have never stayed previously and they welcomed us with graciousness and hospitality. While there, we spent quite a bit of time talking, reading, sleeping and, of course, eating. But it was only later, as I call up memories of the trip, that I realize something about myself and how I like to travel. It all revolves around food.

I love food. Always have. Trying different foods and different recipes. Can’t get enough of it really. Thinking about it, my view of food is a window to the way I view the world. There is a philosophy to the way I pursue and consume my food. It speaks volumes about who I am. I’m not sure when I became a discriminating eater. Sometime along my road, I started preferring nicer food, better food, food that had been prepared with more thought and kindness. I’m not saying that I’m some kind of connoisseur (I had to spell check the word itself), but I am saying that at some point along my journey I started thinking about the food I eat, where it comes from, and who benefits from it’s production and consumption. I’ve become a bit of a food snob. Some folks call themselves foodies. That’s a good term. Better than food snob. But in reality, they are the same thing. There are foods I much prefer over other foods; places I prefer over other places. It makes me a snob because I will actually not eat poor foods when given a choice. If it’s a choice between canned fruit or no fruit, I choose no fruit. If it’s a choice between McDonalds and nothing, I choose nothing. I think of myself as discriminating. Others might see me as a snobbish jerk that has a hoity-toity way of looking at food.

Chain restaurants, in general, don’t have the same quality of food that a local restaurant does. It’s just that simple. I get better tacos in my own town at Juan’s Place than I can at Taco Bell. I get better hamburgers at JCW’s than I can at Burger King. I get a better steak at Porter’s Place than I can at Sizzler. And it’s not just the quality of food; it’s the service and atmosphere. There is little reason in my mind to give money to these giant chain restaurants that care little for quality or service when there is a much better just as close and just as convenient. Plus you’re helping out a local business owner that doesn’t subscribe to the big chain mentality. So when I’m out and about, either a few blocks or hundreds of miles from home, I try and visit places that aren’t part of a chain. Which leads me to my next point.

I love to travel. I love going places and seeing new things – especially when friends are there to meet you. Strangers are good too. I love to Couch Surf (look it up – it’ll blow your mind). But I just love visiting new places. I’m not a big fan of the tourist places like I’m not a big fan of chain restaurants. I want to know where locals go. I want to eat where locals eat. So it was with great enthusiasm that we went on our latest trip to San Diego. But it’s also where I realized I have a strange way of remembering trips and places – I remember the food.

WARNING – I’m about to describe my amazing trip to San Diego. And I’m going to talk about food. I’m going to be specific and descriptive. I’m just warning you.

Sarah and Andrew are a beautiful couple – both in body and soul. She is a mixture of American Indian and Black Irish; she was raised Catholic but now attends a Baptist church. He comes from an Egyptian Jewish community by way of France; he was raised Jewish and continues to be strongly connected with his ancestors and religion. They have two gorgeous girls who compliment each other brilliantly – one is as talkative and bright as the summer sun, the other is as quiet and observant as the autumn moon. Their family makes for storybook pictures and their love for good food is what fuels this story.

Our first full day there was amazing. It was Easter morning and we agreed to go to Easter services with Sarah at the Baptist church. Here’s the thing – it was an amazing experience. We were welcomed by each and every person we came in contact with as if we were literally their brother or sister. They were kind, thoughtful and full of smiles. They served us a breakfast of fresh fruit, pancakes, bacon and hash browns. Simple and filling. Then we went into church and sang, prayed and laughed. We remembered what was important in the world. What things deserved to be worried about and what things deserve no attention whatsoever. We reaffirmed our commitment to our families, our friends and something bigger than us. Something worth looking to and striving for. It was magnificent.

That day we came home and rested until the afternoon when we started preparing for dinner. Friends came over. Family came over. We roasted a ham in the oven. We grilled small, thick lamb chops on the grill. We put it all on a plate with warm bread, cold salad and laughter around a table full of people who care for one another. Then there was an earthquake. My first ever. We sat in stunned silence for a bit. We laughed nervously and then went back to eating and laughing.

Later we would eat brie cheese, roasted in the oven after being covered in brown sugar. The sugar made a delicious caramelized coating on the outside of the cheese, which is then broken open and spread on bread or crackers. We also tried some blackberry jam, slathered on another piece of brie, roasted in the oven into a gooey mess, and then dipped into with crackers.

Sarah took us down to the harbor one morning. The sun was bright and the sky was perfectly clear. Down on the waterfront was a little seafood place, filled with lines of people, ordering fresh fish of all kinds. We were there for the crab cakes. We ordered several plates and sat around small tables with blue umbrellas. Sitting in the warm sun or cool shade, I ate these perfectly crispy cakes of crab meat and sucked on my icy beverage. I watched school kids on a field trip, laughing and joking with each other. I watched an old man, propped up by his cane, dozing in the warm sun. I watched two pretty women in tank tops, both covered in tattoos and one with a shaved head, quietly eating. The crowd moved around us, as my girls, Sarah and my wife all talked, and I just quietly watched and munched on my crab cakes and listened to the lapping of the ocean against the docks.

One night, Sarah’s dad brought Middle Eastern food. Grilled lamb, chicken and beef on skewers, yellow rice, warmed flat bread and pickled beats. Humus and olives and bread. We sat around the table and listened to Sarah’s dad tell stories about his life and experiences around the world.

On Friday night Sarah made roasted chicken, matzah ball soup, warmed bread and salad for Shabbat. Andrew led us in a short service at sunset – a welcoming of family, an acknowledgement of God, and a thankfulness of all things given to us. We enjoyed the simple, traditional meal that people have been eating for centuries and talked into the darkness. When we were finished, everyone else went inside to talk while Andrew and I stayed outside and he described the history of his people, their beliefs and struggles and how, even today the feeling of connectedness, love, family and God are still strong. Andrew’s passion and love for his history was inspiring.

While cruising around downtown San Diego, we lucked into this little Irish pub called The Field. All the interior wood is darkly stained and polished to a glow. It is filled with old odd and ends from Ireland – pots, pans, crockery, tools and art. There was a man behind the bar, cleaning glasses and laughing with the customers; music was playing. He talked with a distinctly Irish accent – teasing the women and laughing with the men. We sat down and he made his way to us quickly, asking what he could get for us. We ordered corned beef and cabbage, shepherds pie and Irish bacon with potato pancakes. Nothing could have compared to that day.

I could go on and describe for you the authentic pizza we enjoyed. Cooked in a wood stove with minimal ingredients and how they belonged to the Vera Pizza Napoletana in Napoli, Italy to insure the quality and authenticity. I could tell you about the soul food brunch or the loads of other food we encountered on the trip. I won’t. The fact is, there is a lot of good food to be had out there. It’s everywhere. It sometimes takes a little more time and money to find it and enjoy it. Sometimes it takes sampling things you may not like. But every bite is an adventure. Sometimes you have to try something you don’t like to realize what you truly love.

Chain restaurants are doing fine. They don’t need you. Next time you visit friends or family and want to find someplace to eat, try someplace new. Risk it. Find someplace unfamiliar, preferably suggested by a person from that area, and then if you’re really adventurous ask the server to choose for you. Tell them the kinds of foods you like, stuff you simply cannot eat, then let them choose. Or tell them to have the chef choose for you. You’ll be surprised at what you find. You might not like it, but the service will be better than at any local chain restaurant, the food will be higher quality, and you’ll have a great story to tell about the time you spent with your friends.

So I say all of us should rise up. All of us should start taking an interest in food around us, not just mindlessly eating it while talking with those we love. Food should rise to the same level as the company we keep. Good friends and good food. We need to be willing to spend a bit more, risk a bit, and find someplace that doesn’t make the same burger over and over and over again out of meat that was ordered from Timbuktu thirty-six days ago. Try some local burger joint that bakes their own buns, uses fresh local beef and potatoes grown locally. Then you will have had something worth talking about. It’s time we were all foodies. Be a bit of a food snob and you’ll find that not only the quality of your food increases, but so does the quality of your conversations. Throw off the chains I say. Embrace something amazing and local and you too will begin remembering your best times with good friends and great food.

Extending My Arm

2010-09-24T09:56:00.001-07:00

I extended my arm for the first time the other day. It was just a few inches, but it was enough to signal my impending death. I had just woken up and my eyes were a bit blurry from sleep. Or so I thought. I rubbed them, then rubbed them again but couldn’t quite get them to focus so that I could read my book. I unconsciously extended my arm. Just a few inches. And that was enough. The letters cleared right up. And in that moment of satisfaction there was a moment of panic. I knew what was happening. I was going to die. Not right then of course, but eventually. My eyes were going. Just an inch. But you know what they say about giving an inch, it’s not far before your eyes are gone by miles.

I’m not saying I haven’t noticed other things about my age. I have. My skin isn’t as elastic as it used to be. The lines are more deeply defined. There are a few more spots. Sometimes I miss something said very low, or when someone is turned away from me. Not often, but sometimes. I certainly can’t run and play around like I used to. But it was that extended arm that really struck me. My eyesight has always been perfect. Until now. It’s strange getting older. Spending every day with teenagers is an interesting experiment in feeling young while being constantly reminded that I’m not.

More than being reminded of my age, I’m reminded of the shortness of life. It’s a strange job because at my school the student turnover rate is very high. Each student stays at my high school on an average of eight weeks. My kids are in state’s custody – they are either in foster, proctor or group homes. Most of them anyway. They all come from lives that are not completely stable. I never know how long I’m going to have them. I may have a student for several semesters or several days. I’m forced to live in the moment. My students could leave at any time. It’s a microcosm of life I guess. We could all go at any moment, so we should live our lives as if it’s the last time we’ll ever see one another every time we part. It’s definitely true with my students. I have to make every moment, every minute, every day count. I try my hardest to plant the most important seeds of love, understanding, respect and responsibility and hope that one sunny day, sometime in a distant summer, they’ll blossom. I may never see it, but I hope it’s true.

Not too long ago another teacher, younger than me, came into my classroom with tears threatening to burst over the dams of her eyelashes. She asked, “Do students in normal high schools die this often?” Another student we knew had just died. We all felt the loss rather significantly. The lives my students live leave them more open to death. It’s that simple. My kids die more often and it’s strange dealing with these deaths that come quicker than we are ready to deal with them. We loose kids to suicide, drug overdose, crime, gangs and simple health issues resulting from abusing your young body. My kids die too often.

So I’m forced, perhaps more practically than a normal high school teacher, to think about what would happen if each student didn’t come back tomorrow. Have I done everything I can? Not just teach them about government, or sociology or history – but have I taught them about life, about learning and about respecting themselves and others? Have I shown them the respect they deserve as humans? Because whether they leave to another foster home, go back to jail or return to their Heavenly Father they have left my influence. I want to make sure I give them all I can while they’re in my classroom and in my life.

It is not morbid, it is practical. Death is a part of life. It’s on my mind, perhaps more than most, because I live with the possibility of loosing my students at any moment. I’ve been thinking a lot about getting older lately, what with my extended elbow and my grandparents 65th wedding anniversary party the other day. They are an amazing couple. It’s deeply moving to see the two of them together. They made it a long time and they intend to make it even longer. Standing at their anniversary party, I was deeply moved by the amount of people that came to the party. The crowd of people coming to show respect for the couple that had influenced their lives. Some needed help making it out of their cars; some needed a walker, or an arm to stand on, and some sent children in their stead. But they came. Friends and neighbors from 65 years of living and serving the people around them. It was an honor to watch it happen.

My grandma mentioned during the celebration that she did not plan on having a funeral. There was no need she said. I looked around at just the number of family that was present and thought about all the people that came to congratulate her and her grandpa and I puzzled at her decision. I’m not sure what got her thinking she didn’t need a funeral. For my whole life my grandma has had plans for her death. She’s a practical woman. Knew what she wanted, who she wanted to speak, what songs were to be sung. But now she says there is no need. I gently disagreed with her. I think everyone should have some kind of memorial service, even if it’s a simple one.

I wanted to tell her if there was only me, if I was the only person left when she died, that I would hold a service for her. Just me, standing in a place of importance. It wouldn’t have to be a church pulpit or a graveside. It could be a my tree house overlooking the deep green lawn and dark yellow sunflowers, or it could be the shore of a lake with a fishing rod in my hand, or the golden border of a field, with the sun to my back looking for pheasants flying up. Any of those places would do. But I would speak with a loud voice as to the majesty of my grandmother, of her courage and beauty, her testimony and love of life. I would speak it to the wind and sky and earth. Not for her but for myself. Because without her around I will need to remind myself of her example. I would need to keep my chin up and my voice firm as I reminded the world that once there was a woman of courage and beauty who inspired not only me, not only her husband of over 65 years, but her friends and neighbors and generations to come that she had lived amongst us. That kind of worth deserves to be spoken out loud in public, not just remembered silently to ourselves.

No doubt it would be hard for me to speak of her life. No doubt I would choke up, stutter and break down. Raising children is hard. Keeping a marriage together for 65 years is hard. Watching your family rise and fall through the years is hard. Watching your body break down, year after year, is hard. Speaking my grandmother’s achievements is easy compared to what she’s done for me. If she asks it, if she demands there be no formal service, I will honor that. Because she taught us to honor the wishes of people. But secretly I will go to a place of beauty, where the birds are singing and the fish are jumping. I will breathe in the cool air and I will speak the life of my grandmother as I knew it. I owe her that. And I owe my students the same.

Because living as a teenager today is hard. Trying to figure out what’s right and wrong, sometimes on your own is hard. Trying to fight against drugs, gangs, pornography and just plain peer pressure is hard. Most teenagers today have some kind of support network, relationships they’ve built up – parents and teachers – people they can trust with the hard stuff. Many of my students don’t have that. They’ve been moved from foster home to foster home, school to school, place to place by indigent parents. They’re looking for a place to land and someone to trust in a world that is full of real-life monsters looking to get them. Often they don’t have the opportunities to stretch out their lives and really live like my grandma and grandpa. Their lives may be short, but they are worth celebrating, worth speaking out about.

Luckily I have a place of power to speak from. The other day, after I’d gotten all worked up about something – again – my students were smiling and laughing and one girl said, “You should be a preacher.” I smiled back and said, “I am.” I gestured to the front of my classroom where I have an old time church pulpit keeping my notes and rolls handy. “I preach to you, my congregation, every day and then you take my Word out into the world and spread the Gospel of Russ.” Everyone laughed as I said this with a flourish, ever increasing volume and an upraised fist. I do my best to speak the truth in my classroom. Because my pulpit, like the shore of the lake, or the border of a field, is a place of power.

Maybe it’s because I’m getting older. Maybe it’s because now things are coming into focus – as my arm extends, life seems to be getting shorter. I want to speak out for everyone I’ve known. I want to show honor and respect to everyone who has influenced my life – whether it’s been for a week or for decades. A life is a life. Some lives have had more opportunities to spread their own gospel around. Some have had the honor and privilege to live 65 years with someone they’ve loved in peace and happiness; some have had only 15 years of drugs and disruption to try and figure it all out. What it means is we have to tell those who are present what they mean to us – the impact they’ve had on our life. We have to speak about those no longer near us. Remember them through stories and words and songs. Talk about and remember everyone who has made an impact on us, from grandparents of 40 years, to students of 40 days. And when those we love pass away from us, when their lifetime with us is done, we honor them. We honor them with our words and actions, sometimes formally from a church pulpit or shore of a lake or the front of a classroom. But we honor them with the time that we have left. We honor them with our own lives. Our own words. Our own thoughts and actions. That way, their lives, like my arm, just keep extending outward into clarity.

Classroom Alchemy

2010-09-10T07:47:00.000-07:00

The Ancients believed that there was something magical about certain elements. They believed that given the right scientific formula to follow, and the right ingredients, done under the right circumstances, something mystical could happen. Gold. The purest and most brilliant of elements. Gold could be created from the basest of elements – lead. The dullest and most mundane of elements. A skilled alchemist could take the common and transform it into rarity and beauty. Alchemists would search out their ingredients with fanatical determination. They would gather the perfect ingredients to combine and create the desired results. Now most historians believe that alchemy was often used as a metaphor to understand the human spirit, or enlightenment, or spirituality, or even mysticism. The old alchemical texts weren’t referring to actual lead and gold, but metaphorical Lead and Gold. How to transform oneself from something mundane to something extraordinary. But it was the combination of elements, the formula one used, the ingredients that would really make the difference.

If you weren’t a teacher or student at my high school, if you were an outsider, one of the funniest places to hang out would be our faculty room. At my school we call it the Family Room. The Family Room is a place where we hang out, get away, hide, and talk. We talk about all kinds of things, but funnily, while you would think that we wouldn’t talk about students, or our work, or our classrooms, it about all we do talk about. Sometimes it’s hard for me to go there because that’s ALL we talk about. But the one thing that remains constant is how we talk about our classes.

Anyone who’s taught for any real length of time knows this sociological fact – every class has its own personality. There is something mystical, something chemical, or even alchemical, that occurs when elements are combined in order to get something amazing out of the teaching process. Each class, each period that I teach, is like a person itself. It has its own sense of humor, its own sensitivities, its own issues. And all this has to do with the combination of students within that class. Any one student within a given class might not have a particular sense of humor, but taken together a sense of humor may appear. Any one student, in a particular class, may not be super curious about a given topic, but taken together a particular class may have an insatiable curiosity. There is something about putting a group of people together, for a given amount of time, and watching how they form their own particular group, with its own peculiarities and personality. It’s transformative. It’s alchemical. It’s magical. Take away one or more of the students and it changes the character of the class; its personality shifts. And where once you had something amazing and brilliant, perhaps even golden, you now have something different. Then there have to be readjustments made, how you teach that “person” because their personality has changed.

There is nothing like the rush of having a class that just seems to coalesce into something amazing. Together they form this gigantic learning machine. There is something about the chemistry of all those particular students coming together that makes them attentive, intelligent, curious and willing to put in the mental effort that is asked of them. You start with something mundane, and you end up with something truly golden.

And like ancient alchemy, teachers across the world, gather in their own particular Family Rooms and they discuss theories, combinations, ingredients, incantations and processes to get it right. Unfortunately the one thing teachers don’t have control over are their ingredients. The major source of our final product is out of our hands. We, unlike the ancient alchemists, are given our ingredients without any real control for quality. So some classes are filled with brilliance and intelligence, while other classes are filled with drama and defensiveness. But we continually strive, sometimes more enthusiastic than others, to create something beautiful and heavenly out of what we’ve been given. The real question that many of us have is what do we do when our greatest efforts are met with failure? What do we do when we start with lead and we get lead?

This year my forth period class could have been a sitcom – or maybe a drama of some kind. It had all the makings of hilarity or disaster. When you look at the lineup of characters it seems like fiction. But it was all too real. There was Darius, the class clown. He couldn’t stop talking; he joked, laughed and made the class laugh at his crude, sexual, and often offensive humor. They more they laughed, the more he talked. There was Trina, the teen mom who was addicted to not only alcohol but drugs as well. She had two kids, a string of boyfriends, and alternated between identifying with her gang-banging Mexican dad, or her peace-loving alcoholic, Native American mom. There was Jose, the dedicated gang member. At sixteen he was already covered in tattoos. His forearms, belly, ribs and neck clearly identified his gang affiliation and nearly every comment in class referred to his love of gangs. There was Adam, the drug dealer, who wanted nothing more than a piece of eye-candy on his arm and millions of dollars in his pockets because of the rapper he was sure he was going to be. He wrote beautiful lyrics about love, loss and loneliness, but he didn’t have the ability to focus in class or to stay with any one girl for longer than a couple of weeks. There was Darby, the kid genius who’s parents had left him with grandparents, never to be heard from again. The kid who played video games every waking hour of every day, and who was isolated and lonely because of how smart he was. Too much time, no intellectual feedback at home, led him to loose himself in video games. There was Jacob, the sex offender, who’s intelligence was so low that he struggled with even the simplest of instructions. He was always lost, never understanding, and would laugh when others would laugh because he didn’t want to seem like he didn’t understand, but his eyes always held a kind of wonder at what was going on. And then I had Andrea, the chola, a Hispanic girl who had been in the system since she was twelve. She wore baggy pants, tight shirt, painted eyebrows and thick, heavy lipstick and big earrings. She hangs with the OG’s (original gangsters) not these “youngsters” who didn’t know how to treat a lady. She was sixteen. This was my fourth period class. These were the ingredients that I had to work my alchemical magic with. And I have to say that at the end of it all, this experiment, failed.

I love to teach. I love it. There is something about getting in front of a crowd and talking about stuff that I find interesting. I love making them laugh, making them lean forward with anticipation at my next words. I love students who are curious and inquisitive about something they may have never considered before. There are often days when I finish a class and I feel like a rock star. Arms in the air I silently thank the Teaching Gods for giving me my talents and the class that I just taught. I shake my head at how cool my job is. I get paid to do this for a living. I get paid to teach. How cool is my life?

Then there are the fourth periods. These are the periods where the combination of kids leaves me cold and drained and disheartened. I’ve only had a few of them and each one nearly killed me. This last fourth period was a combination like I’ve never seen before. It was the worst of its kind so far. They were nearly uncontrollable. Most days they would arrive late, rowdy and full of complaints and profanity. They resisted all forms of learning. They talked during even the most modern and contemporary movies. They balked at the most simple requests or assignments. Even when asked to color in a design whose lines were already drawn they complained about not knowing what to do. They were uninterested, disengaged and unwilling to try. And despite my best efforts most of them got low grades; some didn’t even pass the class.

The thing is, I believe in alchemy. I believe in the ability to change something mundane into something extraordinary. I believe in change of the most basic kind. I believe that despite the personality of a given class, I can still mold and shape and summon something magical from the ingredients that I’ve been given. Perhaps that makes me an idealist. Perhaps that makes me, like the alchemists of old, a philosophical fool. I don’t know if there is a real recipe for success when it comes to teaching. But I keep thinking of my successes. I keep thinking about those times when I’ve raised my arms in triumph at having taught and succeeded. But maybe I’m just like the guy who’s played slots so many times, with a certain drink in his hand and his lucky socks pulled up tight, that I’m sure that was the combination that brought the magical ingredients together. Maybe there is no recipe. Maybe it is a crap shoot. All I know is that there are few things so destructively disturbing to my self-esteem than to watch that fourth period leave my class and have not one of them look back. Not one of them thank me, or even smile.

I want to believe in what I’m doing. I want to believe that I have the talent to teach and to change lives. Not just some, but all. And maybe that belief is self destructive and even vain – thinking that I can change the world, one classroom at a time, despite the ingredients inside each one. But I do. Heaven help me, I do. And so it’s at times like this, watching those kids leave my classroom, swearing and leering and jeering, that my heart feels like lead. I feel empty and stupid and full of doubt. I want to believe that I can make a difference in everyone’s life. But I think I need to come to grips with the fact that there are some classes that aren’t meant for me. There are some classes that I can’t transform. There are some classes, that because of their alchemical combinations, they just aren’t ready to transform into something greater than they started. I have to have faith. I have to have faith, that somewhere down the road, there will be a different Alchemist, waiting. Someone who can change all hearts, who can heal all wounds, who can bring peace to those classes that I couldn’t. But until then, I’m just sitting here in an empty classroom thinking about the future.

Roots & Wings

2010-09-03T06:59:00.000-07:00

I left home when I was 18. I had enlisted in the navy reserve and I was headed to boot camp. It all happened pretty fast and I wasn’t really ready to leave home. My mom definitely wasn’t ready to have me leave; she cried quite a bit. My dad, as always, radiated a confident silence throughout the entire experience. I’m sure he felt heartache and trepidation at having his oldest son leave home, but he never showed it. In fact, once I got to boot camp I began receiving letters from both him and my mom on a regular basis. The first letter I received from him, and every letter thereafter, while I was in boot camp, was folded like a paper airplane.

My dad explained to me, in that first letter, that the greatest gift a father can give his child is roots and wings. Roots, he said, were the teachings, traditions and examples that a parent sets for their children. It gives a child something to rely on; it is a foundation that they know is unmovable, unshakable, and unchangeable. Wings, he said, are the freedom given by a parent for a child to act in a way that they feel is appropriate. It gives a child the ability to act, with confidence, as they grow into their own lives, their own talents, their own goals. They are free to act as they see fit because the parent has given them a foundation from which to base their decisions and actions. My father showed once again how truly wise he was and how fearless. Roots and Wings. A philosophy for the ages.

And now here I am. A father. With two daughters who are nearly the age I was when I first left home. I have spent all the years of the their lives trying to give them roots. I have taught them everything that I hold dear, everything that is important, everything that I believe one should build a life on – trust, love, kindness, forgiveness and open-mindedness. These are the things that I want my children to base their lives on. Their roots are sturdy. They are good people who are intelligent, sensitive and spiritual. They are ready for the world. But I’m not sure I’m ready to let them go. I look over the edge and into the open air and I want to hold them back a bit. I want to keep them in the nest a bit longer. I want to teach them just a few more things before they go. I want to make those roots a bit thicker, a bit more deep, a bit more unmoving. What I really want is for those roots to wrap themselves around my kids ankles so they never leave. I find I’m a bit stingy with the feathers when it comes to doling out wings.

You see I was fine until they started to actually grow up. I don’t mean grow older, that is always cute, and fun and entertaining, I mean actually become adults. Maybe it’s because I teach psychology and I am more aware of developmental patterns, or because my dad pointed out the best way he thought to let a kid go out into the world, or because I just think about this stuff way too much, but I notice these little landmarks that move the kids further away from needing roots, and closer to needing wings. As they begin testing their newfound wings it makes me nervous.

In the past few months my daughters have begun thinking and talking about boys and friends – and sometimes the two combined. Not about their dad, but about people outside the home. They’ve found the value in being with people that aren’t their parents. And this is good. It’s good for them, it’s just not good for me. I want them to stay home and stay safe. The first boy that really hurts one of my daughters won’t have my wrath. Because that would be wrong. I wish I could be there to face him down, explain what he’s done, smack him up side the head. But I won’t. I will let her deal with him, explain to him what he’s done, and she will live her own life and learn her own lessons.

Lately my daughters are wearing makeup; they’re planning their own lives, thinking about life after high school. They’re talking about college and maybe not college. They’re talking about marriage, and what it would be like, and who they want to marry, and how they want their lives to be. They’re not talking about this seriously, but jokingly with friends. As a pastime. They are wearing bras and using tampons. They aren’t girls anymore, they’re young women. My life is changing right along with theirs. Because all these things indicate that a change is coming. Soon, my cute, shy, silly little girls will be smart, funny and beautiful women, ready to head out into the world.

People, upon finding out that I have all girls, sometimes ask if I wish I had sons. I have to honestly say that I don’t. At this time, in this place, I really think that girls have it better than boys. Here’s why. I’ve been able to raise my daughters in any way they want. If a girl is interested in football, hockey, wrestling, dancing, dresses or makeup, it doesn’t matter. A girl can be feminine and masculine at the same time. They can look beautiful and act tough; they can wear a dress and be interested in snakes. Girls have the freedom to be whoever they want to be. Girls can tie knots, throw punches and hike in the mountains. But boys can’t be cute, sensitive, cry when they’re sad, play dress up or have tea parties – or they run the very real risk of being labeled something ugly and hurtful. My daughters are who they want to be, they are brave, and bold and beautiful. They are perfect. Perhaps they’ll talk their husbands into keeping their family name rather than taking his – but regardless of what they do, they’ll do it in their own way.

Now all I have to do is gain the courage to give them the wings that they deserve. I have to be willing to allow them to fall from the heights that they sore to. I know the story of Icarus – the willful and prideful man who gave himself wings and tried to rise above where the gods believed he should. I know that my kids suffer a very real risk of falling and being hurt if they soar too close to the sun, not with wings that they themselves have made, but with wings fashioned by their father. So as I get ready for them to leave our home I have to make sure those wings are worthy of great heights; I have to make sure that they know how to fly; I have to make sure that those wings can withstand the weather of a world that sometimes can be too hurtful. I have to make sure that they know they always have a home they can come to. They have a place where they can feed their roots while their wings heal.

The Trouble With the North

2010-08-30T04:55:00.000-07:00

As summer approaches and the prospect of free time increases, I find myself thinking about what I want to do during the upcoming school break. I love learning new things, meeting new people, and hearing new music. I often find myself asking people about their favorite band or song. I find it’s a great way to learn about people and find new music. Everyone has a favorite piece of music they can talk about. As summer approaches, I find myself thinking about places I’ve already been and want to re-visit. Lately I’ve found myself thinking about last summer and my couch surfing experience in Texas and the music I found there. I find myself in the wet heat of San Antonio, standing on a front porch with a man in a cowboy hat, holding an icy beverage in my hand, and how he taught me something about living and the music of the world.

Couch Surfing is one of the coolest ideas I’ve run across in a very long time. Simply put, Couch Surfing is a system where like-minded individuals travel and stay with strangers along their way. It is social networking for travelers who believe the world is a good place, filled with good people, who can be trusted. The site has some safety features but it really is up to each traveler to look after themselves. But the real magic of Couch Surfing is that strangers stay with strangers but leave as friends. The world gets smaller, not bigger. You get to live in the place you’re visiting; not just visit there. You get to spend time with locals who love their city and want to show it around to strangers. It is one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had. I hope to have more this summer.

Last summer I visited the Lavens – a family full of kindness and music. They took me in last minute as I was headed into San Antonio, Texas without blinking an eye. The wife, Jana, picked me up from the airport and from the first minute she was a tour guide. Making her daughter and her daughter’s boyfriend sit in the backseat while she talked and pointed out all the places of interest in her town. She was kind and friendly and amazing. She made me feel incredibly welcome. Jana is a high school teacher who lives with her husband and daughter in a beautiful little neighborhood of San Antonio. But it wasn’t until I arrived and was directed to my bedroom that I found out the magic of the Laven household. They are musicians.

The bedroom I stayed in was lined with guitars. Guitars of every type. Guitars and tour posters of some of the greatest names in country western history. I just stood and stared at this cool place and how amazing it was they were showing this amount of trust to a stranger. I was exhilarated. This was the kind of life I wanted to live. This was the kind of person I wanted to be. Trusting the world. Not mistrusting everything everyone did. When I made my way back downstairs, Jana explained to me that their entire family was musicians. All of them. The family itself was its own musical group – The Lavens. I was amazed and impressed. They were a true Texan family. They would have Friday night parties with all their friends and all the food you could eat. Lots of good stuff to drink and music. Always the music.

Jana introduced me to her husband Andreas – the epitome of a Texan musician. He was tall and lanky with shoulder length hair pulled back into a clean ponytail. He wore an old pair of Wrangler jeans and a button down shirt – tucked in. An old cowboy hat sat on the back of his head. His hands were big and clean and he shook mine with purpose. He was as quiet as Jana was talkative. He had little to say to me at first but welcomed me into his home and went quietly back to what he was doing. Jana took me on a tour of San Antonio that evening – she wanted to show me everything because she was leaving on a trip herself and wasn’t going to be around.

Jana left the next day. The house was quiet and Andreas was in the kitchen having coffee with his daughter Rachel. Rachel is a beautiful 17 year old who has a voice rivaling many artists out there today. She is another Taylor Swift waiting to happen. But she had things to do and places to go. So Andreas and I were left to ourselves. Slowly we began to talk and around mid-day he asked if I wanted something to eat. I never turn down a meal and so he began making lunch for us. It was a lunch any Texan would be proud of. He started up the hand-made, cast iron grill out back with mesquite wood stacked just to one side. Once the wood started to smoke, he laid marinated skirt steak and chicken legs on the grill and pronounced we had some time to wait. So he grabbed an ice-cold beer and I grabbed a soda from fridge and went out to the front porch. We talked about living in Texas and living in other parts of the country. We talked about neighbors and friends. We talked about looking out for folks around you. I told him I wished I knew my neighbors better. Not just the folks to the left and right of me but my neighbors. My neighborhood.

He glanced at me then. Just a slight turn of his head, his eyes looking at me from under his worn straw hat, and his mouth made a single line. Maybe I’m remembering a sadness in his eyes only found when I evaluate myself. Maybe he felt sorry for me. But he turned and looked back out into the neighborhood and said, “Trouble with the North is no one sits on their porches.”

“What do you mean?” I said, with my one eye scrunching up a bit. I could smell the mesquite smoke coming from the back yard and the meat cooking ever so slowly.

“Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders almost imperceptibly “seems like the best way to get to know your neighbors is to get out of your own house. Down here we grab ourselves a cooler full of beer and sit on the porch and enjoy the evening and invite folks who are walking by to come and have a beer with us. Or we just take a walk and end up on someone else’s porch. Seems like folks up north don’t get out of their houses enough. Maybe you oughtta just sit on your front porch and talk to folks.” He let his words hang there in the warm Texas air; the cicadas hummed hypnotically for a moment before he said, “Just my opinion.” He finished off his beer and turned toward the door. “Meat’s probably done.” He headed toward the grill out back.

And there it was. Something I’d been missing. Something so simple. It was the most Andreas talked my entire trip. But it changed the way I looked at my own neighborhood and how I was interacting with it. That day we sat in the Laven kitchen and ate smoked chicken and steak inside warmed tortillas. We washed it down with more beer and soda and enjoyed an icy chunk of watermelon. Juice kept trying to sneak down my chin. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what he had said. I just need to get outside. I just need to spend time on my own front porch.

It’s been almost a year since I visited Andreas and his family. Summer is coming again. I hope to be traveling soon. I still have a few weeks before I’m free of school, so last night I mowed the lawn. I mowed and edged and cleaned the yard in preparation for folks who are coming to a Friday night party at my house. We’re going to grill and smoke some good meat; drink frosty beverages and sit outside and take it easy. We’re going to talk and laugh and enjoy each other. We’re not neighbors, but we are friends. I’m starting small with folks I know – then I’ll move out to my actual neighbors. I’ll be playing some music I picked up from the Lavens – John Prine, Susan Gibson and Terri Hendrix. Of course the Lavens themselves will play over my speakers and into my back yard and out into the spring night.

In preparation for Friday night, and for the rest of my summer, I bought a bench. Not an expensive one and not a big one. But it’s nice. It’s meant for outside and it fits my small porch. My porch isn’t big and spacious like the one on the Laven’s old San Antonio house. But it will do. I washed out an old cooler and left it to dry out back. I washed grass stains and dirt off my bare feet. Then I went inside and made me a plate of smoked baby back ribs, baked beans and sweet potato fries. I grabbed myself an icy beverage and headed to the front porch. And I just sat there. I sat there and enjoyed my dinner and sipped on my soda. I breathed in the spring air and listened to the sounds of my neighborhood – not the sounds of my television. I smiled and waved at folks passing by. I made kiss-kiss noises at a dog that seemed to have lost his way. My own 16 year old daughter came out and talked to me for a while and we enjoyed the smell of the newly mowed grass and cool spring air. I thought of Rachel Laven and her amazing voice and I wondered how the Lavens had been doing. I stood on my front porch and held my can of Mountain Dew a bit higher in honor of Andreas – the man who taught me to smoke my food and come out on my porch. He taught me that being on your front porch is a good thing. No one stopped by. No one came to sit with me. But I have the whole summer to practice. And a newly washed cooler to put all my soda in.

A Weed is a Plant

2010-08-20T15:36:00.001-07:00

I have this thing for dandelions. You could call it a weakness. I love them. I mean, think about how beautiful they are. Take a moment, get on your hands and knees and really take a look at these amazing golden bursts of sunshine scattered throughout your yard. It doesn’t stop there. When they die, they don’t wither or turn brown and ugly. They transform; metamorphosis into ethereal lunar orbs with the fragility of butterfly wings gently suspended over springtime grass. If you’re careful and very gentle, you can pick them, hold them to your face and softly blow on the orb. The dandelion transforms once again into hundreds of floating stars shooting out from a single galaxy of creation. From sun to moon to stars, all in about a weeks time. There is only one problem. They’re a weed. They spread like mad. If they were hard to grow we would pot them, cultivate them, cherish them and sell them for an arm and a leg. We would ask our friends for cuttings so we could cultivate our own dandelions; we would call nurseries to see if new dandelions had come in. But we don’t do that. Why? Because they’re a weed. We’ve made a judgment call and so something beautiful is now considered a pest.

I think I got this view from old man Mortensen who lived in my neighborhood. He was a nice old man who lived with his kind old wife. I have very few memories of Mr. Mortensen, but one crystal clear memory is him talking to me about what plants were to be pulled up and what plants were to be left. I remember it because of his seriousness. The gravity of it all. What should be classified as a weed? It seems silly now but at the time I knew this was very important to him. I thought it was all silliness. I was young and impatient. I just wanted to be shown what plants needed pulling and which ones needed leaving. I had no need of philosophy. But this would come to be the first piece of serious thought I encountered outside my own home. “A weed is a plant that grows in the wrong place.” That simple. All plants are plants but some we classify as weeds because they are in the wrong place. They are detrimental to the surrounding plants. Mr. Mortensen said he would give me “two bits” if I could remember that phrase when I came to weed next week. I later asked my mom what two bits was. Turns out it is a quarter. A serious amount to a kid in the 70’s. So I remembered the phrase. A weed is a plant that grows in the wrong place. I could remember that.

I can’t describe or explain how often I repeat that phrase in my head. How many times I think about what it meant. I came to absorb the idea Mr. Mortensen introduced to me. It’s become a modern parable for me – it’s a way I look at problems and how I view people. The parable is important for two reasons. The first reason is the phrase just makes sense. Labels are important and often we believe the labels given us. Labels can make us, in part, who we are. The other, more important, reason I think about Mr. Mortensen and his weeds all the time is they are now my weeds. I don’t mean I own a house with my own weeds. I mean I own Mr. Mortensen’s actual house. In a strange twist of fate, I came to own the very house I used to weed. So I now live ten houses from my parents. Ten houses from where I grew up. The very neighborhood that shaped me now shapes my children. The weeds I used to pull are now pulled by my kids. I continue to tell them the phrase – a weed is a plant that grows in the wrong place.

The topic came up anew, literally, the other day when I was out in the yard admiring the fading spring tulips and emerging summer plants; anticipating beauty that would come up weeks from now. So as we were admiring the plants, I pointed out one plant I didn’t recognize. It was already fairly large with gorgeous lacy leaves that looked almost fern-like. I commented on how pretty is was and asked my wife if she knew what plant it was. She thought it was a just a weed. She stuttered on the phrase a bit because she knows it’s a pet peeve of mine. I stood there a moment, looking at my new weed, and nodded. We both knew what was coming. “Let’s leave it.” I suggested. My wife nodded and rolled her eyes a bit, knowing disagreement would only encourage another retelling of the story of wise old Mr. Mortensen and how I used to pull weeds for him. You see, I twist the parable a bit; sometimes I get weeds and people mixed up. Maybe weeds and people need to be given more time, more space or a different place to grow up. Mortensen wouldn’t have agreed, he would have just pulled it.

So for a couple of weeks, I watched this plant grow. My wife was right. It wasn’t intended for our flowerbed. It is a weed. Its leaves haven’t gotten any uglier. In fact, it has gotten increasingly beautiful. The leaves are still these fragile looking, lacy constructions that look like faerie wings. Now it stands head and shoulders above the rest of the flowerbed. It’s almost two feet high now and flowers are starting to bloom. It’s going to be beautiful. But it’s definitely taking space other plants need to survive; it’s hogging their air and blocking their sun. Not good.

Mortensen would have told me to pull it. But I’ve seen people be given another chance and it’s worked out great. Maybe it’s true for this weed too. He was a wise man, Mr. Mortensen. It wasn’t until I moved into his home and started receiving his mail that I realized who he really was. He was a doctor, a Ph.D. He had advanced degrees when most folks his age were only graduating from high school. The scholarly journals that came to his house, that I now lived in, shouldn’t have surprised me. They were journals on agriculture. Turns out old man Mortensen had a Ph.D. in Farming and Agriculture. He thought a lot about plants, their place in the world, and how to help them grow better. It wasn’t just idle chatter to him, it was truth.

So the other morning I dressed in shirt and tie, ready for some important visitors to my school, and I saw this monstrous beauty of a plant in my flowerbed. I thought of Mr. Mortensen and how I use his saying to think about people. We were nervous for the visitors to come. You never know what’s going to happen at my school. We have a bunch of kids who didn’t make it other places. These kids, when in normal classrooms, take up a lot of time and energy with their attitude and actions. They made it difficult for the rest of the students to get the education they need. All my students are in state’s custody. The state has taken over their lives and decided who their guardians are and who will educate them. The heads of all the state agencies were coming to see our school, see the kids they are responsible for, and see what kind of education they are getting.

When they entered my classroom I was deeply in the middle of teaching; throwing out questions and encouraging answers. Trying to be my regular teaching self – only with a tie. The tour guide kindly interrupted, introduced me to the visiting guests and, out of the blue, asked me what I liked best about where I work. It took me by surprise. All my brainpower had been invested in getting out the content and on classroom management. Sometimes my kids act out a bit, and today wasn’t a day where that acting out would do us any good. So the question, “What’s one thing you like about teaching at this school,” really took me by surprise. As I looked around my room, at these students that hadn’t succeeded elsewhere, it dawned on me. Mr. Mortensen.

Most of students’ faces looked hard and unemotional. But I saw beyond that to what I knew about their lives. A seventeen-year-old mother whose two children had just been taken away by the courts. A drug dealer who sampled so much of his own product he cannot really form full thoughts or sentences any more. A kid beaten by his father with an electrical cord cut from an unused vacuum. A gang member who never knew a father raised by the local crew and by violence. A girl who had known only the affections of influential older men in her neighborhood and felt honored by their attention. And a kid who finally found a foster dad who loved him, but who was now dying from a brain tumor. These were the faces I saw. These are my kids. This is my classroom. I knew my answer. I knew what I loved about where I work. It’s about perspective.

I smiled and looked at my visitors and said something like this. “I love this school because it gives those who might not have succeeded in another school another opportunity to succeed. A different environment. Somewhere where teachers know how to deal with their unique personalities and challenges. Somewhere where they see beyond actions and attitudes into the real person.” It’s about potential. I gestured to my class – full of what would normally be called trouble-makers. “This is my class. Most of them have found the value of school, of acting appropriately, of gaining relationships where before there were none. I don’t think they would have gotten that in a regular school. When I was a boy,” I continued, “there were no schools like this. Kids who didn’t fit in didn’t have a place to go. Now they do.” They would have been pulled up by the roots. I thought to myself. They would have been labeled as society’s weeds and never been given a chance to be appreciated for what they have to give. The visitors smiled and thanked us all and quietly filed out.

I guess for me it is all about perspective. It’s all in how you look at that dandelion. Is it a flower with a golden head of sunshine, soon to turn into a gossamer moon-like blossom? Or is it a pesky, invasive weed that kills grass? Wouldn’t it be great if we had flowerbeds filled with dandelions and giant lacy-leafed plants? Somewhere we could gently transplant unwanted weeds and allow them to grow unhindered by other flowers around them? With gardeners who loved being amongst weeds. Folks who just appreciated beauty in all its flavors, rather than the ones found just at the nursery. I don’t know a place like that for flowers. For now, dandelions are on their own. The giant fern-like plant in my yard stays. But here’s where the parable breaks down. Weeds aren’t people and people aren’t weeds. Sometimes weeds are just weeds and need to be pulled so other plants aren’t harmed and we shouldn’t make a parable about that. But labels are important – in some instances they make us who we are – labels create and destroy. Giving people another chance, another place to thrive is important. I’m glad there are places where students like mine might, if given the right opportunities, thrive and blossom. That is a good parable.

Today, even as I type these words, there is a place for the lost kids in my state. They are busting into my classroom, looking over my shoulder, bugging me about what I write; trying to tell me about their lives. But what they really need is someone to see beyond the labels they’ve been given. They need new labels. They aren’t weeds. They are plants. They were just in the wrong place. Now they’re here, in a place where we care for them. A team of us – a motley pirate crew of teachers who all believe the same thing. All students, given time and solid relationships, can succeed. With a bit of luck and a hell of a lot of patience, they just might bloom into something amazing. Time to go to work. Thanks Mr. Mortensen.

Steam & Snow - Book Excerpt from Crossroads

2010-06-11T14:22:00.000-07:00

Are you stressed? You look stressed. The way your eyes are pinched together and your shoulders are hunched, like they’re in pain. Seems like you’ve been a bit high strung lately – work, church, family – all those things tend to wear at a person a bit and it ends up making you stressed. Running from one thing to another with little rest. Better get moving, you have things to do. Why do you keep stretching your neck like that? Is it tense? Yeah, rubbing it won’t really make that go away. Maybe some Tylenol. A little caffeine. That is bound it help. Try that. Maybe even one of those energy drinks to get you going or just a Diet Coke because that’s so much better for you. Oh, don’t forget you have that meeting soon and that project is due; it’s important. We’re counting on you. Why are you hunched like that? Does your back hurt? Sitting like that isn’t really good for you. Right. Where am I going? Oh, I have this place. I go there to relax. Now? You want me to tell you about it now? You seem so busy. Are you sure you have the time? Okay.

There’s this place, north of here. Not far north. It seems like its far when you say three hours, but really, that’s just three CD’s of your favorite music away. Think about that. Or just three hours of snacking and talking to family without the television or computers or telephone. Not really that far. We like going in the fall and winter. Last year we drove through a snow storm. Well, not really a storm, more like a whiteout. We couldn’t see the road. Weren’t sure if we were going in the right direction or not. We were scared to slow down or even stop because we knew there were cars behind us. Just kept driving. Kept guessing. Why are you shaking your head? I know THAT doesn’t sound relaxing. It wasn’t. It was incredibly stressful driving through that mess, the wind whipping past the car at incredible speeds, obliterating the road and anything around us. Stressful. I’m just saying that it’s worth driving through storms for. That’s how cool this place is.

It’s hidden. Not secreted, but out of sight if you know what I mean. It’s up a little canyon, surrounded by a little town. And I mean little, maybe twenty buildings in the whole town. Twenty total. Many are closed in the winter just because there are not enough people. Summer is a fun time too. We’ve gone then. But winter is best. Winter The town is close together. Like an old west town. Buildings nearly touching each other, so wherever you stay you can get from one end of town to another in less than ten minutes – on foot. But the only reason you want to go anywhere is to eat. I’ll tell you about that later.

There are maybe three or four hotels in the town. Small hotels. Dinky really. They are perfect. Little rooms. Cozy. But you’re not there for the rooms. The rooms are there so that you can sleep when you’re done and leave your clothes when you go across the street. Across the street is the reason you drove through an ice storm to get here. Across the street are the Lava Hot Pools. There are two major pools and two minor pools. They are cool on this end and hot on that end. You can work your way up. By cool, I mean mid 90’s and by hot, I mean low 100’s. The coolest pool here is hotter than most hot tubs.

This is old Indian land. Indians, years ago, came here and soaked in the river because boiling water bubbles its way to the surface and mixes with icy river water and make the best soaking water in the world. So they would soak. This is what you’re going to do. The pools are now cement lined and have stairs leading down to them; they have canopies over most of them to protect you from the sun or elements. You can soak in complete comfort. They have changing rooms, incredible flower gardens, ice cream for sale, icy cold water and a place where you can get a massage.

Once you walk down those stairs and feel the heat hit your skin, you think you won’t make it. But you will. Just ease yourself down into it. I know it’s hot but your body will adjust. Just slowly lower yourself into the water. The first thing you notice, after the heat, is that the floor of the pool is not solid. Nope. Filled with little tiny gravel about the size of peas maybe six inches deep. When you walk, you have perfect traction. It’s like getting a foot massage every time you move your feet. Just sit down on the stone benches lining the pool. Just sit down and let the heat pull the tension out of your body. Just sit there and move your feet in the gravel floor and feel your feet get more and more relaxed as your back and shoulders get looser and looser just by sitting in the hot water.

Now close your eyes and just relax. All you can hear is the distant highway, sometimes a passing cargo train and the people around you talking. There are not a lot of little kids here. Not a lot for them to do and they don’t like how hot the water is. Some kids. But not a lot. You can hear the people talking. The people at the pools are part of what make them so great. They all seem somehow unique. Like all the unique people in the world have come to Lava Hot Springs just for today. Tomorrow it will be regular, unremarkable people, but today all the unique people are here. There are young couples making lovey face, and touching noses and talking softly and giggling at everything the other says; there are old couples talking quietly and smiling at each other while holding hands. There are hippies with pulled back hair and scraggly beards and hair. There are old men with faded blue tattoos of panthers and crosses and women; they are mostly silent except around more of their kind, but they have old stories to tell. There are women gathered together laughing and gossiping; there are loudmouths and soft-speakers. And there are storytellers and listeners. The pools are never crowded. There is always a place to sit, lie down, and stretch out. I’ve never seen it so crowded I didn’t want to be there.

Once you’ve soaked for a while, you’ll start to get hungry. There’s not much to eat in town if you like fancy. There’s plenty to eat in town if you like home cooked meals, made to order by local people. There are three or four local restaurants and a little ice cream parlor. There are a couple of gift shops with cool stuff in them. You’ll want to walk a bit, stretch, get yourself a good burger or chicken fried steak. Drink some water then get back to the pools sometime after dark. If you’re lucky, it’ll start to snow.

You’ll make your way back into the pools and sit on the stairs of the big pool – the hot pool. The stairs are deep and wide enough that you can lay down on them without discomfort. The stairs are heated by the water so they are comfortable even as it snows. But you want to be in the water for this. Ease yourself down into the water. Remember this is the hottest part of the pools but you get used to it. Your skin feels all prickly because of heat pushing its way into your body and stress leaving it. Sink down into the water and look up into the night sky. No matter what the weather is like, you’ll be rewarded. If it’s clear, you get to lie in the superheated water and look up at the jeweled night sky while your feet push into the graveled floor and your hearing is blocked by the lapping of water. If it’s snowing, well if it’s snowing, you’re in for a treat. You’ll lie there heat pushing into you while snow appears out of the darkness in amazing white downy drifting pieces gently making their way down to you. Most of them won’t make it because of the heat of the pool. Some will make it to your skin and will extinguish themselves on your superheated body as it surfaces out of the pool. You’ll look up into a blank sky and watch the snow come down, listen to the lapping of the water and feel the heat pushing into you and the stress leaving you and you’ll think of… nothing. You’ll just enjoy the moment because that’s all there is. This moment. Snow. Water. Gravel.

You might get out and cool off on the stairs but even then the snow doesn’t bother you. You’ll cool off and then get back in. Cool off then get back in. Until there is nothing left but you. All the stress has been washed off in the pools and pushed away by the gravel and laughed away by the people around you. You might get out and read then get back in again. You might get out and listen to music then get back in again. You might get out and take a nap then get back in again. It’s all really quite simple. Wash and repeat until desired results are obtained.

After a while, you’ll start feeling tired, not tired and stressed, not tired like you need sleep, just tired. You’ll walk back to your hotel room, steam radiated off of your body and slip into your most comfortable pajamas, slip into the simple bed in the simple room and listen to the river outside your hotel room and you’ll sleep. You’ll sleep in total darkness, free of troubles, or cares, or stress. You’ll sleep long and deep and you’ll wake up the next morning feeling more relaxed than you’ve been in a long time. You’ll be hungry again so go get yourself some pancakes and maple syrup with a side of sausage. Then come back and get in the pools again. You have all weekend here. All weekend.

So, I’ve got to get going. Heading there with my family. What? You want to come too? Sure. We’d love to have you. Sure. I’ll meet you there. Three hours north. Lava Hot Springs. I’ll look for you.

Change of Plans

2010-06-02T06:18:00.001-07:00

My first few years of teaching were like a dream. I was already in my thirties and just starting my career. But my very first job was exactly the one I wanted. It was literally my dream job. I was working at the high school I had graduated from; I was working with an old friend and mentor and I was teaching the subjects I loved. It was perfect. I was blessed because most people have to work years to be able to teach what they want where they want. I remember going to work in the mornings filled with giddy excitement as I walked into my perfect classroom, at my perfect school and began planning my perfect classes. If I had been a character in a movie everyone would have been cringing because the audience knows this kind of perfection can’t last very long. I was like the Fool card in a tarot deck, blissfully stumbling my way toward a cliff.

The students were the best. I loved watching them file into the classroom – talking, laughing, listening to music – all the things teenagers do. It made me feel young. I would laugh and tease, try and remember names, and do my best to educate and maybe even entertain a little. The thing is there were a lot of students that I loved, students who were loud and full of personality, students who were quiet and inquisitive, students who were funny and animated. But this story isn’t about them. But this wasn’t an ordinary story. And the girl in this story, who I will call Katrina, was no ordinary girl. Her life was filled with sadness and pain. She was the antithesis of everything I was at the time. Everything about my life was amazing and everything about her life was horrific. To be honest, I barely noticed her. Neither of us knew we were headed toward a cliff of our own. The plans we had for our individual lives weren’t going to work out.

I am a bit outspoken. I believe that when you notice something you don’t think is right you should say something. Unfortunately, I was always saying something to the administration about how things could be different. I was a bit too loud and a bit too outspoken. I was new and full of ideas. I wanted to change all kinds of things. Ask my wife – I can be annoying sometimes. I guess I required a bit too much maintenance; I drew a bit too much attention to myself with my outspokenness. No high school administration needs that kind of headache no matter how popular the teacher is. Unfortunately I had no clue. I just kept stumbling along, talking my fool head off, speaking up whenever something came to mind. Soon enough, I wasn’t just a squeaky wheel, someone to be tuned out – I was annoying. Rather than looking at the things I thought should be fixed, my administration was looking at me. At the end of my second year teaching, I was informed my contract would not be renewed. I was being let go.

For a teacher going into the third year teaching, at least in my district, this is a big deal. It’s the last year before you gain tenure. So not having my contract renewed was potentially something I wouldn’t be able to recover from. I was devastated. I thought everything was great and right beneath the surface was this discontent with the way I did my job. Once the students and faculty found out I was leaving there was an uproar. Most everybody wanted me to stay. There were rumors of a “bigger” reason for m firing, something no one could talk about, but there really wasn’t. There was no big conspiracy. Nothing I would be embarrassed to tell my mom about. It was just my personality and an administration doing their job – finding those they considered to be the best teachers for their high school. I still disagree with the decision. I still feel like I never got a chance to change the things they disliked about me. The point is, in the end I was not going to have my dream job come the following year. I was a social studies teacher, who didn’t know anything about coaching, in a sea of social studies teachers. Finding a job would be tough. Maybe impossible. And if I thought my life was hard, I had no real clue.

Katrina’s life was in serious turmoil. She had come to class maybe a half dozen times. She was loud and funny and cute but she rarely came. She was one of “those” girls. You know the girls that are in trouble, or cause trouble, or trouble follows her. She made a bit of a nuisance of herself when she did come to class. I never really got a chance to know her – mostly because she just never came. Little did I know what was going on with her.

Katrina’s life was complicated beyond anything I was experiencing. As I wondered whether or not I would have a job next year, Katrina battled for her safety and sanity. She was 15 when she came to my class. She had been 12 when, the man I’ll call Jake entered her life. Katrina’s mom met Jake right after he got out of prison. Katrina asked her mom what Jake had been in for and her mom replied “He tried to run over his wife while his kids were in the backseat. But he’s different now.” He wasn’t different. Beatings started soon thereafter. Often when Katrina would come home she would find her mom passed out on the bathroom floor or even in her own food. Katrina watched a daily cycle unfold in the small trailer they lived in. Her mom would get up, start drinking, get beaten for some minor infraction, drink some more and get beaten again, until the day finally ended only to start again the next day. Her mom’s face and body always had several bruises of differing ages. Katrina watched all of this day after day after day – watching the drug and alcohol abuse and the beatings. Until the day Jake turned on her.

Her mom told Katrina to take the garbage out. In a moment of thoughtlessness, she slipped and she gave her attitude. She talked back. Gave her mom her upraised chin, defiant eyes and angry words instead of obedience. After years watching her mom get beat, Katrina was tired of it. Jake grabbed her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the thin walls of the trailer. He shook her and slammed her against the wall until she agreed to take the garbage out. But that wasn’t the breaking point for Katrina. If mom could take it, she could take it. It was when Katrina expected her mom to stand up for her that it all came undone. She looked to her mom and she got nothing. Her mom told Katrina that she deserved it. She had it coming. Jake was right. It was at that moment that Katrina knew she was through with her mother, with Jake, and with the tiny tin can trailer.

So at 15, Katrina chose homelessness over being beaten and not having anyone stand up for her. She tried to find a place for her and her mom to live. But her mom wouldn’t follow. She always went back to Jake. And the only people who would let Katrina crash at their house were folks who did drugs and drank a lot of alcohol. She was already used to that from her mom’s trailer. So she joined in. She crashed from place to place, hang out, did drugs sometimes, drank and worked at a pizza place to earn money. Once in a while she came to school. Just once in a while. She kept looking for a home though. Never really gave up trying to find a place for her and her mom. While she looked for a home, I looked for another job. I tried to find another school to teach at. Our lives weren’t turning out the way either of us had planned.

I applied to a lot of schools. I gave a lot of interviews. Nothing stuck. I panicked. I wasn’t panicked I wouldn’t have a job – I could always go back to interpreting – I was panicked I wasn’t going to have a job as a teacher. My dream seemed to be ending. Then I got a call from a little school in my district I had never heard of. A concept school where all the kids were in state’s custody. I was a bit nervous about a school like that, but honestly, I was desperate, so I went in for the interview. This interview changed everything. I found a school with my same values. Many of the teachers had the same values I did. Students before anything else. Small classes and direct attention to creating relationships. I was sold. And they offered me a job.

I have to be honest; I still wasn’t convinced about my place there. I still wasn’t sold on my dream going down the drain. I felt like I was settling. I had wanted my first school and now I had to go to a school for gangsters and hard core kids – kids who didn’t even want to be in school. So I sat in that first faculty meeting unsure of myself or my place there. I didn’t know if I could do any good there. What would I do or say to these kids? How would I handle them? Could I handle them? I sat there going over policies and procedures as some of the councilors were doing intakes for the new students.

Many students that come to our school don’t want to be there. They don’t want to be in any school. Period. Especially one where all the kids are troublemakers. In the next room, one of the councilors was doing an intake for a highly upset young lady. She wanted nothing to do with a school filled with gangsters and drug users. She wasn’t like them. She was better than that. She had better things to do. She sat on the floor in the counselor’s office, back to the corner, and told him in no uncertain terms that there was no way THIS school could have teachers like they had in her old school. The counselor patiently asked her about her old teachers and she launched into a passionate telling of a teacher she used to have. Someone she loved to listen to. Someone who’s class she loved to attend. Someone who loved what they taught. Someone who cared about the students. Someone like Mr. McKell.

The counselor, having a flair for the dramatic, stood up and quietly excused himself and came into the faculty meeting and asked me to follow him. I quietly got up and followed him down the hall, not knowing where we were going or what we were doing. We came into his office and there she was, Katrina, from my old school. The girl who never showed up. She looked at me, then at the counselor, and with tears in her bewildered eyes she quietly said, “What are you doing here?”

I looked at her and I finally got a sense of what I would be doing. I realized this is where I was needed. There were kids at this school who needed me. Needed what I had to offer. I was the right person for this job, right now. I looked at her and with tears in my own eyes I smiled and said, “I’m here for you, dude.” We both knew we would be all right. We were both going to make it. Together we would figure out this new school. Together we could support each other through our changing dreams.

And we did. For the next two years, we figured stuff out. She took several classes from me and I always saw her in the hall. She sobered up. Found a good, solid home. No more drugs; no more booze; no more beatings. She became a leader at school. Kids look to her as an example. She graduates this year and I have mixed feelings. I hate to see her go. I like having her around. But I can’t wait to see what she becomes. She’s figured out her life. She knows where she stands and what she stands for. She’s cleaned herself up and so has her mom. They’re both headed in a good direction. As am I. My life is back on track. I’ve found a strength and confidence in teaching at this new school that I never could have found at my old one. I am a better teacher because I work here. We both know where we’re going. This school gave us that chance. We both looked after each other during a tough time in our lives. A time where plans weren’t going as expected. I hope she checks in with me from time to time. I will think of her and hope the best for her – as I do with all my students. I can’t wait to see what she makes of herself.

Thank You for Not Killing Me

2010-05-27T06:08:00.000-07:00

I always knew growing up that I didn’t want to be a teacher. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to be but I knew it wasn’t that. I knew I couldn’t handle kids. Especially kids like me. My parent teacher conferences always went something like, “Well, Mr. and Mrs. McKell. Russ is a smart kid, but I just can’t keep him in his seat and from talking to the other kids. I’m sure he’d be doing better with his assignments if he would just stop the socializing.” I believe the word is incorrigible. And the fact is I never really appreciated my teachers or what they did for me. I never really got it. What they put up with. I mean, I had an idea. It was enough to keep me from ever wanting to put myself in such a situation but I never really got it. Plus I never really appreciated not only what they put up with, but while putting up with me, what they instilled in me. What they actually taught me. Out of so many teachers how they all, despite by “socializing” managed to teach me something. And now, because life is like that, and I believe God has a sense of humor, I am a teacher myself. Now I know what my teachers put up with and I just wanted to take a minute and say thank you.

I remember being in third grade. Mrs. Fox was my teacher. I don’t remember what started it; what I said, or what I did to make her as angry as she was. I don’t remember anything that she said up until the moment we got into the hall. She had dragged me there – maybe by my arm, or shirt or ear. Not really sure. But I remember her face. She was bent in half, down to my level, with her face right up against my face. She was blustery and red, her left hand was on her hip, and her right index finger was alternating from straight in the air to directly in my face. Her knuckles were white with exertion. I’m sure my face was one of fear and trepidation. Because despite being an avid talker I hated being in trouble. I hated being lectured. So here I was, in the third grade hallway, Mrs. Fox angrily pointing her finger at me, face a deep red, spittle forming at the corners of her mouth. What she said was classic.

In a harsh whisper and through gritted teeth, she said, “I DON’T GET PAID ENOUGH…” but she never made it to the rest of her sentence.

I’m sure my face went from fear and anxiety to confusion and wonder. Because I blurted out, free of any mental editing, what immediately came to my mind, “You get paid!?”

How lucky! Teachers get paid! Neat. I thought. That’s amazing really. I don’t remember what she said to me after that. I don’t remember how I got safely back into the classroom, or home for that matter. I don’t know how Mrs. Fox calmed her self down or how she kept from wrapping her hands around my sweet little third grader neck and choking the life out of me. But I would like to begin this list of thank you’s by just saying to Mrs. Fox, wherever she is, “Thank you. Thank you for not killing me.”

As I look back over my education there are certainly folks who stand out – these are just a few. Thank you to my sixth grade teacher Ms. Emil for not just teaching me the parts of speech, which I remember to this day, but that being a gentleman was the most important thing a boy could be. Thank you to Ms. Peck who allows me to watch the screen as I type and not my hands. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said a silent thank you to her for the hours she took with me, hands covered by a piece of paper, as I typed away without looking. An invaluable skill. Thank you to Mr. Mortensen, my junior high choir teacher, who taught me to be confident and proud of my ability to perform. Who taught me to stand in front of a crowd and sing, head held high. Thank you to Ms. Johnson, my high school choir teacher, who taught me to love my voice, and how to sit and breath while listening to the others around me while harmonizing with what they sung. But most importantly how to truly love music. Thank you to Ms. Comer who taught me to have a love and understanding of the law and civic duty. Even today I remember the things she taught me and I still have the projects she assigned – she expanded my mind and vocabulary. Thank you to Mr. Knight who taught me to love history – I now follow in his impossible footsteps. Thank you to Mr. Wagstaff who instilled in me the love of learning about how the mind works; he became my mentor as I started to teach and ended up being my lifelong friend. Thank you to Ms. Beckstrand who, because of an experiment she did in class, changed the course of my life. I teach sociology with vigor and excitement today because of her and I tell her story every semester. She stands at one of the most incredible crossroads of my life and doesn’t even know it. And thank you to Ms. Peterson, who took in a group of geeky kids and encouraged them to write. She wouldn’t accept mediocre assignments and who demanded more of us than we thought capable of giving. I am still writing because of her.

I’m sure there are more. The fact is teacher’s effect who we become. Their impact on us can’t really be measured. We take them for granted and we shouldn’t. People who have substituted a classroom or even taught a night course or Sunday school class can’t really understand what it’s like to teach a group of kids. Every day. Even as a teacher I forget to drop a note to my kids teachers. Not just for specific things but just because of what they do. Just to say thanks for the time they take, that, and for allowing my kids to live. Because, even now, our parent teacher conferences go something like, “Mr. and Mrs McKell I sure love your daughter. And she is so smart. I just wish I could get her to sit down and not socialize so much.” The age old curse of the parent has taken effect. I have kids just like me.

So for this year, for my youngest daughter, Rebekah, to all her teachers I say thank you. Thank you to Mr. Lemon for his website and email reminders. They were invaluable to keep us on track. Thank you to Mr. Thornton who taught her to stand and let her voice ring out. She is much more confident because of you. But more importantly, she will never stop singing. Also to Ms. Hansen, her drama teacher, for giving her focus and confidence and a love for the theater. Junior High is never easy for a girl, but because of all of you, Rebekah became more excited, instead of less excited; she became more outgoing, rather than less outgoing. Thank you to all of you, not just the ones I mentioned, but to all of her teachers. You can never know what you’ve done for my daughter. But I want you to know that we appreciate it.

And for my oldest daughter, Aubrielle, to all her teachers I say thank you. Thank you to Ms. Comer-Miller for instilling in her the same love of the law that she instilled in me. Even after all these years your love for your subject shines and warms students to it. Thank you to Ms. Gibbons, her English teacher, for sparking in her a real love for learning in general, for showing her that English doesn’t have to be drudgery but can be inspirational. Thank you to Ms. Warby, a wonder of inspiration and encouragement. Who taught my daughter to love music as much as she loves life. Who took several hundred students to another state and lived to tell the tale. We see what you do Ms. Warby and we love you for it. Thank you to Ms. Ormond who instilled in Aubrielle not just a love of science but who broke the stereotype of cheerleaders. Thank you to all of you. This year was emotional and a bit trying at times. But because of your understanding and sensitivity, she made it through, not as the girl who walked into your school, but as a young woman who will enter life. She is a better person because of you all.

My family moved when I was in first grade. It was traumatic for me. But more importantly it was traumatic for my mom – just a girl in her early twenties who was still trying to figure out what it meant to be a good mom. I would beg her not to go to this new school. I would call her from school, crying and begging her to come home. But through it all my mom gained strength from a seasoned first grade teacher – Ms. Pulley. She loved me. She loved me enough to keep me in class, to encourage my mom to not allow me to go home. School was valuable and she was there to teach me. And day by day, week by week, I did make new friends. I did learn to love my new school and home. I learned how to get along with the other kids. And I did that all because of Mr. Pulley. She was my own personal miracle worker.

I saw her a few years ago and I thought how much I owed her. I watched her, now quite old, shuffling through the store. I stood there with my own wife and kids at my side, thinking about all those times, standing next to her, sobbing, wishing to go home, and her gently telling me and my mom, that staying at school was the best thing. I thought about how much I owed her as I watched her slowly move away down the isle. The strength she had given me. And I have to tell you, I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed for the kind of kid I was. For the things I put her through. I didn’t think she would want to remember me. And so I didn’t say anything. I let her go. She never knew what became of me, or how I overcame my fear of newness and change. How now I embrace it, partly because of her. I wish I had said something.

And I think that is most of us. We want to say to our teachers, both past and present. Those who have taught us and those who now teach our children – Thank You. But time, or circumstance, or opportunity, stand in our way. And those who have had the most effect on us as kids, and on our own kids, go about doing their work silently. On this, the last day of school, before summer starts, please embrace the silence that you are now enjoying. Think of your child, the one you sent to school today, the one that you entrusted to another adult. Think of all their peculiarities, unique traits, faults and qualities. Then multiply them. Multiply your child by twenty, or thirty, or in some cases, forty. Imagine having that many of your kid in one room. Imagine planning to keep their attention, interest them, but most importantly to teach them a subject. Not just for today. But for 180 days. That’s what teachers do.

I regret every day not catching up to that little old lady, Ms. Pulley, and introducing her to my children and telling her thank you for what she did for me and my mom. I wish that I had taken the time to tell her thank you for everything. And even today I fail to aptly communicate my own appreciation for my kids teachers. I still fall short – too wrapped up in my own job to remember to thank someone for doing theirs. But today is different. Today, before I have to spend every waking minute with my kids over the summer, I want to say thank you. Not just to their teachers, but to mine. You made us who we are. And for that, there are no words, except Thank You.

Real Life

2010-05-20T06:31:00.000-07:00

The philosopher Plato had this theory of reality. It’s called the Allegory of the Cave and has always fascinated me. I’ve always enjoyed Plato’s writings. They are more accessible than some other philosopher’s. The Allegory of the Cave goes something like this. Reality is compared to someone tied to a chair inside a cave. They face the back of the cave. Behind this prisoner a fire projects shadows onto the wall in front of them. These shadows are created by whatever passes in front of the fire. Reality to the prisoner is only shadows on the wall of a cave. So if someone were to come in from outside the cave and talk about colors, sunlight, nighttime… whatever, it would be completely foreign. In fact, it would seem like a lie. If the prisoner was allowed to leave the cave…their whole perspective would change. They would be blinded by sunlight.

Plato believed the philosopher’s job was to illuminate reality to the world. The philosopher explains the shadows we see. I’m no philosopher. I’m just a high school teacher trying to explain stuff to my students every now and again and hoping they get something from what I say. Sometimes I stand in front of my classes and think of myself as an Illuminator – someone turning their chair toward the mouth of the cave. Just a little. A way of gently showing my students something new, something curious, something they may have not known or thought about before. Helping them to see my own version of reality. Helping them see a different part of the world. So it was the other day with the girl I'll call Larinda.

Larinda is a pretty girl. She is a flirt. She is always on someone’s arm. She is tall, and looks like a woman ten years her age and has big, dark eyes. She’s not really womanly – she’s beyond that – she’s motherly. Her body looks years older than she really is. She has a great smile and an infectious laugh. She tends to wear clothes a bit too tight and a bit too revealing. Sometimes we have to get her a t-shirt to wear over the top she chose for the day. Too much cleavage. She looks like someone in college and talks like a teenager. Larinda has three children. She is 17.

Larinda is an interesting girl. She is loud. She is talkative and loves attention. Any kind of attention will do. If people aren’t laughing at her jokes, she turns to aggression and threats. If people don’t respond to either, she turns to sex. Anything to get her peers to watch her, laugh at her, confront her, or scream at her. Sometimes making noise drowns out the reality going on in her life. She shows up to class late and makes a big entrance. She always needs to go to the office for something. Drama follows Larinda like a puppy. Drama loves Larinda because she gives it life. Larinda is rarely quiet.

Until the other day. We were talking about cultures and sub-cultures. How each culture has its own set of values, beliefs and customs, its own objects used by that culture. How each of us is a member of several sub-cultures. We talked about several sub-cultures and their practices. In my classroom, it isn’t uncommon to discuss drugs and in this case the class identified strongly with the drug sub-culture – its practices, beliefs and objects. They got it. Larinda sat there quietly. She didn’t ask any questions. Her head wasn’t down on the desk so I knew she was awake and feeling well. She just wasn’t her overly exuberant self. She wasn’t making any noise.

Then she raised her hand! I, stunned, called on her. “Could someone be in a sub-culture and not know there were other cultures out there?” Larinda asked.

I was a bit taken back by the question. It would be odd. You would have to be very sheltered to think there was nothing outside your own experience. But I nodded. “Yes.” I said, “I think someone could believe that everyone lived like they lived.”

Larinda nodded thoughtfully. Thinking. She bit her lip. “I think that happened to me.”

The class was uncharacteristically quiet. Everyone was listening. I tried to think what might have happened to her. I tried to quickly go through all the options in my head so I could respond appropriately. Larinda brushed her dark hair back from her face. “Do you want to tell us about it?” I asked, wondering what was coming.

She nodded and said, “I thought everyone did drugs. You know? Like, everyone.”

I didn’t know. I couldn’t imagine someone being so wrapped up in drugs that they thought everyone did them.

“My whole family did drugs when I was growing up. Everyone coming to the house did drugs. All my parents’ friends did drugs. Every house we visited did drugs. Everyone did drugs. I didn’t know there were people who didn’t do them. I was really embarrassed the first time I asked a friend about their drugs and they didn’t have any. Embarrassed and confused. You know? Like, how could they NOT have drugs, right? It was weird. Can that happen? I mean, is that what you’re talking about?”

I was stunned. How could someone grow up in an environment like that? I nodded my head. I reeled from this information. Not just personal information from Larinda but general education about a whole group of people like Larinda. There were people out there, children, thinking everyone did drugs. The world was a drug using world. It was normal. Drugs were part of everyone’s culture. I guess both Larinda and I were naïve. Neither of us realized that the world was bigger than we had imagined it. “Yeah.” I said. “Wow. Yeah. Good example! I mean… wow.” I was still figuring out how to bring it all around. I was working through my own personal shock while trying to keep thinking like a teacher. “Larinda, good thinking! You are absolutely right. Cultures can sometimes be so overwhelming that we believe everyone lives like us. It’s interesting that you should ask that question. It reminds me of… “

I brought the lesson back around. Using Larinda and her experiences for the rest of the period. The class was quiet and so was Larinda. A rare thing and we all enjoyed it.

Since then, I look at Larinda in a different way. I tried to imagine myself in her place. Tried to think what it would be like to emerge into a world that wasn’t like yours. Where people didn’t use drugs on a daily basis to get by. Where parents didn’t do drugs with their own children as a bonding experience. Where allowing someone to use your body wasn’t the norm. Where having a child before you were 15 years old wasn’t what everyone did. Where all of this was looked down on. A world that disapproves of everything you were ever raised to believe was real, and right, and good. Imagine what it would do to your self-esteem to come out into a world where every choice you had ever made turned out to be wrong. Not just wrong, but immoral. Not just immoral but irresponsible. Imagine what that would do to a person.

Yesterday Larinda was quiet again. Not just in my class but in the hallway too. I saw her sitting alone. Pretty shoes and skirt poking out from the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She was looking out into space with glistening eyes. She didn’t notice me approaching her. “Hey.” I said, gently bumping her shoulder with my fist. “You okay?”

She shook her head. “Not really.” Her eyes growing wide in the way girls do to keep tears from coming out again. Glancing up slightly to make the tears defy gravity. Trying to keep eye makeup in place.

“You wanna tell me about it?” I said, sitting down next to her.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked out the window, drawing the children’s blanket tighter against her shoulders. The sky was cloudy and the wind blew cold. It had been warm for the past few days but the weather was changing. She shrugged her shoulders again, softer this time. “I just gave up all my parental rights.” She said, swallowing, and turned her face back towards me. She looked at me with defiance. Daring me to have a solution. Her high heels tapped nervously on the linoleum.

The floor fell out from beneath me. What do I say to that? How do I respond? How do I tell her that I think the decision is for the best? I think those kids will probably have a better life with another family. I think SHE will have a better life. I think Larinda needs a chance to start again. Find herself. I think she needs to finish high school. I think she needs to find some real stability. But damn! I don’t care what your situation is; no one wants to have their children taken away.

A lot of kids at my school have children. Many girls here have children at the daycare downstairs. They are trying to get their lives together. Trying to be a good parent and a good high school student at the same time. In many cases, they are trying without the support of their families, gangs, or neighborhood. They are doing it in foster and proctor homes where they aren’t normally treated like members of the family. They’re just untrustworthy guests. Some are locked in their rooms at night. Some aren’t allowed to go on vacation with the families who keep them. For some of them, the only people who really, truly care for them are their own children. For Larinda, the only people who ever unconditionally loved her have been taken from her by a stranger in a black robe because she is unfit to raise them. She has been labeled unfit by a world she never knew existed. She is being judged by standards that didn’t exist for her a year ago.

I finally gathered myself and looked her in the eyes. “I’m sorry.” I whispered. Wishing, not for the first time, that I worked in a school where girls cried about loosing their best lip gloss – or on really bad days, their best friend. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” I managed to say. I knew most adults in Larinda’s life had failed her and she had an extremely short attention span for kindness. So all the love and compassion I wanted to show her would be seen as muckish cutesyness. No matter how sincere I was, she would probably see it as a false front. So I mustered all my mental and emotional facilities and said, “I’m here for you if you need to talk.” I bumped her shoulder with my shoulder because that’s what passes for a fatherly hug in the public school system.

I got up and walked down the hall away from Larinda and she turned back toward the window, watching the blustery wind whip the trees into a frenzy. And I, not for the first time, was glad I didn’t work in a school where girls cried over lip gloss. But I really wished I could talk like teachers do on television or movies or in novels. Where teachers know exactly what to say. Where each and every day ended happily and with catchy theme music.

I’m not saying Larinda is right and society as a whole is wrong. What happened yesterday is for the good. I’m not saying Larinda doesn’t have some responsibility for her action. I think she does. I am saying sometimes we see things through our own lenses and expect everyone to see through them as well. We don’t understand that our worldview is not the same worldview shared by everyone. We need to remember that some of us have been out of the cave for longer than others. We understand reality, our own reality, better than others might. But we need to be patient with them. We need to understand that our world is not the world of others.

I try to imagine what it would be like to be Larinda. I try and imagine what it would be like to have only a couple of people who love me, truly love me, and then have them taken from me because I was unfit. I try and imagine thinking and believing that the entire world used drugs, just like me. That everyone lived like my parents raised me. I try and have empathy. Sympathy. We see ourselves as liberators to these kids. They have been freed from their drug using parents. They have been freed from their gang-banging friends. They have been freed from the shackles of harmful environments where they couldn’t see the real world. I believe all that. I do. I believe that ultimately all this is in her best interest. I hope in my deepest heart that Larinda makes it in this world. In my world. I hope that she learns to enjoy her new freedom. I hope she learns to cope and live and even thrive. She has been set free of her bonds. She has come out of the cave to see the world as it really is. She is free to wander this new world. But the sunlight, at least for today, is blinding her.

hey everyone

2010-05-05T06:49:00.001-07:00

in place of a blog this week i thought i would humbly offer two pieces of reading. the president of the united states recently gave a speech to the university of michigan. and then someone at cnn.com commented on it. if you have the time read both. if you don't just find the time to skim.

then ask yourself - are we, as americans, talking with each other the way we should be? are our leaders talking to each other the way we want them to? are the news we listen to being respectful of each others opinions? are they using conflict to sell their stories? are we being kind? are we listening? the things they show us on the news - are they what you want to see and hear about? is this the kind of dialogue you want in america?

and what are you doing about it?

about 50% of american's vote in presidential elections - turnout often goes down if it rains or snows in america. about 65% of iraqis voted in the last election despite the 300 people killed in voting place bombings. are we becoming a fair-weather democracy? are we doing more complaining than actual DOING?

anyway. i love what the president is trying to say. and anyone who tries and turn his words into something negative are exactly the kind of people who i don't want in power or in my TV. take a read.

Presidential Address

CNN Reponse

Taking Attendence - Book Excerpt from Crossroads

2010-05-02T18:52:00.000-07:00

I use checks and zeros – as a matter of record keeping. A check fills a space – shows that something is complete. They tell us something about something. They tell us something has been done. Something is completed. Complete. Done. Checks fill spaces. They show attendance, chairs are filled when checks are checked. You are here. The check tells us so. A zero on the other hand shows empty seats. Something isn’t there. Something wasn’t done. Zeros show a need, a gap, an eternity of never ending potential. A check shows completion. A zero shows a want of something. Something needs to be added to it.

I made a zero under your name today where there should have been a check mark. For the past two weeks there have been check marks. You’ve been here every day. You’ve rarely missed. Not really ever without a reason. You’ve been in my class for months now. And in my mind for just as long; in my life. I’ve talked to my family about you; about your quiet, dismissive attitude. About your amazing intelligence and thoughtful discernment. Always seeing through my tricks and language and plans. Nothing fooled you. You saw me as I was. And I loved it. Few are as intelligent as you. Sitting quietly, making random and sometimes snide comments. Sitting back with your arms crossed. Laughing at me. I never felt so young while being around you. You always felt so old. Older than me. you knew what I was thinking, what I had planned, what my real intentions were. Potential is what I saw in you. Potential. The ability to become something more than you had been. To make something out of nothing. Not a zero. But a check.

But this morning, under your name, there is a zero. You have become a zero. And I always thought there would be a check. We never anticipate zeroes. We always anticipate checks. I always thought you would make something of yourself. Grow. Change. Rebel. And metamorphosis yourself into that amazing human that we could all see hiding inside that tough, sarcastic façade. I hoped my classroom would be your chrysalis. Emerging as something incredible and beautiful. You would become everything we saw in you. everything.

But this morning there is a zero. A simple mark to explain a pretty complex situation. Not as simple as a check mark. The zero communicates a world of possibilities. But it’s simple in its message. You’re not here. Not yesterday. Not today. Not ever. I will never get to see you become an adult. Never get to see you do the things I know you were capable of. Never get to see you become more than a check mark. Your life is gone. What used to be you is now just emptiness. My heart mostly.

I was going through my stuff the other day. Stacks of papers that seem to collect themselves in classrooms like cobwebs in an old house. I was shuffling through them, throwing away, grading, listening to music. And I found it. Something you had written. Something I hadn’t given back to you. Something I don’t think I had even read until that moment. The last thing you wrote for my class was an assignment. 20 questions. “Fill in the blanks.” I said. “Fill in this blank. I am… what? Fill in that blank. Twenty times. In five minutes. Go.” And this is what you wrote:

1.    I am Travis Keasler
2.    I am a drug addict.
3.    I am irresponsible
4.    I am skateboarding today
5.    I am the youngest child
6.    I am 18 years of age
7.    I am a Genius
8.    I am wearing a lot of black
9.    I am original
10.    I am different
11.    I am unorthodox
12.    I am getting my GED
13.    I am happy today
14.    I am excited about this class
15.    I am Gentle
16.    I am Kind
17.    I am down to earth
18.    I am unaffected by teenage drama
19.    I am a prophet of some sort
20.    I am destined to do great things

Twenty statements of incredible import. Twenty things that I could expound upon, talk about, prophecy about. Because even I am some kind of prophet. But I won’t. I will let your statement stand as they were written. Unexplained. Left to be read and wondered about. A destiny unfulfilled; a life unlived; items undone. I will leave it like my roll sheet. Without a check. Filled with emptiness. A zero. Potential never to be realized. I’ll miss you Travis.

Job of Patience

2010-04-21T23:06:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of reasons that we moved into our current house. But there are only two reasons that really matter – the tree in the front yard and the tree in the back yard. The tree out front is a white barked birch tree. It has snow-white bark that is like paper and the small leaves hang in delicate vines from thin branches and fill my yard with dappled shades of emerald. The tree out back is a black walnut tree. It is gigantic, with a thick trunk and enormous branches that stretch to all sides of my yard and are filled with large, diamond shaped leaves. In late autumn my back yard is filled with drifts of dried brown leaves – much to the chagrin of my kids. These trees fill me with more joy than I can really describe. I often sit at their bases and think of what life must have been like when they were young and looking out over a newly developing neighborhood with all the other young trees.

Our neighborhood is filled with old trees. My property borders a park with some of the oldest trees in my city. It is the third reason I chose this house. The old trees make for a neighborhood with character. The neighborhood isn’t perfectly lined with one kind of tree, planted there three years ago in order to attract new home buyers. It is filled with all kinds of different trees – deciduous and evergreen – and most of them are very big and very old planted by some of the first people to move into the valley. Some are “dirty” trees. They spill seedpods, or fruit, or this downy cotton at certain times a year. The cottonwood trees fill the air with this feathery down that floats and spins and twists in the early autumn. Many of our lawns get a pre-coating of frosty cotton that has to be mowed or raked up. I love it. The neighbors hate it.

As my wife and I have grown from the young kids in the neighborhood to the middle aged couple on the block we have seen some of the older couples move away or pass away and their houses earn new owners. Many of these owners don’t appreciate these “dirty” trees and there has been a rash of them being cut down over the past few years. These new neighbors despise the cotton, or rotten fruit, or seedpods and so during the early spring or late autumn we can hear the sound of chain saws and my skin begins to crawl. Some tree is being torn into – I think. I can hear the cracking and splitting. And then the silence as trucks haul away in an afternoon, what it took nature a century to create. Just like that. Gone.

The other day when I was stopped at a light at the other end of town I noticed this old truck and trailer in front of me. The truck was an old red Ford with a handmade trailer behind it. And the trailer was filled with the blossoms of spring – which all jutted at weird angles from the branches of chain-sawed limbs filling the trailer. The delicate pink flowers fluttered and sprinkled themselves over the road and onto the hood of my car. And I was sad. I was sad for that tree that had served some piece of land for probably longer than the man driving the truck had been alive. And now it was being discarded for convenience. It, and some old tires and some broken boards, had all become trash in a matter of moments.

I stared at the remains of that tree and I imagined in my mind what it might have looked like in its prime. The perfect tree. The symmetry and form of the tree filling someone’s yard and life with shade, beauty and fruit to enjoy on a hot summers day. It made me think of a time when I had been privileged to take classes on creating the perfect miniature trees. I, and many others, took classes on growing our own bonsai trees from a classically trained Japanese bonsai master. I had found a place just north of me where this man, Mr. Miyamoto, had a modest business supplying bonsai trees, classes and supplies to enthusiasts. And I wanted to be an enthusiast. I would drive up there once a week, pay my money and sit at the feet of Mr. Miyamoto, and listen and learn. I would take my own newly purchases trees and do my best to bend, form and train these small trees to look like something one could find on a wind-swept cliff off of the coast of Japan, Oregon or Spain. I would spend hours reading and practicing to make the perfect miniature tree.

Mr. Miyamoto’s store was filled with very, very old trees. Some over two centuries old. They bloomed and blossomed and flowered just like trees of regular size. But they did it in the confines of Miyamoto’s shop. It was incredible. I will never forget the day he brought in one of those older trees – maybe 50 or 75 years old. It’s base was thicker than a shovel handle and it’s trunk shot straight up in a rather un-bonsai way. Mr. Miyamoto said that he would show us how to fix these kinds of trees.

He then proceeded to clip, trim and shear limbs off. He sawed almost all the way through the tree and twisted it in a very alarming way, making the bark bend and peel. There were gasps from the class. And we all leaned forward to see what harm he would inflict next. He spread some goop on the wound and then began to bind the cut. He wrapped it with twine and gauze and wire. Holding it together with clamps and braces. When he was done it looked horrible. Damaged and destroyed. I looked on what he had done with shock and alarm. But it was what he said next that truly struck me. “This is going to look beautiful in ten years.” He said, looking out at the class with a smile and a slight nod, looking back at the tree. We all sat in stunned silence.

Ten years?! It was going to take ten years for that tree to replace and heal all the damage that had been done to it. Ten years! It was then that I realized with stunning clarity that my perspective was much too short. My life was being shortly lived. I was expecting results in minutes; maybe hours. I had very little concept of waiting a decade for something to become beautiful in my world. Could I have the patience to take something, do some work on it, and let it grow on its own for a decade? Could I have the faith that my work was all that could be done at the time and then just let it go? Let it blossom into whatever it could be? The one advantage that Mr. Miyamoto had was that he had this shop. He could afford to make those drastic changes, put that tree in a cherished spot, and nurture it for the next decade while watching it become something more beautiful with his help than without it.

I look out at my classes every day and I wonder for the future of my students. Many of them have been twisted, cut, bent and carved by unkind hands for most of their lives. They have been shown little love or nurturing in their lives and in class they often show me anger, ambivalence, and attitude. They see me as another potential adversary. Someone not to be trusted. No one has looked at them with hope or kindness or understanding. And so they sometimes put up their defenses in fear of being hurt. But they also show me kindness, understanding and encouragement. They want to do better. They want to change their lives. They show me that there are a couple of blossoms left on what used to be a beautiful tree. A promise of what is to come. And I wish I could stay with them. I wish I had a place where I could take them, bandage their wounds, brace them up and clamp them down to something solid and stable. I wish I had a special place where they could sit in the sun and listen to the peaceful sounds of a waterfall and just relax and grow and become that beautiful person that I see in them. I wish I could watch them grow for the next ten years; giving them the fertilizer of love and kindness and the copper wire to gently bend their behavior with firm limits and rules that they understand and respect. They could put their backs to me and I could tell them what it was like growing up and they could draw strength from my roots as they themselves grew.

But I can’t. I have them for a very short time. Some for as short as a few days; others I have for as long as a few months. A rare few stay with me all year long. I don’t even get to see them through the year in most cases. They are there and then gone again. Many without a word or a warning. Just an empty chair one day where a day before it was filled. And so I do what I can today. I live in the moment. I often think of a note an old girlfriend gave me on the eve of my leaving home to go into the world and teach something that I thought was important. I was nervous and I didn’t know how effective I was going to be. Would my beliefs reach the hearts of anyone I taught? The note read, “You can count how many seeds are in one apple. But you can’t count how many apples there are in one seed.” It struck me then as it strikes me now. My behavior has consequences that I can’t see. My kindness today may not have any noticeable effect on the world around me; my love may be met with anger and a cold shoulder. But I am planting seeds. And those seeds will grow. I just have to be patient. Some things take decades to become beautiful. If we’re lucky, we get to see it happen. Most of the time we don’t. Most of the time we have to let it go and allow that others will see the fruits of our labors. It just takes patience.

And so I return to my own neighborhood, which is quickly becoming treeless because my neighbors don’t have an appreciation for the life of a tree. They don’t see or think about the sacrifices that have gone into planting and nurturing and caring for it. They only see the inconvenience of the nasty seedpods, or rotten fruit or fluffy cotton that floats into your mouth and eyes; or the dead leaves that fill their yard in autumn. But the rest of the year that tree serves you and the ground it stands on. It shades and feeds the lawn. It cools you. It provides a place to sit for birds and children. It protects the house in winter. It does its job year after year, decade after decade, as long as it is treated well. And you only have to clean up after it once a year. Not a bad trade. Sometimes it just takes a little patience.

I guess I just want everyone to relax a little bit and enjoy what they have in their lives. I would wish for everyone to sit at the base of a tree for at least an hour before they cut it down. I would wish them to think of the things it’s seen, the kids that have played in it, the winters and springs and summers it’s seen, the people who have enjoyed its shade – think of all these things before cutting it down in frustration or for the sake of convenience. And before you judge someone, think about what their lives might have been like. What would cause someone to act the way that person is acting? Please don’t judge too quickly – cutting someone down with words and actions. Think about it first. Sit and listen to the chatter of their leaves and dream about the beauty of their springtime blossoms – even if those blossoms are messy – they are worth enjoying. It took them so long to make it this far. Just give them a chance. Your job is to have patience. You may be surprised that in ten years from now – they really are beautiful.

IF YOU'VE LIKED WHAT YOU READ

2010-04-19T10:19:00.001-07:00

Hey Everyone

If you enjoyed what you just read I am deeply thankful. I have compiled some of my favorite pieces into a book. You can find it at lulu.com or just by clicking the link below. Thanks everyone!

A Hole for My Friend

2010-04-19T10:17:00.001-07:00

We used to have some friends that lived just up the road from us a few years back. I wouldn’t say they were particularly close friends, but they were good friends. Nice people. We got along with them. They were like us. Similar to us. They weren’t overly churchy but they went to church. They were funny and nice; they did what they wanted and said what they wanted. Sometimes I think it made folks in the neighborhood nervous. Especially when they stopped going to church on a regular basis. He got a tattoo. That definitely got people’s attention. Some neighbors wouldn’t let their kids go over there and play. Seemed like they might be a bad influence.

Like I said, we weren’t real close, but there was this neighborhood thing, this church thing and this friendship thing that kept us linked. They called on me a couple of times to come to their house and help out with sick kids. I did what I could. But it wasn’t much. We did less and less as they decided to live differently than us. We seemed to have less in common. Maybe it scared us a bit – their free-wheeling ways, his tattoo and her outspokenness. We sorta drifted apart, but we always knew that we could count on each other, even though we didn’t talk much anymore. That’s the way of living a Christlike life. At least for me and I think for them as well.

The thing is, half the time, really more than that, I don’t feel Christ-like. I feel very un-Christ-like. I feel like I’m barely hanging on to the kind of life I want to live. Most of the time I feel like a mildly mediocre husband, parent, teacher and son. I feel like I’m barely getting by on the minimum. When people compliment me on my goodness, or skillfulness, or sensitivity, I’m embarrassed because I think they must have caught me on a good day. In that one good moment. I feel relieved that they didn’t see me the minute before this one because I was really screwing things up. Often my life feels like a thinly veiled veneer of right actions with a thick underbelly of selfishness and laziness.

For example, I have this other neighbor who was just recently in a car accident. She’s quite old and she’s been in a hospital or rest home or something for several months. Her house has laid empty for that long and I haven’t done one single thing to help her. Not one. I haven’t taken care of her yard, called, visited or attempted to do anything for her. What kind of neighbor does that? What kind of person? Someone who watches too many movies and reads too many books. I’ve thought about doing something many times. Dozens of times. I should go visit her. I should go mow her lawn. I should go clean her gutters. But I haven’t acted on any of those things. Not once. I hope no one was watching.

And so it makes me sad to hear folks in the neighborhood talking about our old friends from down the block. Talking like they were bad in some way. They didn’t talk real nice about them when they actually lived in the neighborhood. They became a bit hermit-like. Didn’t associate with us much. Any of us really. Things went bad for them. No one really knows what went wrong but they lost the house they were living in. And they left it in bad repair. Walks torn up, walls spray-painted, stuff damaged inside. A lot of damage and it makes them look bad. It makes folks talk. And boy do they talk now that they aren’t here to defend themselves. Especially since they don’t know the whole story, so they speculate, and they judge. They shake their heads and talk in that you-know-how-it-is voice with their eyebrows raised in indignant speculation. And even as they do that I want to scream. I want to have a very un-Christ-like moment and rant and yell and swear at them. I want to tell them that he dug a hole for my dog.

You never really know what it’s like to own an animal that really loves you till it happens to you. You can’t really describe it to anyone. Only those who have gone through it really understand it. It’s like having children. I’m not comparing children and pets, I’m only comparing having those kinds of experiences that can’t be communicated, only experienced. And my first dog was the best. He was calm and quiet and would chase a ball for hours. He was nothing short of amazing. He would stay with me wherever I went. He wouldn’t bark. He would allow kids to pull on his ears and tail and would never complain. He almost always minded. And once in a while he would bite.

He did it three times. He bit someone. One night he even bit my daughter on the face. It was just a nip, just a quick, reaction to being scared. But he bit her and she has a scar. And I started getting scared. I started making excuses for him. I started keeping him closer; watching him for signs of breaking. But there were none. Just that he seemed to be getting more and more scared all the time. And I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure what was causing him to lash out and so I couldn’t train him not to do something. And I was so concerned that the next time he got startled someone would really get hurt. I mean, we had been so lucky that my daughter only got a small cut. What would happen next time. And no one really seemed to understand.

And so, after weeks of agonizing thought and prayer and phone calls and research. We finally decided we needed to put him to sleep. It was the worst decision I’ve ever had to make this far in my life. It nearly killed me. I lost sleep over it. I struggled with it. And finally I talked to my wife and kids about it and we all knew it was the right thing, we just didn’t want to do it.

The time came too fast. The appointment seemed to catch us by surprise as if we had been ignoring that it was coming. The day was on us and it was time to do it. I wasn’t ready. Not only was I not ready mentally, I wasn’t physically ready. I was at work when I realized the veterinarian appointment was right after work and I wouldn’t have time to dig a hole the size I would need to properly bury my best friend. It was going to take hours and I wasn’t ready. I was panicked. I was going to come home, play with my dog and family for an hour, then take him to the vet for that last ride. I didn’t want to have him laying there dead, in the yard, while I dug. And so I started making calls.

I honestly don’t remember who I called or what their reasons were. But no one could help me. Except the one neighbor with the tattoo. He didn’t hesitate. He asked me where I wanted it and how big it needed to be. Then he said matter of factly that it would be done and waiting for me when I got home and that he was sorry I had to go through this. He was a dog owner too. He understood.

And so I got home, my best friend, my family and I went to the park. And we passed a perfectly dug grave on our way out of the yard, right were I wanted it to be. We let him pee wherever he wanted; we let him eat a couple of chocolate chip cookies; we let him chase the ball till he was exhausted. We laughed and joked and rubbed his ears till we couldn’t see through our tears anymore. Then I took him for a ride. I stood there at his side at the vet’s office and I held him as the vet slid that needle inside him and I watched his eyes close and tears rolled down my cheeks. I carried him to the car and then to his grave. I nearly dropped him I was shaking so bad from the tears. I felt like a failure. I had failed in making him feel safe. Somehow I had been the cause of his random biting. And I laid him down inside that hole, with his favorite blanket, a brand new ball and the ball thrower that he had so loved. We stood around that hole and told stories through our sobbing. We talked about our favorite times with him. And even the daughter with the bite scar couldn’t help me weep for her best friend that had slept with her every night and had only bitten her once. We did all that around a hole dug by a friend who wasn’t even that close to me.

And so when I hear someone talking bad about this family, this couple, and that man, I think – He dug a hole for my dog to be buried in! I don’t know what else they did or didn’t do. I do not know what their reasons were for doing what they did to their home. But I know, that one day, he had the love and kindness and spirit of service to put aside whatever he was doing to go to my house and dig a hole for my best friend to be buried in. A pure act of charity. That act of kindness is enough for me to overlook all the other crap. That’s what I choose to remember about him and his family. That’s what I think of when I look at that house as I drive by because that’s what I hope people will do with me. I hope they will overlook the countless mean and cruel and thoughtless things I do and choose to see the few shinning examples of goodness that I’ve managed to eke out between spells of selfishness and laziness.

I want to be better. I dream of the kind of person I want to become. I am not that person. I am an embarrassing shadow of who I want to be. But I’m trying. Some days I do well and other days I shake my head in embarrassment. My attempts are laughable sometimes. But I’m trying. I’m trying to do better. I worry that I’ve let those moments pass me by when I could have “dug a hole” for someone who really needed it. I worry that I won’t be as sensitive as my friend was on a day when I really needed a friend. Someone who understood what I was going through and could sympathize with me. Without judgment.

Touching Earth

2010-04-15T06:52:00.000-07:00

I am a star gazer. Have been for as long as I can remember. There is something about looking up into that inky blackness and see the thousands upon thousands of jewels looking down on me. It’s comforting to me. Looking at the stars. And them looking back at me.

I don’t remember when I first became aware that the patterns I was seeing had also been seen by ancient civilizations too. They had given the patterns names and stories to go along with them. Stories of myth and legend. Stories of greatness and folly. Stories of joy and pain. And especially stories of hubris. Hubris was the big one. Great men and women who had done great things. Perseus destroying the Kraken. Orion the Hunter chasing down the giant scorpion. Persephone bringing about the change of seasons. Jason and his famous Argonaughts battling the hydra. And of course Prometheus bringing the secret of fire to world. The stories had explained things; given meaning to the lives of the ancients. And the stories filled me with wonder and excitement. A small boy with big stories in his head.

I guess I’m still that small boy inside – looking up into the night sky. To a certain extent I still believe in the unbelievable. I can’t bring myself to completely dismiss any story, even if it seems silly or impossible. Believing in the impossible brings me hope. It’s why I love comic books and stories of fantasy. It’s why I’m so enamored with stories of fantasy and heroism. It’s why part of me deep down still believes in giants, faeries and Santa Claus. It’s possible. I really, really want to believe that it’s possible. Please don’t push me on this. These beliefs are incredibly fragile – age and modernity have caused me to not look too closely at these things. But they’re still there, carefully left in a protected place in my mind. The belief in the impossible.

I’ve always loved watching for the constellation Orion. There is something about that story and that constellation that is inspiring to me. It’s easy to spot – three bring stars right in a row, two stars further apart just above the three in a row, and two stars further apart just below. The three stars are his belt, the top two stars are his shoulders and the bottom two are his feet. He stands firm and watches for things to hunt in the winter sky. The higher he is in the sky the deeper we are in the throws of winter; the lower he is the closer we are to spring time. I love that constellation – but I hate winter. Winter isn’t fun. Being cold isn’t fun. Doing things in the snow isn’t fun. I’m not a big fan of coldness in any way. I’m not miserable during the winter. I don’t become depressed or angry. I just don’t like it. As the winds build up and the snow gets deeper I cuddle up inside with a warm cup of chocolate and a good book and a thick blanket and I wait it out. The sound of wind whipping through the trees, the biting sting of ice as it pummels me as I try and make it from car to building is enough to make me want to call in sick. And getting sick all the time – the sniffles, the coughs, the aches and pains, all while my car won’t start and the thermostat doesn’t work is just one more reason to live further south than I already do. For all this time I keep gazing up at Orion and think of him battling Scorpio while I battle Winter and I wait for Orion to disappear behind the mountains. I just sit tight and wait for the first sign of spring. And then the shoes come off.

I think part of the reason that I’m not a big fan of Winter is that I hate wearing shoes. I really do. Shoes just feel so constricting to me. If I it weren’t so socially unacceptable I would take my shoes off all the time. I would totally go barefoot everywhere. So the other day when the snow and ice finally receded, at least for a few days, and the grass could be seen and there were daffodils poking their way up through the hard ground, I went outside. I went outside and I slipped my shoes off. I went outside, slipped my shoes off, and I stood in the old grass leftover from the ravages of Winter.

The grass was cool beneath my feet. It was rough and brittle from a season of being buried beneath a layer of ice. But it was ready to grow green again. It whispered to me as I stood there and felt the earth again beneath my bare feet. It wanted warmth and so did I. And so I did everything I could to send it my own warmth, encouraging the green to come again. I stood in the sun, a conduit for its warmth, and I sucked it all in, and sent it down into my own front lawn, hoping it would have enough to fight back the chill of Winter for good. But it wasn’t enough. I guess there is still that pagan belief that the more of us who go barefoot the quicker we can drive Winter away. Our warmth, given to the earth to bring back Summer.

A week later I mowed the lawn. It wasn’t even April yet and I mowed the grass. I cut it short so that all its strength could go into a small space. And after the lawn was mowed I went into the front yard where a handful of daring daffodils were defying the wind to cut through their ranks and I laid down in the newly mowed grass. I took my shoes off and I laid down and just felt the coolness of the grass again. I waved by arms and legs back and forth like a child would in the snow making their snow angel imprint. I made a grass angel. My arms and legs moving through the newly mowed grass. I couldn’t be out there for long because it wasn’t quite warm enough. Winter still had a hold and I had to do something. Spring break was coming up and I was on a Quest.

I left on spring break to snow and ice and rain and wind. The daffodils were being assaulted as we pulled out of the driveway but for the greater good I turned my back on them and turned my face to the sun. I drove for hours and hours and finally made my way to sunny San Diego. People there were always apologizing for the weather. Thirty degrees warmer than it had been in Utah and they were apologizing. I guess everything is relative. So I was completely fine with the weather. I went to the beach once but mostly I just went without shoes. I stood on the warm sand, or the warm grass, or on the warm concrete and I soaked it all in. I was like a solar magnet – soaking in all the warmth I could. For days I stood, with arms outstretched, eyes closed, facing the sun, bare feet planted firmly and I took in all the warmth I could find. I touched the earth deeply. And then on Sunday, as I was standing on the red brick patio, facing the sun, bare feet gripping the warm stone, the earth shook.

Friends and family looked around in alarm as the earth moved beneath us. Someone even looked at me and said, “Are you doing that?” and I just smiled and shook my head. Even though I knew that I was. I had been pulling in all that warmth to myself and the Earth had spoken. I was being too eager. I was upsetting the Balance of things. And so I slowed down. I kept my shoes off, but I didn’t do it with such vigor. I walked softly through the warm sand and surf of San Diego. I pulled that sunshine into myself that I had been missing for the past several months. I thought of all those snowstorms howling through my neighborhood, and I gently allowed all that sunshine to fill me again – even as Orion dips behind the mountains. And then I made my way back home hoping that the daffodils were still standing strong in my absence.

I woke up to birds singing outside this morning. They filled the air with their voices of new life and the sun coming back. The shape of the mountains was visible even as I opened my eyes in the early hours of the morning. The sun is coming earlier and earlier. The daffodils have recovered and invited some tulips to join them. They are all a bring and bold yellow. Soon the reds will come, and then the white blossoms of my crabapple tree. My yard is filling itself with color as the flowers anticipate the returning of the sun. They are daring the snows to return and get melted offhand by their radiance. I am going barefoot more and more. My feet itch inside my socks. My socks bunch up in warm knots inside my shoes. My toes are anxious for the feeling of grass and earth and concrete. My heels yearn for a walk down the street.

Today I will go home and mow the grass again. I will mow in a pair of sandals for safety. Sandals are my way of teasing my feet and the Earth for what is about to come. But when I’m done I will take those sandals off. I will stand in the grass with my bare feet planted firmly, toes flexing and gripping the cool new grass with heroic fervor and I will send all that warmth I’ve gathered back into the earth. All that heat that made the earth shake will be sent back again in a new place. Maybe what I’ve done will drive Winter away a few weeks early. Maybe it will keep it away a few weeks more. Maybe it will drive it away for good.

But I will stand in my yard and I will silently call to the Earth to warm up, bring the flowers to bloom and the grill to light. As I stand with arms outstretched and feet planted firmly I will plan BBQ’s in my head and make lists of people to sit in my warm backyard and talk and laugh and eat good food cooked over fire. We will gather together and enjoy the light and warmth of Summer. The sun will set late and new constellations will come out – Draco the Dragon and Hercules the Hero – constellations of Summer. And we will enjoy the warm Summer night gazing up at the same jewels the Ancients did. And I will sit silently with my shoes off and my toes gripping the thick green grass and I will smile – I will smile as I Touch the Earth. I will smile as I sit and listen to friends laughing and talking and telling tall tales because they won’t even know what I’ve done for them.

Stars in Her Sky

2010-04-02T08:55:00.000-07:00

I had this plan. I think only part of the plan was conscious; the other part was subconsciously formulated as she grew up. I kept my plan secret even from myself because I knew how lucky I was. Deep down I always feared this might happen because I knew that it was extraordinary and few other dad’s had ever had this happen to them. You see, my daughter Aubrie likes me. I've always been lucky that way. She really and honestly likes me. We are best friends. She comes to be about all kinds of things. Until recently when she became a full blown teenager. She’s been a teenager for three years now – she’s sixteen. But now she’s in full Teenager Mode. But that was always part of the plan.

You see my plan was that our relationship would always stay the same, even while she changed. I would always be her best friend. She would always come to me. As she grew up through high school, college, marriage and kids, she and I would always confide in one another. I would always be the one guiding her home through the darkness. She wouldn’t need anyone else.

But the other day, while we were sitting in church, there were some smiles shared between her and my wife. Some knowing glances and soft laughter, an arched eyebrow or two, and some gentle head nods in my direction. I was out of the loop and it was the first signs of my dream clouding over. I just didn’t recognize it at the time. Aubrie had someone else. In fact, she had two someone else’s. Turns out she fancied a boy that went to our church. She thought he was cute and nice. And he thought the same of her. I’ll admit there was jealousy. A new boy in my daughters life; it was hard. But more than that, my wife had known before me. And not for a few minutes, but for two weeks! They had been commiserating for two full weeks about this boy and I had been left completely out of the picture. I was stunned.

I teach psychology. I understand about developmental patterns and age-appropriate behavior. But my relationship with Aubrie has always been amazing and out of the ordinary. So I guess I always hoped that it would always continue to be out of the ordinary. That we would share everything. But as the weeks passed, and I really allowed myself to step back and look at things, I realized I was further out of the picture than I had realized. Now that her infatuation with this boy was out there he was free to come over and visit. Which he did. A lot. And I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I wasn’t super friendly. I was a bit stand-offish. He was taking my best friend. She wasn’t supposed to confide in him about stuff. And don’t even get me started on how I felt about my wife. She had supplanted me AND kept secrets from me. I was out there alone. And now my daughter had a friend-boy. She refused to call him a boyfriend. And my world was reeling.

For the next few weeks I was put on a shelf. The friend-boy was everything. So I had time to really think about how I was feeling and I guess I would have been fine if it had been contained to just these two mutineers. My wife and the friend-boy. But over the next little while my daughter had some struggles, some questions and some difficulties. And she didn’t come to me. She went away from me.

There is a woman in our neighborhood who many of the young women look to. Her last name is Starr. Her name, like her life, is appropriate. She is a beacon to everyone around her. I know she often feels overwhelmed by the questions, the concerns, the leadership that has been thrust upon her, but she is worthy of it. She is up for the challenge. I just always thought my daughter wouldn’t need to go to her because, well because, she had me. But one day I get home and my daughter is gone visiting the Starrs. She had some questions. Some concerns. And she went to Sister Starr. She shared her problems with someone else not because we weren’t home, or I wasn’t available, but because she preferred going to her. And inside I wondered what I had done wrong. I worried about what I had done to make her want to go to someone else. It was as if I were standing on the shore while she slowly sailed away.

The fact is, my daughter has a lot of Stars in her life. She has been blessed with a heaven scattered with bright jewels, each with a story to tell, advice to give and shelter to provide. She has a grandmother who has watched over her with the ferocity of her own mother – except with cookies and comfort, and a soft shoulder when her parents were uncaring or insensitive. She has always loved walking the ten houses down to my mom’s house. She spends hours down there sometimes. Talking to her grandparents, helping around the house, getting to know them better than most kids ever get the opportunity to. Her grandmother is another one who she often confides in. They are the best of friends. And even though my daughter is much like me in every way, I think her grandmother likes her better than she likes me. They are close. Eternally close.

And then there is my sister Amy. We had the blessing of my sister staying in our house for a while and not only did she improve the house, with paint and paper, she loved our daughters. But mostly Aubrie. Bekah was too young to really do anything with, but Aubrie and Amy were like bosom buddies right from the start. Amy has always been like an older sister to Aubrie with the wisdom of a mother. She shines in every way for Aubrie. Even today Aubrie stays overnight at Amy’s house, calls her and asks her advice, goes clothes shopping with her and talks about dating and boys with her. Amy has always been a light in the darkness. It makes me happy to see that Aubrie is drawn toward her, even if it messes up my plan.

And then there is her mother of course. I underestimated her power – as I often do. I thought I would be the one to be there for Aubrie. How selfish of me. How silly. Aubrie needs us both. But as she grows and matures she is looking to her mom for guidance and love and she is getting it. It turns out Tambee was just waiting quietly for her turn with Aubrie. I got the first sixteen years, and Tambee will get the next sixteen. As Aubrie grows and matures into a woman she will need her mom there to show her the way to be beautiful and righteous and amazing. And there is no one better than Tambee.

Part of the plan was that I would be a teacher at the high school both my daughters went to. But the plan didn’t work out. I’m somewhere else while they are going to school without their dad close by. Every morning when I drop Aubrie off there is a little twinge of pain for not being able to park and walk into my classroom. But there is a friend where my classroom should have been. A very old friend, and he cares for my daughter as I would. He is my perfect surrogate. He cares way too much, but he believes kids are capable of greatness; he listens as a father would but then he insists you take responsibility and gives you the confidences to continue. My daughter sometimes eats lunch in his room, like she would have eaten in mine. And they talk, like we would have talked. I admit, I’m jealous sometimes. But I couldn’t think of anyone better to take my place than Tug. He is stalwart and sees things clearly. He is principled and empathetic. He waits in his classroom for my daughter, and others like her so that he can give counsel to those who are looking for a light to follow. There is no one better. He wasn’t part of my plan, but I’m glad he’s there.

You see, my plan was that Aubrie wouldn’t need anyone but her dad. We would stand shoulder to shoulder against the world and she wouldn’t need anyone but me. Despite what the psychology books say I was convinced that my daughter wouldn’t branch out, wouldn’t look to others for help and advice, and wouldn’t leave me standing on the shore. My plan is failing. She doesn’t need me like I foolishly thought she would. I need her more than she needs me. Because without her I am just another jewel in the night sky. She gives me meaning just by looking at me and using me as a point of reference. My plan was flawed. I misunderstood where I stood in the big picture. You see, she is not here for me. I am here for her. I am a beacon for her amongst a sky of beacons. I do my best to shine all the time and maybe she needs me and maybe she doesn’t. I will guide her on some journeys, while others will guide her at other times. Clouds will not deter her because there is always some star visible. We are here for her. She has a house full of stars, a neighborhood full of stars, a world full of stars. She is guided by a heaven full of stars. She can’t count them all – the stars in her sky. She’s lucky that way.

Like a Dream

2010-03-27T14:48:00.000-07:00

I've been writing since I was in high school. Ms. Peterson, my first real writing teacher in high school, bless her heart, was never satisfied with what I wrote. Always demanded more. She was a published author and I was so amazed by her. By her determination and willingness to sacrifice for us.

For the past few years I've been writing. Mostly in big blocks of time and effort with long draughts of nothing. And then I've been posting them here. Honestly I've been doing it for myself and my family. I really didn't think anyone else was reading it. But as I've been talking to people they mention something I wrote that touched them, made them laugh, made them cry or maybe appreciate something they hadn't thought about in a while. I was, and still am, amazed that anyone reads this stuff.

But, I decided to do something for myself and my family - mostly grand kids and those who would come after. Something a bit selfish. I decided to publish the things I had written into an actual, printed and bound book. So today I finished the book. It's been reviewed, edited, designed and uploaded to the publisher. I should be getting a hard copy in a week or so. It may be the only copy sold, but I'm excited to put in on my shelf.

Once I approve the hard copy it will be available to purchase. I would be honored if some of you liked my writing enough to purchase it. This whole thing is like a dream. Starting with Ms. Peterson and ending with my own book. It's not as cool as having a publishing company sweep me off my feet and pay me big money. But this will do.

Thank you to all of you who kept pushing me to write. Thank you to all of your comments and compliments. Thank you to all of you who thought this was a good idea. And thank you to all of you who think this is foolish and have kept your thoughts to yourself. It means a lot.

Men With Guns

2010-03-13T13:40:00.000-08:00

I think I can say with a certain amount of confidence I was raised in a traditional family. Mother and father. Church. City high school. Traditional values of respect and honor and gratitude. In addition hunting has always been a huge part of our lives in my family. It is very traditional to hunt. Ever since I was a small, small boy we have been raised with guns and hunting. My father was a hunter, and my grandfather was a hunter. We loved hunting. I remember a few deer hunts, I remember a few grouse hunts, but more importantly I remember the pheasant hunt.

The pheasant hunt was the annual hunt that was never to be missed. We would get our licensees, get whatever permits we needed, clean our guns and buy our ammo and we would head out into the fields to see if we would get us a couple of tasty roosters to bring home and bake with wild rice and potatoes. Those days were spent with family, laughing, joking and pitting ourselves against whatever we were hunting. For me these days were about being with the folks you loved, and then if you were lucky bringing home something different to eat.

For years we would go out to these fields where you had to have a permit to hunt as well as your normal license. There were plenty of fields and plenty of birds. We would hunt all morning and then we would head into the local church that would make chili and burgers and sell soft drinks to all the hunters in the area. We would sit together and joke and tease about all the things we did that morning, the dumb shots we missed and brag about whose bird was the prettiest or had the longest tail feathers. And then once we were full we would head home and slowly hunt along the way – hoping to bag our limit if we hadn’t already. Unfortunately those times began to dwindle – too many hunters, too few fields, too few birds. It became crowded and uncomfortable. After so many confrontations between hunters, and idiots shooting from their field into ours, feeling buckshot gently rain down on you, it was finally time to find somewhere else to hunt.

My dad started to work at this chemical plant just south of Provo that had a pretty large field off to one side of it. He was the plant manager and so was the guy who gave permission to anyone who wanted to hunt. Mostly no one hunted around there and so we were left to hunt that field most opening mornings. Every year we were able to bring a couple of pheasants home, but more importantly we were able to spend some time together and to remember what was really important – family.

I’m not sure when my younger brother became familiar with fighting and comfortable with confrontation but by the time we were hunting those fields he was a bit of a roughneck. He still came with us and that was important. But he was living a lifestyle that was different from the way we were raised, he chewed tobacco, he drank a fair amount and he used his fists a bit more often than the rest of us. It was never a real big deal to me just because I could see that he was still the good-hearted kid I’ve always known him to be. Drinking and fighting don’t make you a bad person.

Now hunting is definitely manly. There are guns and dogs and boots and jeans and guns. The guns are really the thing. We stand around and talk about the guns we’re using, how mine’s better than yours and it’s more powerful, better spread and all that. Folks with guns out away from any real law enforcement is never a real good combination. But angry folks with guns away from any real law enforcement can turn out deadly.

Well this one morning we’re out in the field, it’s early and we’re having a great time laughing and falling in holes. From one side of the field a couple of men come into the field. Now, as I’ve said, my dad was the plant manager, he gave permission to be in these fields and he hadn’t given any permission. So we knew these guys were trespassing.

As they got closer we could see it was a couple of young men and their dad. They ambled over and started small talking about this and that, asking how we’d been doing (meaning as far as hunting was concerned) and commented on the weather. Finally one of them asked if we minded them hunting the field with us. My dad explained that it was private property and that they had to have permission to hunt here – failing to mention that HE was the one who gave the permission. The man answered back that they did in fact have permission and that they knew the plant manager. Now we knew they were lying. There was an uncomfortable shuffling on our side as we wondered what would happen next.

My dad has always been a cool cat. He doesn’t get ruffled easy. He gently explained that the plant manager should have given them a written permission form and asked them if they had theirs. And then they got angry because they were being forced to prove they had permission which we knew they didn’t have. Hard words started being spoken. They insisted they had as much right to this field as we did. Voices were raised. Hard words were spoken. Voices turned angry. Guns were shifted from one arm to another. Fingers were pointed. Things were going badly. I suggested we call the local sheriff and let him settle who had the right to be in what field – and I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. This did it. They broke off and headed away, and out of the field, with hard looks over their shoulders.

As they got to the border of the field, they hopped up onto the train that was parked in between fields, handing guns up and then going up between cars. Once all three were up between the cars, one of the sons turned around and with his chest poked out a bit said, “Fuck you old man.” to my dad and pointed at him with his chin and the bravado of someone too far away to do anything about.

Without hesitation or permission or a backwards glance by brother handed his gun to my dad who took it without thinking. Once my dad realized what he had done he said my brothers name in warning. My brother gave my dad the finger. The index, not the middle, and said, “I’ll be right back.”

At this point everyone knew there was going to be a confrontation. It might be just words. But when folks without guns stand up to people with guns, it rarely ends well. My brother quickly closed the space between them and us. He hopped up onto the train with the other two men. One of the sons had already hopped down on the other side, but the father and the son who had sworn at my dad were still standing there, guns in hand. Without a thought my brother pointed at the man who had spoken to my dad and he said, “You’re going to apologize…” but before he could get anything out the father interrupted him with angry words and a hard stare. My brother turned to him with confidence only anger and experience can bring and he said to the man, “I’ll get to you next.” And then turned back to the offender and said, “You’re going to apologize to my father right now.”

“Sorry.” The man said, but just barely.

With a hardness I had never seen from my brother and through gritted teeth he touched the man’s chest with his pointed finger and said in a low and threatening tone while looking him right in the eye, “Like. You. Mean. It.”

“Sir.” The man said, raising his voice and turning to my father across half a field, “I apologize for using that word and for offending you. I’m sorry.” And then they just stood there. My father nodded slightly to acknowledge the apology, not knowing what to say in response.

My brother also stood there as if trying to decide something. Then he finally said, looking the father and son dead in the eye, “You can both go now.” And he stood there and watched them hop down off the train, and walk away. He watched them long enough to know they weren’t a threat any more. And then he got down, walked back to us, and with little more than a backward glance he took his gun back from my dad.

I don’t remember what was said between us. I’m sure my dad said my brother shouldn’t have done that. It was unnecessary. I remember being giddy with the manliness that I felt, not because of anything I had done but because my brother was the definition of a man. And I admired him for his courage and integrity. He had stood for what he knew was right, even in the face of danger and being outnumbered. He had stood there, toe to toe, unarmed against men with guns and had looked them in the eye and demanded an apology. And gotten it.

It’s always been a bit of a secret I’ve had, but I’ve always admired my brother. I’m older and he’s younger. I’m supposed to set the example – but he is someone I would follow any day. I would follow him to Hell. Despite the tough front he sometimes puts on he is the kind of man I would like to be. He is kind. He is responsible. He is hard working. He is dedicated. He is honorable. And he is true. He stands up for what is right, even in the face of danger. He is my hero. I don’t agree with some of his choices, but when it comes down to what’s important, he’s better than many churchgoers I know. It’s just my opinion but I doubt it’ll keep him out of heaven. But if it does I will cross that line, I will enter Hell like he did for my father, and I will pull him out. Because that’s what a man would do. That’s what he would do for me. I love you my brother.

9/11 – the Loss of a Friend

2010-02-20T20:19:00.000-08:00

My dad told me that the day President Kennedy was shot was a hard day for him. Harder maybe than for others. It was a day that changed America. It was shocking and horrible. The end of the innocence in many ways for many Americans. But when he got home his dad wanted to have a talk; wanted to do the dishes with my dad. Definitely out of the ordinary. With wet and soapy hands they did dishes and my grandpa explained to my dad how he and his mom were moving out. They were getting a divorce. My dad’s life would forever be changed by that day. Strangely, that was September 11th for me. It was definitely an interesting day. For America. I will never forget that day because something happened that changed America, changed the way we look at ourselves and the world. But something happened to me as well, something personal, and I was the cause of it. It changed the way I look at the world and how I look at myself.

I was riding the bus to school that morning. I always rode the bus. It made parking easy and it gave me two unencumbered hours of homework time. I had graduated with two bachelors degrees from the University of Utah in sociology and psychology and had been given a full ride scholarship to the sociology departments doctoral program. It was the greatest time of my life. I was reading like a madman, talking and debating with some of the greatest minds in the field of sociology, and I was writing some great papers. It was amazing.

There was a specific professor that was inspirational to me. She was smart, funny, articulate and was completely self-made. She had brought herself out of a working class background like me and was making a huge impression on the academic and Hispanic communities. She was my inspiration. The thing was she was passionate and fiery and I loved it. I couldn’t get enough of her personality and opinions. Even though we often disagreed it was like candy to argue with her. She was amazing. She was also volatile. If you pissed her off you felt the wrath descend.

So the day before this professor had been trying to find someone in the department, another grad student like myself. And she was on the warpath. She was upset and fuming. I don’t remember about what. But I knew that if she found the grad student she might say things she would later regret. So when I saw the grad student first, I warned them. She’s looking for you and “she’s all kinds of crazy.” I’ll never forget those words because they would seal my fate forever. I didn’t think any more about it and went home on September 10th.

The next morning I’m riding the bus and everything is normal. There was a man who always listened to the news and of course he begins to hear what is happening in New York City and he begins filling us in. A plane has hit a building in New York. No details. The building is on fire. People are running. No real details. I get to school and find that another plane has hit the other building. It all feels so surreal. Planes hitting buildings. How does this happen? Who would do this? I, like millions of Americans, felt vulnerable and afraid. I knew I was far from the calamity but it felt so personal, so real.

I went to see this professor to talk to her about what was going. When I got there she was already fuming. Not about the attacks but about what I had said. The grad student hadn’t taken my advice but had come directly to the professor and used my own words to turn the professors anger against me rather than the other grad student. And it had worked. The professor was livid. Why, she wanted to know, would I call her crazy? I tried to explain that it was a turn of phrase, something we said at my house when someone was angry or looking for someone in anger. It didn’t mean actually crazy. But she wouldn’t hear it.

The conversation morphed into how I couldn’t be trusted. How I was a born storyteller and a fabricator. How she couldn’t believe what I was telling her because I was just trying to get my way, get out of trouble, and deflect the horrible thing I had said. This professor who I thought was my friend. This woman who had had me in her home, cooked my wife and I dinner, given us her cat. She wanted nothing more to do with me. Never wanted to speak with me again. The conversation became surreal. I was not only watching a friendship crumble before me I was looking at my academic life becoming meaningless. If a professor in the department thought I was untrustworthy then my time here was certainly limited.

I begged, pleaded with her to think through this. I was her friend. I had meant nothing by it. I would never do anything to purposefully hurt our friendship or my place in the department. As the towers fell in New York our friendship crumbled to the ground. Disaster. Hit by a terrorist for their own selfish reasons. And I was powerless to stop it. She ordered me out of her office. I left in tears. I tried to talk to the grad student but they refused. I tried to make amends but they wouldn’t hear of it. I tried to figure out why this had all happened and I couldn’t find a cause. It all seemed so senseless. So dreamlike. So surreal. I honestly couldn’t figure out why what I had considered so strong and unshakeable had, in a matter of minutes, crumbled away to piles of rubble.

New York City was in complete panic and America was in shock. What we believed to have been safe and secure wasn’t. One of our cities had been attacked by terrorists. They had killed thousands of our own people for reasons we didn’t really understand. We had been blindsided and I was in a daze.

Not long after that President Bush declared war on Iraq and I left the University of Utah. Both of us were trying to make something good out of what happened. Both of us were misguided. Something great came out of my leaving the University. I became a teacher, a bit sooner than I had planned, but I love it. I found my place in life. I’ve found my reason for living, for being. I’m still not sure we’ve done something good in Iraq. That’s still up in the air for me. Couple hundred people died there again just last week from two car bombs, set off simultaneously. Middle of Baghdad. Middle of the freaking city. We’re still trying to work it out over there.

Every year or so I try and make amends with that professor. I email her and tell her how much I miss our conversations; how much I regret whatever it was that was said to hurt her feelings; I do my best to make what I did okay. But she never responds. I’m not sure if she even gets my emails, although I suspect she does. I wish her well, wherever she is. I ache when I think of the friendship we could have had, might have had, if… I don’t know what. I’m not sure where it all went wrong. I’m not sure which decision led to this specific catastrophe but I regret it. I regret the loss. I regret the anger that I caused. I regret the sadness. I regret the conversations that will never be, the papers that will never be written, the damage that’s been done. I regret it all. I would take it back if I could. I would erase those days if she would let me. Where a friendship used to be there is only a hole now.

Take care of yourself Theresa.

Bekah Comes Home

2010-02-14T10:47:00.001-08:00

Our second pregnancy was pretty much uneventful. It was, as pregnancies go, normal and unremarkable. Bekah never did like making trouble for anyone, and even while still inside her mom, she was that way. Easy and nice. But Bekah has a stubborn streak. Even as a child she couldn’t be dissuaded once she had set her mind on something. And there are times even now, thirteen years later, when Bekah gets something in her head and she won’t give in. We got a taste of the future the day she came into the world. It was time. And she didn’t even give anyone warning.

Tambee woke me up early. Dark-thirty early. I honestly don’t remember how early it was, but it was dark and I was groggy. And in true Tambee fashion she had been laying there for a while having contractions. Privately taking the pain and allowing me to sleep. So she wakes me up and says that the contractions are pretty bad and pretty close together. We call the hospital and they say it doesn’t sound like a rush job but we could come in when we feel like it.

We call my mom because she wants to be there when the baby is born. We call my sister because she’s watching Aubrie. We aren’t in a hurry because the last labor took us a month and a half and we know this baby isn’t coming anytime soon. So we take our time. With every minute however Tambee is feeling the pain. The contractions are getting closer and closer and the pain is getting fairly intense. It’s something like 3:30 in the morning. No one is on the roads. I’m doing my job – I’m staying calm and I’m making Tambee laugh. It keeps her mind settled and centered. She knows I’m cool and collected, she can stay cool and collected. So I’m diving semi-crazy. Not fast, but fast enough to make her think about me and breaking the law than the contractions she’s having. I run a few red lights. Just for fun. I mean if you can’t run a red light at 3:30 in the morning when your wife is having a baby then when can you? Seriously. Even if we weren’t in any real hurry. Or so we thought.

So we get to the hospital and Tambee thinks she’s pretty close. But nurses don’t trust mom’s. They think all mom’s don’t really know what they’re talking about. So we get to Labor & Delivery and Tambee tells them that she’s having this baby. The nurses don’t move any faster to get her into a wheelchair than if they were headed to empty the trash. Calm and deliberate. They get her into the chair, which she can’t really sit in for some strange reason and get her into the room. This is where the story gets fun.

The nurse gets Tambee up onto a bed, feet into the stirrups and to do the first exam. It’s 3:30 in the morning, this nurse has seen everything, this mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about, there’s no way this baby is coming right now. With tired eyes and practiced hands the nurse checks to see how far along Tambee is. I’m standing with Tambee at the head of the bed, but I’m watching the nurse. Her eyes widen. The tiredness washes away in a flash. Her mouth opens a fraction. And she says, “Do NOT push. I’m going to get a doctor.” And she rushes out of the room much quicker than when she came in.

Minutes later a doctor comes in. Bleary eyed and yawning. Turns out the nurses found him on a gurney somewhere in the hall. He was the closest doctor they could find. With practiced hands and exhausted eyes the doctor checks to see how far my wife is along. In an instant his eyes widen, the exhaustion washes away, his mouth drops open and he says, “DO NOT push.” And he quickly reaches for a pair of gloves which he dons with no delay, never taking his eyes off of Tambee.

Tambee has a contraction and the doctor tells her to breath through it, don’t push, our doctor has been called and he’s on his way. The nurses are there now, strangely all congregating like busy hens all clucking away and doing their jobs with precision and care. Tambee asks for drugs to numb the pain. The nurse, standing just out of arms reach, gently explains that there won’t be time for drugs. Tambee is confused and so am I. No time? The last baby came after hours and hours of labor. No time? It seems Bekah has spoken and she can’t be dissuaded.

In between contractions the doctor is shaking his head quietly to himself. I’m watching for an indication of what’s going on. Only a few minutes have past since we arrived. The doctor keeps shaking his head and he tells Tambee that the next time there’s a contraction that she should go ahead and push. This baby isn’t going to be cooperative and wait for our doctor. Tambee is in considerable pain at this point and confused; I haven’t had even a second to make her laugh. This isn’t funny. It’s scary and completely unlike what our first delivery was like.

The next part happens fast. Within about twenty seconds. I’ll break down the action for you so you can appreciate it step by step.

There is another contraction. The doctor orders Tambee to push. She does. There is a contraction immediately after that, we all tell Tambee to push. She doesn’t need to be told. She pushes. The doctor says he can see the head, then the arms…

My mom walks into the room smile on her face, Swedish blanket and knitting bag over one arm – filled with a book, magazines, money and a little food, and 48 ounces of Pepsi in the other hand. She’s here for the long haul. She was at the last pregnancy and she knows how long it’s going to take. Her face goes through several changes in the period of about five seconds. She is happy, excited and sure of what’s going on…

Then Bekah is born. Right then. As my mom walks into the room. It takes about two seconds. Count it with me – one thousand one, one thousand two. Yep. There she is. My second child. The doctor announces that it’s a girl. My mom looks at us with a half smile and a confused look on her face. You can tell she’s checking that it’s the right room.

Yep. There’s my son and daughter in law. Check. Her face says. Then she glances at the doctor holding a new baby girl and her face gets confused. That can’t be my new granddaughter, I was only a few minutes behind them. She then looks back at us. Check. That’s my son and daughter in law. Her face is back to knowing what’s going on. Then she glances at the baby again. Her face changes to confusion again. This happens several times in the course of a few seconds, back and forth and back and forth. Confusion and surety. Confusion and surety. While I didn’t have time to make my wife laugh, my mom, without knowing it, was making me laugh.

Our second daughter was born. Her second granddaughter. And she had made it by only seconds. Still holding her Swedish knitting and Pepsi she smiles at us and says something about how quickly it had all happened. We were all surprised. Entire time delivering the baby in the hospital, probably around ten minutes. Maybe. It all happened so fast. Like a bank robbery, only instead of loosing something we gained it. Bekah was the newest member of our family and soon we would learn that when Bekah had her mind set on something she couldn’t be easily dissuaded.

Masculine Soup

2010-02-05T18:40:00.001-08:00

Hunting has always been a huge part of my upbringing. And before you get bent of out shape because we love killing animals let me make something clear. We love to hunt, we don’t love to kill. My dad always said that the fun ends the moment the animal dies. But there is something about being out in nature, right in the middle of it, just you and your abilities against the animals abilities. Your natural sense against the animals. We never went all “Native American” or anything, but we weren’t flippant about it either. We showed respect to the animals we killed. It was an honor and privilege to be able to hunt, and own guns. It was our duty to show respect to the animals that we killed and that we owned.

Through my life we’ve always owned some animal. Mostly cats, but a few dogs. I wasn’t raised with the hippie-tree-huggin’ crowd that say their animals are like their children. Who let them inside and love them and hold them and kiss them on the mouth. That was never my family. Animals were animals. They were meant to be outside and to serve us. But it was our responsibility to protect and care for them. To make sure they didn’t suffer. When we owned dogs we would take the hunting with us. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. We didn’t really have a great track record with hunting dogs. But we still liked having them around the house.

Now, you should know that there’s something manly about hunting. Really manly. It’s a testosterone soaked activity for sure. Standing around a warm truck in the cold morning air, waiting for the time it’s legal to hunt, peeing on fence posts ‘cause you’re so excited to get going. Laughing and joking with your family about who’s the worse shot and who’s gonna get the most birds, or biggest buck, that day. And then there’s the guns. Everyone has guns. You’re carrying a weapon that won’t just kill a bird, it’ll kill a human. And not over a period of time, but instantly. The guns we carry are deadly dangerous. It’s a huge responsibility walking out into the tall grass, your family to each side of you, and who knows who in the fields all around you, holding a weapon in your cold hands; walking over uneven ground. It’s a lot to think about and a lot to live up to when everyone in your family is a hunter, and a good one at that.

Now having a dog isn’t always a great asset when you’re hunting. They’re only good if they’re trained properly. A well-trained dog can make hunting much easier and enjoyable. It can track scents you couldn’t hope to find, it can find hidden birds and flush them out of the thick brush, and it can make you feel good about yourself even when you’ve had a lousy day. But a poorly trained dog can make your day miserable. They run everywhere, chase sparrows, bark at other hunters and generally lose their heads once you turn them loose in a field. The kind of dog you have largely determines the kind of day you will have.

One morning we had started early, crashing out through the brush and grass and getting in a line. We didn’t have a dog with us that morning and we were having a great time. We were laughing and joking and feeling the camaraderie of just being out together. Its those days that even years later now we laugh and talk about. Not long after we had started another group of hunters came into the field where we were hunting.

These guys were manly men. Big guns. Big dogs. And big mouths. From the moment they stepped into the field we knew they were there. They were yelling and laughing and cussing up a storm. And they had a dog. And that dog was poorly trained. And it went nuts. That dog wouldn’t slow down. It ran the length of the field, back and forth, up and down, barking and chasing and sniffing every inch of that field. And his owner was yelling and cursing it eight ways to Sunday.

Now, being out there in that kind of situation you begin to feel tense. There’s already the testosterone, fence-post-peeing, I-got-a-big-gun, thing going one. The who’s gun is bigger thing going on. The cussing and spitting thing going on. And then there’s the competitive side thing going on. The “how many have you gotten this morning” comparing thing. It makes a pretty delicious masculine soup. That often boils over and makes a mess.

So in the middle of all that there’s this dog. And he’s out of control. He’s ruining our morning of hunting. He’s running and barking and sniffing every inch of that field, near and far, and he’s not listening one lick to his master. We’re yelling at the guy to get his dog under control, he’s yelling at his dog to come back, and meanwhile we’re watching these big beautiful birds getting spooked and fly up out of the tall grass too far away to get a shot at. And then the dog comes near me. The man is yelling and swearing. My family is trying to keep their cool as our hunt is quickly being ruined. The stress level is incredibly high and we are all quickly loosing our cool. Including me. And this stupid animal comes over to check me out for the first time and his owner yells, “Just give him a good kick.”

And I do. I lean back and I give that dog a good solid kick in the ribs with my lace up, waterproof, insulated boots. I kick him. With my gun held high and my teeth gritted, I kick him. And the dog yelps and falls back. And I realize, as I hear my father gasp, as if I’ve kicked him in the ribs, and my brother says my name as if it were a swear word, that the only thing worse than an out of control dog, is an out of control person. As my mind comes back to me, my own personal set of beliefs, I realize that I’ve just kicked a defenseless animal. A poorly trained animal. The only person who really deserved to be kicked was the dogs master, not the dog himself. And I am ashamed.

Our First Child

2010-01-30T09:44:00.001-08:00

Being pregnant is an interesting challenge of pain, discomfort and incredible waiting. And before all you women out there get bent out of shape about “Men have no idea what it means to be pregnant or have a baby!” I have only one thing to say, “You’re selfish.” And I feel bad for you. That’s two things really, but it makes me sad to hear women talk like that. Because if you’ve ever loved someone, really, really loved them and watched them go through something that causes them any kind of discomfort, let alone the mind-numbing pain of giving birth and been completely helpless to do anything, then you don’t really understand true partnership or empathy. Every day of our pregnancy was painful for me. Watching Tambee lumber under the weight of our child, and being completely helpless was a new kind of misery that I didn’t know existed.

I have very little memory of her being pregnant except for trying to make it as bearable for Tambee as I possibly could. I told her I would bend to her every wish as long as she didn’t take advantage of me. And she didn’t. Although it did seem like there were quite a few sushi runs during that nine months that were chalked up to “craving”. Although you would never hear me complain about sushi. So we got along pretty good. More than anything I think your first pregnancy is exciting. The physical changes, the anticipation, the shopping, the name choosing, is all so new and exciting. Just anticipating a new baby coming into, not just THE world, but OUR world gave us a lot of joy and hope. And we really looked forward to meeting our first gift from our Heavenly Father.

So it was in the end of November that our doctor gave us a date that we would induce labor. I think it was more for his convenience than it was for any other reason. We were young and it seemed kind of cool that we knew when we would deliver the baby.

So on December 16th we checked ourselves into the hospital and started the labor process. And boy was it a process. The labor went on for six and a half days. In and out, hard and soft. They had to bring in major construction equipment – steal scaffolding, a brick and mortar crew, welding supplies and some under water diving gear. It was grueling.

In the last few hours it was getting tense. Tambee was exhausted, she was having difficulty even pushing any more. Every time she would have a contraction the baby’s heart rate would plummet and my heart rate would race. I felt like I was on black coffee IV drip I was so jittery. I was a first time dad, first time husband, and first time at a baby being born. And I felt as helpless as a hip pocket on a pig. Nothing to do but stand there and look stupid – which, by the way, I’m brilliant at.

The doctor attached monitoring wires to the baby inside of Tambee, just trying to get a read on what was going on with her. Watching that heart rate drop every time Tambee would have a contraction was pure torture for me. The two most important things in the world, my wife and my child, were mutually in peril and I was a nervous wreck. I was completely out of my element, so I did what I was born to do. I made Tambee laugh. I would talk and joke and poke fun at whatever happened as if it were a show at a circus. But inside I was being torn apart. I didn’t know what to do. And as the labor progressed the stress just got worse, Tambee got increasingly exhausted and the delivery crew became increasingly desperate.

Finally they decided to take the baby with forceps. Basically they look like big, stainless steal salad spoons. The baby had been in the birth canal since before Thanksgiving and they were afraid that she was in danger if they left her there any longer. So with a mighty tug and an unappealing slurping sound, they reached into my wife with stainless steal scoopers and pulled my baby out by the head.

Now, for those of you who have never seen an actual baby being born this is one more thing that is not like the movies. New born babies aren’t cute and pink and beautiful. They are somewhere between ash gray and tulip purple. Within a few minutes or hours they warm up, fill out, and become those amazing little creatures you see in the movies. But at first, ugly. And my new daughter was the queen of ugly. She was a light gray, with two half moon indentions under her cheekbones where the salad spoons had scooped her out of the birth canal where she had set up an apartment. There were long, crooked lines running down the length of her face where the wires had been attached to her body during labor and her head looked like a badly shaped melon because her head had been put through the vice of contractions for so long. And then there were the ears. The incredibly huge, misshapen, ears. They had been pulled down and out during the long crawl down the birth canal and now they looked like the geeks at a Lord of the Rings gathering. And she was not crying. She was quite, with her big eyes looking around at the ridiculously bright and cold world that she had just been jerked into.

Now, at this point, we were all exhausted beyond the point of exhaustion. Tambee was physically exhausted, and I was emotionally exhausted. Watching THAT for as long as it went was excruciating. But when she came out and was placed in my arms for the first time. Looking down at that horrible little monster face with her amazing deep blue eyes and then looking at my beauty queen wife, who looked like she had just been through a category five tornado without an umbrella, I knew I was in love again. My heart expanded to incredible proportions and I loved more than I had ever loved before. And not just one person, but two. How could my heart be so big without bursting? And I knew it wasn’t over. I still had something to do. I had to make my wife laugh.

I held my daughter in the palm of my hand and sat her up. Her wobbly, oddly shaped head, mangled face and withered skin made her look like my wife’s favorite Star Wars character. So I held her there, sitting up in my hand and looking at her mom with those bright blue eyes and I said from behind her in a high and gravelly voice, “Glad to be here am I. A difficult journey to get here it was. Happy to see you am I. Love you much I do.” And Tambee laughed. Her face brightened at my inappropriate behavior as it always does and she laughed knowing how much I meant to her. Because telling her would have made me break down and cry. And no one wanted to see the doctor have to give me another dose of morphine for my crying fits. So I stood there and did what I do best. I made my wife laugh. And I held the treasure that was my daughter close to me and thought of Star Wars. How could the day get any better?

And then with a click of her tongue and a disapproving glare, the nurse took my daughter from me for being inappropriate with my own newborn and wrapped her in a warm blanket and carried her gently and appropriately to a room where women knew how to care for babies and thought that husbands didn’t understand the pain of childbirth. And Tambee laughed again and it was good.

Pregnancy & Potatoes

2010-01-24T15:00:00.000-08:00

My grandfather was a potato man. He wasn’t a farmer, he was an eater. Loved them mashed. Loved them. Would always make such a fuss when they were made. Couldn’t get enough. Loved them with brown gravy, loved them with white gravy, loved them with butter and salt and pepper. Grandpa would finish a huge meal with meat and mashed potatoes, and while everyone else was having pie or cake or whatever we were having for dessert, he would have another helping of mashed potatoes. He thought that they were the best thing in the world. I never really understood it. I mean, I love mashed potatoes but not with any kind of spiritual fervor like my grandpa. I was always a stuffing man myself. But mashed potatoes, well, they really made the world go ‘round for my grandpa. He was 82 when I got married to Tambee and we moved to Provo and got ourselves an apartment.

Our second apartment was smaller than the first. Which is saying quite a lot. It was nothing more than small bedroom/living room with a cozy little fireplace, a smaller kitchen with room for a table for two, very romantic and a hallway that lead to a bathroom. This was all situated in the upstairs of a small house in downtown Provo, Utah where we were living and going to school and learning how to live together. We had been married for just over a year and were still really enjoying each others company. We spent a lot of time together and even by that time I learned what my job was – it was to make Tambee laugh. I have so few natural qualities I knew I had to make the most out of what I had. And more than anything I began to fear that our marriage was going to be one long illusionist show. I had to keep Tambee from looking behind the curtain. Because once she realized I wasn’t the charming, handsome, intelligent man she thought I was, then I was out on my ear. So I kept her laughing.

She was going to school and working and I was just working. We were working. It felt like that was about all we were doing. Just working. This was marriage. Work. Work at work. Work at home. And we were into a routine. I did a lot of cooking and she did a lot of cleaning. We were already in a kind of groove and we liked it. She would come home from work and I would cook something for her and we would sit and do homework and just talk and laugh. There was always the laughing.

Tambee was working at a food service place and she had to get up at some horrible hour every day. An hour they don’t even have a name for. Sickly dark. She was always tougher than me and more dedicated. She would get up so early, with just a few hours of sleep and go to work, then go to school. Every day. She didn’t really like the job she just did it. We needed the money and she was willing to put her body and mind on the chopping block and through the wood chipper so that we could make it. She was amazing. Her dedication, even today, fills me with a deep and seething envy. She makes me look so lazy. When I’m only mostly lazy. It’s when you hang out with a super skinny person, they make you look super fat, when you’re only kinda fat. You know? Anyway, she makes me look super lazy. And it makes me angry. Angry and lazy. That’s pretty much my life.

So her job was wearing her down. Slowly, day by day, she was wearing down. School and work, day after day, really weigh a person down. And you could see it in her. She would drag up the long narrow stairs, and into the apartment and have a hard time getting back up. Then it was my job to make her something good to eat, make her laugh and try and coax her into bed. Wink wink. We were, after all, still newly married.

So one day she comes home and barely makes it into the apartment, and I mean barely. She dragged herself up the stairs, stair by stair and just gets inside the apartment and lays down. Just lays down right there in the hallway with her coat still on and school bag still over her shoulder. Just lays down. Not normal. And even though I’m lazy, I’m concerned. Because if she can’t work then I can’t eat. It’s important that she not be sick or I won’t be able to live in the luxurious style I’ve become accustomed.

I laid down on the floor with her and ask her if she’s okay. And she, like always, nods and says she’s fine. Just a little tired. That’s my Tambee. Can’t quite make it up the stairs, can’t even make it down the hall to the bed, laying in the hallway, and says “Just a little tired.” She makes me look bad. Says she just needs to rest and grab something to eat. Asks me if we can have some mashed potatoes. Says that sounds super good to her. We don’t really eat potatoes. We eat rice. Strange that she would ask. I tell her I’ll make her rice. She looks disappointed and says thank you. But I’m concerned and we talk about what it might be. After a minute we stumble upon pregnancy. Could it be? So we get something to eat and head to the store. We buy ourselves one of those home pregnancy tests, bring it home, use it. And it’s negative. Negative. She’s still tired so we go to bed and try and get some rest.

The next day is worse. She doesn’t actually make it into the apartment. She barely makes it to the top of the stairs. She drags her bag, literally up the stairs, and just before she makes it to our doorway, she stops, exhausted, sits down and lays on the stairs. I watch all this from the top of the stairs with growing concern now. She’s obviously beyond normal tired. She’s literally exhausted and I don’t know what to do.

Sitting on the stairs we talk for a minute. I’m trying not to panic. And finally I suggest, although it was more like a demand, that we go see a doctor, that night, right now. We have a friend of the family who is a doctor, happens to be a gynecologist, and he’s just a couple blocks away. I tell Tambee we have to go see him. Maybe he can tell us why she’s so tired because we know she’s not pregnant. As I make this suggestion she’s nodding her head, still cradled in the crook of her elbow, still laying on the stairs with her book bag over her shoulder. With a new gleam in her eye she looks up and says, “After we’re done at the doctors can we get mashed potatoes?” “Sure.” I say. Anything to get her back on her feet and out the door.

So the visit to the doctors office is a blur for me. I only remember the nurse coming out with a smile on her face and looking at us both and saying, “You’re pregnant!” and taking us both in a big hug. It was so shocking and exciting and confusing all at the same time. But within about ten seconds of the announcement, in fact still in mid-hug, Tambee leans out from me and says, “Can we go get some mashed potatoes now?” “Sure.” I say, this time with tears in my eye because I know that it’s not just her that’s asking, it’s my first child, speaking through my beautiful pregnant wife, that while she waits to be born, mashed potatoes would really make the wait time more bearable. She even got a second helping for desert, just like her grandpa that she would meet nine months later when she was born.

Smells of Childhood

2010-01-15T14:00:00.000-08:00

Memory is a strange thing. I have so few true memories. Memories that are full and complete. Unquestionable in their integrity. They feel like pieces of a puzzle that I can’t put together. My memories are like a child’s treasure box. It’s filled with trinkets and remnants; nothing that connects with the larger whole, just pieces of things that used to be a set, or actual pieces of something that used to be whole – a bottle cap with the letter “E” written on it; a small rubber ball with swirls of color inside; a shiny shard of metal attached to a string; a note with a secret written on it; an old shoelace from my dad’s boot. Nothing that really tells a story itself. It’s my attachment that gives it value.

My memories are like bits and pieces of something that I think they should look like but I can’t quite seem to make whole. Like finding a piece of beach glass, forest green or cobalt blue, with smooth edges and a definable shape. The shape gives you an idea of the original piece, but you’re still unable to assemble the original piece of art. My mind is a collection of beach glass, shiny pebbles and sea shells; but with no recollection of which beach they came from. So I’m easily influenced when someone doesn’t agree with my memory; when they say that it’s not the way it happened. I shrug my shoulders and accept whatever version they have of the events. “okay.” I think. “I guess I’m just remembering wrong.”

But I do have a memory of smells. Smells don’t help me remember any more than normal, but they bring back specific feelings. They bring back deeply real feelings. And while I have a ton of memories for my dad I have no real memories of my mom. I don’t’ remember my mom feeding me as a child, comforting me when I was hurt. I don’t have specific memories of my mom at my choir concerts, her face smiling and hands clapping. I don’t remember her helping me ride my bike, running along and giving me encouragement. I know she did all of those things because I have the pictures. But I don’t have any real memories.

The memories I have of my mom are much deeper than that, almost primal in their form and location in my mind and memory. They involve smells. I have a handful of memory smells that are as precious as the contents of that child’s treasure box. And every time I smell those smells, the memories come flooding back, but more importantly, the feelings fill me with the love and kindness of a mother.

There are a handful of smells that bring certain feelings rushing back. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies are incredibly comforting to me. My mom would bake cookies for us all the time and the house would fill with the warm and dark smell of dough and chocolate. I would come home from school and the house would be filled with the smell of freshly baked cookies. Fresh laundry transports me to a time when someone cared enough to make sure I was dressed in clean and mended clothes. The fresh laundry smell moves me to a place when I was young and had few responsibilities and my mom always looked out after me. And the smell of fresh dirt is almost spiritual. As a kid I hated being in the garden, I hated weeding and I hated mowing the lawn. For all the days filled with sun and grass where I was forced to work outside, my feet green and my fingernails black, working in endless rows and beds of flowers and vegetables. Even now the smell of dirt makes me feel connected somehow to the earth and plants, to the water and soil. I love that smell, but don’t tell my mom. All these smells remind me of certain times, but more importantly they remind me of feelings that I have about my mom. She was amazing, kind, loving and protecting. She looked out after me. She loved me.

I recently discovered a smell that is smaller than the others. Its so old and little used that I barely found it. It’s like that small glass Indian bead in the corner of the treasure box that almost got lost and forgotten. But the day the smell hit me I was transported to just a moment, a second in my life that really meant something special and important. It is completely unlike all the others.

I was walking through a store, when the memory surfaced. I was in the produce section and the sameness of my options was underwhelming. I had seen it all and had cooked it all. Then something caught my eye – like little brown walnuts, only with smoother skin. I couldn’t identify them. I walked over and found their tag – chestnuts. “Like, chestnuts roasting on an open fire?” I thought. “Weird.” Then there was something, light as a feather in the back of my head – a tickle of a memory. I had eaten chestnuts before… somewhere… with my mom. It involved coldness and heat, tinfoil and flame, salt and butter. A flash of memories hit me like hail on a stormy day. Nothing really anything to fight against, but it definitely left me feeling wanting. I picked up the chestnuts with excitement and curiosity. Was I making the memory up? Had I really had them before?

I took them home and started to research. It wasn’t long before I had a recipe and my first batch of chestnuts in the oven. The oven heated and popped and not long after my first batch of chestnuts was out of the oven. Even then I wasn’t sure. The chestnuts came out of their foil wrapping, cut and pushing up through the thin brown skin. The white meat of the chestnut hot and welcoming. I cracked the first one open and peeled back the shell, dipped it in the creamy melted butter and sprinkled just a bit of salt on the top – and then I stopped – stopped and smelled. I smelled the small chestnut for just a moment and immediately knew I had eaten them before. The feeling came crashing back.

But more than the flavor or the smell, it was the memory of being with my mom on a really cold day. A flash of memories. Coats with collars up. Gloves and ice. A bitter wind and the smell of something roasting. Tinfoil coming out of the fire and roasted chestnuts, the first and only time I would eat them. A little salt and butter and my mom’s smile. Knowing that I was loved and looked after. That she cared for me and all would be well. All of that came back to me as I unwrapped the chestnuts and inhaled the memory that wafted up into my mind.

When I cook and eat chestnuts now I can’t help but smile like I’m a kid riding a roller coaster. It makes me happy to eat them. And it’s not the chestnuts that make me smile, not directly. It’s the memories that go with them. The warmth of being out with my mom, the love she showed by taking me some place fun, the kindness of buying me something I had never experienced. All that and things I can’t even put into words comes to me when I eat them. The soft meatiness, coated in butter and salt, make for an amazing memory and remind me how much my mom loved me. How much she still loves me. The second batch was delivered, by hand, on foot, from me, to my mom’s door.

“Hey.” I said, as she opened the door. “Do you remember these?” We both smiled, she hugged me and closed the door against the cold I had just came from. She couldn’t believe I had found them and had almost forgotten the time we had eaten them together. I turned my collar down and handed her the little tinfoil wrapped package, the steam escaping to remind her, maybe even of different memories. But we enjoyed ourselves and each other for a few minutes. Then I went back to my own family to share with them a bit of my own memories, built from the smells of my own childhood.

Long Lost Friend

2010-01-07T17:18:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, maybe even ten now, I had a really good friend. She wasn’t like me or my family. She was different. She wasn’t overly religious; she had no problem speaking her mind, even when that meant offense; truth to her was the most sacred thing in her life. She lived on the dark side. She read things, thought about things, talked about things that I had never read, thought or talked about. She scared me a little. She was self-assured and articulate. She had a shaved head and a tattoo or three. She knew her own worth and stood up for herself. She didn’t accept the answers that were given to her by anyone. She questioned everyone. She was ballsy and I really admired her.

I’m not really sure what happened but we drifted apart. I think it may have been my self-important, condescending attitude that overly religious people tend to have. I felt like she was lacking because she didn’t have my God in her life. Somehow, maybe self consciously I thought she was less of a person. I don’t remember every really drilling her about it, but I remember a specific time. We sat at a restaurant and I had this corny kids book – something about You’re Worth Something Special Kid – or something like that. I read her the whole book, the whole thing, right there in the restaurant and told her She Was Worth Something Special To Me Too. And then I gave her the book. Maybe she was fine with it. I don’t know.

But I look back on that event and I feel somehow embarrassed. Not that I believe in God. I’m not embarrassed about that. And I do feel that people who don’t believe in God are lacking something that I have. I know that sounds condescending, but I really feel like people who believe in something greater than themselves have fuller lives. I’m not talking about Christians, or Muslims or Hindus. I’m only talking about people who see the world as bigger than it actually is. Who believe that there is Something. A Force, if you will, that looks out after us, that cares for us. And that belief feels somehow stronger than I am. But it’s not because of our differences in beliefs.

I think it was the way I handled things. I somehow came across as condescending. And maybe by my very nature, the very beliefs I have, I can’t help but be condescending to someone like her. But I don’t want to be that way. I can accept anyone’s belief, as long as it doesn’t harm others. I can respect someone who wears socks in the shower, I just feel like they’re missing the bigger experience. And I will, for as long as I know them, talk about how great it feels to be bare foot in the soapy warm water. Until my dieing days.

Anyway, she called the other day. From out of the blue she contacted us and said she would like to get together. She moved from here. She’s married and is pregnant. She has long, beautiful hair. I wonder what she’s like now? I wonder what’s changed and what’s the same? I noticed on her personal information on the web it said, “Atheist”. So that’s the same. But so is my belief in God.

What hasn’t changed is she isn’t satisfied with the answers given to her. She is an arguer and a thinker. I got that from her. I admire her for that. She wants her answers to be her own, not someone else’s. And that’s what I want too. I hope that since we’ve been apart we’ve grown wiser and more careful. I hope she’s forgiven me for my stupid, plodding way of telling her my way is better. She never tried to pluck God from my sky to help me be a better person. Live a fuller life. Interesting. She was satisfied with both of us believing what we wanted, while I wasn’t. I think that’s why I liker her. She was a loosely wound ball of contradictions. A character in a novel she was. Which makes me a character too. I hope that the ending is good.

Attachment

2009-12-18T16:17:00.000-08:00

I am a passionate person. There are few things on which I have a neutral opinion. In fact I think it must be a challenge knowing me because you never know when I’m really, really, honestly excited about something. Because I always seemed excited about whatever I’m talking about at the moment. I find that I really feel strongly about a lot of things. I guess it’s that passion that attaches me to things, ideas and people. I also think that that very passion is what causes me so much trouble.

For the past decade or so I’ve really become passionate about Buddhism. There are a lot of things I like about this philosophy/religion. A lot of things. Things I’ve felt are missing for myself, or maybe they are said just differently enough from my own Christian tradition that they feel new. But regardless of this fact, Buddhism is something I feel passionate about. I do not consider myself a practicing Buddhist. I love the tenants of Buddhism; I try and follow the Fourfold Path and the Eight Noble Truths. I find peace in them. And it’s because of these doctrines that I often find myself wearing a Buddhist mala. Prayer beads. Buddhists will wear these beads, for the same reason Catholics have rosaries, to remind themselves of how they want to live and to concentrate the mind when trying to get closer to the divine.

I’ve always been a jewelry wearer. I like rings. I like bracelets. And so when I found Buddhism I felt like it was a natural step to wear a mala. I don’t consider myself Buddhist, but I do try and follow some of the Buddha’s teachings. So I wear a mala. The first one I bought onyx, perfectly black beads, varnished to a high sheen. Very chic. The next one I got was made from bodhi seeds. Seeds from the kind of tree under which the Buddha became enlightened. Very cool. Then I got one that was made from bone, to illustrate the transience of life, that nothing is permanent. I wore these for a long time. Then, about two years ago I was in a secondhand shop in Seattle Washington and I saw an old mala just hanging from all the junk jewelry. It was simple. Wood. Just plain wooden beads, very well used, darkened from the oils from someone’s skin. I don’t know why someone would get rid of it, but I knew it was meant for me. I bought it for two dollars.

I’ve been wearing those wooden beads for almost two years now. I love them. When I wasn’t wearing them I would put them in my pocket. They brought be comfort. When I was stressed I would reach into my pocket and feel the cool smoothness of the wood and remember which of the Eight Noble Truths I was working on and feel reassured. I had them with me always. And then I lost them. I don’t know where they are. Their loss has caused me considerable mental grief. I’ve looked everywhere – pockets of pants, kilts and jackets. I’ve checked in the car, in the garage, in the basement. I’ve asked friends and family. The beads left my life as simply as they came into it. They’re just gone. And I’ve been unable to focus because I feel strange without them on my wrist.

The Buddhist tradition talks about a couple of things that are important to me. First, impermanence and the second is attachment – this is the idea that nothing ever stays the same and that since it cannot stay the same, being attached to it is folly. On it’s face, this seems moronically obvious. Everyone knows that nothing ever stays the same. But Buddhists really think about it. If nothing ever stays the same, and everything is always changing, then how can I place my love in something that will be different tomorrow? Where is my love? Where is my passion for that thing, if the thing itself has changed? Now, on it’s surface this seems a bit farfetched. But I really like this idea. Day to day, your love for something (and I am talking about things, not people) won’t really be obvious. But over time, as that thing changes, or you yourself change, then the energy you put into that thing is really, in the end, just a waste.

I have really tried to stay as unattached to things as I can. I’m not really happy with the level of materialism in America today, and that materialism is being stuffed down my throat with every drop of media that seeps into my brain. I find myself needing more and more; and once I have that thing, that desirable product, I need the newer one, the one that just came out. Even though I’m aware of this tactic that the media shamelessly uses I still find myself complicit in the conspiracy. I know I shouldn’t want the newest phone or iPod, but I do. I do. I want it more and more and find myself unsatisfied when I don’t get it.

I’ve tried living unattached as well, especially in my home. I know my carpet is a strange color and is worn in places; but it works. It works. I know my ceiling leaks a bit on really raining days, but a bucket works on those days too. I know my toilet is a bit discolored from years and years of hard water stains, but it still functions. And I don’t think I need more than that. People, even family, comment on the fact that our carpet is a bit worn or the toilet is a bit discolored. I take it as a point of pride that I don’t need to replace them. I’m fine. At least as far as those items, I’ve been able to fight off the ever-present Home Repair commercial that tells me I shouldn’t be satisfied with what I have.

Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not neglectful. When something needs to be fixed, I fix it. But just because it doesn’t work or look perfect, isn’t a reason to replace or upgrade. But I want to be attached to relationship with real people, not with inanimate objects. I don’t want to feel tied to my “things”.
A few years ago my computer fried itself. A lot of important things were lost. Diaries, stories, thoughts and feelings, all of them, gone. I mourned, literally mourned over the loss of my things. But in the end, that’s all they were, things. I had placed so much value on what I had that I was unable to cope or function without them. It was a hard lesson for me to learn. Being attached to things will only bring sadness and disappointment. Because all things change, and once something changes for the worst, there is nothing to be done. And if I’ve put my trust and faith and hope in something that cannot, by its very nature, stay the same, then I’m really betting on failure and sadness.

I can’t believe how attached I was to those beads. I think that the term irony is misused too often. But it seems perfectly ironic that I became incredibly attached to something that symbolized non-attachment. I’ve been pining over those beads for two weeks now. Searching my memory, trying to figure out how I could have lost them, or where I could have put them. It wasn’t until this morning that I realized they had came into my life when I really needed them. They taught me a lesson. But more importantly, they taught me a lesson by leaving my life again too. Putting value on material things will only bring me suffering, and there’s no cheese at the end of that tunnel. I need to look to myself, to my own perceptions and feelings about the world and deal with that, not with the changeable things that I am attached to. The beads are worth that.

Blood and Dust

2009-12-11T23:39:00.000-08:00

I was eighteen and the world was about to explode. I was out of high school, out of boot camp, out of Navy “A” School where I had just learned to be a Corpsman, and I was about to go on a mission for my church. And I was out for the summer with my best friend Dan. And of all places we had just visited a girl we had both dated and lived to tell the tale. We were all still friends and the summer had just started.

We were driving Dan’s powder blue VW bug. He had bought it several year earlier, and through high school and loved that bug back into mint condition. Well, as mint as a bug can get. It still rattled and hummed and vibrated dangerously at speeds over 60 mph but it got us where we were going. That bug was awesome. The bug had taken us all the way down to St. George and was now taking us back home. We had been hiking and picnicking and done all the things kids are supposed to do for the summer. We had had fun.

As we drove down the freeway, along a particularly lonely stretch of road I could see up ahead a man sitting on the side of the road. No car. Just the man, sitting on the railing of bridge that passed over a dry riverbed that only ran during the raining season, which in Utah is two days a year. But it’s enough that we don’t want our roads washed away. He was sitting hunched over a bit, his back to us as we drove passed. It was odd to have someone out there like that. I turned to look at the man as we passed him and was shocked to see that his face, hands and shirt were covered in blood.

I turned to Dan and told him to pull over and go back. There had been an accident. Now, in “A” school we had been trained for this kind of emergency. I had been in school for months training how to be an emergency responder. And one of the first things they teach is that diseases kill responders. If you’re not gloved up, you need to seriously think about whether or not to help. I had no gloves. Unfortunately we were both Eagle Scouts and Mormons to boot, which meant we were eager to see if we could heal in the name of Baden Powell and convert in the name of Joseph Smith.

Dan pulled over and backed up as quickly as he could. I jumped out of the car and ran back to the man who was still just sitting on the side of the road looking at his one hand like it was something alien. His nose was bleeding pretty bad and his fingers looked bent and strange. I tilted my head to the side to get a better look at him and asked, “Sir,” I had just gotten out of the Navy. “are you all right?” I couldn’t think of what else to ask, it seemed a smart question at the time. He looked up at me with bleary and watery eyes, blood coming out of his nose and he just looked at me. It was at that point that I came right up to him and off the bridge, I could see, down in the dried river bed, a car. The dust was still settling, one of the doors was ajar, and I could hear music from somewhere.

“Please,” he said, for the first time, “my wife is down there.”

It’s strange how your mind works during a crisis. At least the way mine worked at that moment in my life. I picked my way down the small hillside into the dry riverbed and found my way to the car. My mind didn’t go blank, in fact it seems like it was the opposite. I’d been trained for this very thing. I was only weeks out of the Navy Corpsman school; I had the equivalent of a Emergency Medical Technician License and a Licensed Practical Nurse degree. I couldn’t perform surgery but I was confident enough, and well trained enough to handle almost any normal emergency wounds.

The car was an old, dark blue model, one of those tanks on tires. I’ve never really been that good with car makes or years. It car was still right side up but facing crosswise to the road above; if it had been capable, it could have driven down the riverbed and under the freeway. The dust was still settling and I could hear an animal whining somewhere. There was music playing – classical music. I could smell the heat of the car and hear the popping of the engine as it cooled down. I came to the passenger side first and could see that there was a woman lying face down in the back seat. I’m still not sure how she got there. Maybe she stumbled there after the wreck, or was thrown there, I really don’t know. But I moved around to the drivers side rear door. I don’t remember if I opened the door or if it was already opened, because my memory just skips to the next horrific moment, where training meets the real world.

I dropped down to her level, where she was lying face down on the back seat. We had been taught to be careful when touching or moving accident victims and so I only wanted to see what was going on before I moved into the backseat to help. “Ma’am.” I said, still fresh from the Navy. “Ma’am. Are you all right?” I will never forget that moment as she struggled for consciousness and raised her head.

Her face was deathly white and her eyes were glazed and funny looking. But there was only one thing that really caught my attention. There was a gash in her upper forehead that was several inches long and was deep enough that I could see the bone beneath. The blood was coming out of it, running across her face and off her chin at the same rate water would run off if you dumped a glass of water over someone’s head. It looked like a fountain. She raised her head as far as she could and gasped out the words, “Help me. Please.” And with that her head plopped down back onto the blood soaked backseat.

My heart stopped. This was the real thing and I had no one here to check my work. No one here who could say, “Damn it McKell, you’re an idiot. Let me show you how to do it.” Or “NO! Study harder.” The studying was over. I was alone out here in the desert. Just me and the knowledge I had gained from how much attention I had paid in class. As her head dropped back to the seat I knew there was little else I really needed to know about her injuries. If I didn’t stop the bleeding quickly, she might not live.

I quickly moved into the backseat and checked her for other injuries. Broken bones were not a threat, but I needed to know about them when I moved her. I was also checking for other bleeding injuries; that’s what I was most concerned about. I didn’t want to stop one bleeder only to have to leak out somewhere else. I finished checking her body for other injuries, and finding none, I was ready to flip her on to her back; at that moment my friend arrived, breathless and pale. We were both Eagle Scouts; our scoutmasters had always talked about stuff like this, but you never think you’re actually going to see it.

Now, moving an accident victim is not always the best plan. They could have injuries that you don’t know about and you can increase the damage. But in this case I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop the blood by myself using pressure from below. I had to get her flipped onto her back. “Help me flip her.” I said and my friend nodded without a word. He took her feet and I took her shoulders and we got her over as smoothly as we possibly could. The blood was still pouring out of her head.

“What can I do?” My friend asked.

“Go get help.” I said, I’m sure with more fear in my voice than I intended. “Fast.” He nodded, and without a word, ran back up the hillside and was gone. Leaving me completely alone with this woman and her wounded and worthless husband on the side of the road.

The backseats were covered with bath towels, the really thick kind. Luck was on my side, at least for this small moment. I grabbed a towel and cleaned away the wound so I could get a good look at it and understand its dimensions. Once I knew what I was working with I covered it with a town and pressed down, hard. At this point this was all I could do. press and pray. Press and pray. Not letting up on either for a second. We were literally in the middle of nowhere. Even if my friend could find a phone it would take a while for an ambulance to get called, mobilized, on route and arrive. I hoped my friend could remember exactly where we were. I sure as heck couldn’t. And so I pressed down hard and I prayed even harder.

Once I got myself positioned over her in such a way as to maximize the pressure I could put on her wound I was left with my thoughts and my training and my environment. It was at this point that I really tuned into the music that was playing, the smell of hot engine oil, the dusty riverbed and the sound of whining from somewhere in the bushes. The face beneath my hands was covered from her nose up, so I could barely see her, but her mouth and nose were uncovered so she could breath. Her voiced reached up, shaky and unclear, like a strange music. “Where are my dogs?”

“I don’t know ma’am.” I said, “I’m gonna take care of you for a minute. Then I’ll find your dogs.”

“I’m okay.” She said with little volume and less force. “Go find my dogs.”

“No ma’am.” I said, “I’m gonna stay right here and we’ll find your dogs in a minute. So, tell me about your trip. What’s your name?”

I have no memory of our conversation. I know we talked. I know I asked her every question I could think of. I needed to accomplish two things. First, I needed to know vital statistics for the ambulance and hospital – her name, age, where she had been, what she had eaten, and her medical history. All of those things were important to know. But more important was the second reason for talking to her. I needed to keep her conscious. I needed to keep her awake and alert, or I ran the risk of loosing her to shock or unconsciousness or even worse. If she stopped talking, then her brain wasn’t working on anything important, which means the blood she was loosing and her attention would cause her to brain to start paying attention to other things, namely nothing, and it would start to shut down.

I was there for twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes later and my buddy pulled back in. It had taken him that long to drive to a phone, call the police, and drive back. “They’re on their way.” He said shakily. “What can I do?”

“Grab my planner and write some of this down.” I wanted to write down all the information I had gotten from the woman. He ran back to the car and came back with my planner. I then recounted everything I had learned, along with vital information like pulse rate, breathing rate, and other things I had been trained to gather.

I’m not sure how long we waited there. It seemed like forever. But I think in real time it was about forty-five minutes until the first police car arrived. The policeman made his way down to the car, surveyed the scene, opened the rear passenger side door, and took in what I was doing. “What’s going on with her?” he asked. And I responded by telling him that she had a serious head wound and needed immediate assistance. I described the wound to him in detail. And showed him the amount of blood we had already soaked up. “I need to see the wound.” He said.

I shook my head. “It’s bad. I’ve just got the bleeding slowed down.”

“I need to see it.”

Now, I’ve played this moment over and over in my head. His take charge attitude. His condescending nature. And his insistence in removing a pressure dressing from a wound. And if this incident were to happen to me today I would tell the officer to go call the ambulance in no uncertain terms. But, at this moment in my life I was eighteen, fresh out of the military, and I had been trained to respect authority, even when it was stupid. So I said, “Yes, sir.” And I removed the dressing.

Blood immediately gushed out of her wound, down into her eyes and down the sides of her head. I slammed the towel back onto her head, pressed harder than ever, and gave him the best I-did-what-you-asked face I could, without being condescending. His order made my life much more difficult and possibly endangered the woman’s life as well. “We need the ambulance here.” I said calmly.

“It’s coming.” He said, and backed out of the car and went back to his position on the side of the road.

About twenty minutes later, maybe forty-five minutes from the time we came upon the accident the ambulance arrived. The paramedic that showed up was probably an emergency responder from a nearby farm. These little towns didn’t have full time crews. This man knew his stuff, he just didn’t do it for a living. He did as the policeman had done, he came down the hill, surveyed the situation, came into the back seat and asked me “What do we have here?”

I responded exactly as I had with the policeman. I told him, in detail, what her wound looked like and what her vitals were. Recognizing me for what I was, a commonly trained medical person, he nodded approvingly and asked, “Can you handle this?”

“Yes, sir. I can.”

“Tell me what you need and I’ll assist.” And with that he came around to my side of the car, flipped open his medical supply case, and presented me with a complete set of everything an emergency technician would want. I surveyed the case, made a list of what I needed in my head and the order I would use them, and then began telling him what to hand me. Within minutes we had the woman bandaged and ready for transport. It was a completely different experience between the policeman and the paramedic. One seeing me as an obstacle who couldn’t help him; the other seeing me as an asset to make his job easier.

At that time I had been trained on civil cases as well. It wasn’t uncommon for victims to sue their rescuers for injuries that occurred during the recue. I was nervous. We had done everything we could have done. We were as diligent and competent as two teenagers could have been. But we didn’t stick around. Cops still scared us. So we left.

As we got back into the car and drove away, I was finally able to take a moment and look at myself. I had blood from fingertips to elbows on both hands. It was gory. Dan knew where the next rest stop was, that’s where he had called for help. About fifteen minutes later we pulled in and parked. It was a bit odd walking to the restroom with my hands and shirt covered in blood. I took some time to clean up and cool down. It was traumatic for me.

I often wonder what happened. How were the two of them doing? Did everything turn out okay? Was it really as bad as I remember, or as I perceived at the time? I still have her name and statistics in my old planner, and I wonder if I could find her and ask her about that day. Not for thanks, but to hear the end of the story. That was a day I will remember forever.

Charity

2009-12-05T16:01:00.000-08:00

Beggars make me nervous. I’m not exactly sure why, but those dingy, dirty, unkempt people on the sidewalks of our big cities make me feel uneasy. I would really rather they go away than talk to me. Can’t they just clean themselves up and get a real job like the rest of us? I mean really. If I can do it why can’t they? It doesn’t make any sense. These nasty, flee-ridden people who seem to have no sense of self pride, are coming up to me and asking for money. I mean, let’s talk straight, all they really want is booze and drugs. Right? They don’t want the money to really feed themselves, or buy diapers for their baby, or vitamins for their wife. So why should I give them money?

I remember as a small child driving up to a gas station one day. I remember this whole thing as from the perspective of a small child. Always looking up. We didn’t stop for gas, or if we did it was after that we pulled right up the actual building. Maybe to pay. But we pulled in and as my dad got out of the car a man approached him. He was dirty. And he smelled. He came up to my dad and he asked for money in a strange accent. He had dark skin, the color of dark cinnamon, and his hair was shoulder length and black as a ravens wing. His eyes were dark too. And he asked my dad in his broken English for money. Asked him for help.

I was amazed to find out that the Golden Rule is universal. I don’t mean that everyone believes in the bible. But that the Golden Rule itself, the idea of treating others like we ourselves would like to be treated, is everywhere. Every major religion talks about this concept of giving, and treating, and acting as if the person we are dealing with is in fact ourselves. Because how we treat others is how we treat ourselves. Every religion. Every one. That is so interesting to me, these concepts that seem to transcend race, culture and geography and strike at the heart of humanity’s goodness. Please be kind to everyone. Treat them like you would want to be treated.

In the Bible Jesus hit the topic pretty hard. The book is full of talk about what we should do in these situations. Feed the hungry. Clothe the poor. Care for the sick. If you do these things to even the least of them you’ve done it unto Jesus himself. So, spite a beggar and you’ve spitted Jesus. It’s pretty clear. But things have been muddied for us I think. We see something shifty in our beggars that couldn’t possibly have been around when Jesus walked the earth. We wonder how Jesus would have acted if he knew someone was going to buy crack cocaine with the money we gave. We wonder if this person couldn’t really control their own destiny. Maybe it was their bad choices that led them here. Maybe helping them will cause them more harm. I mean wouldn’t it really be better if they fixed themselves and I just go ahead and buy my caramel café mocha latte? Seriously, wouldn’t the world just be safer that way?

There is a story about a beggar when the Prophet Muhammad was alive who was begging along the street one day and came across a man drying strips of meat. The man was a servant of the household and when the beggar approached and asked for something to eat the servant immediately gave him some meat to eat. The beggar, grateful took the offering. Just then the master of the house came out and saw what the servant had done and severely chastised him for giving away something that wasn’t his. How dare the servant presume to own the meat, or to be able to make decisions about property that wasn’t his. The master was furious with the servant. The Prophet Mohammad himself, as is often the case with prophets, happened to see the entire event. He spoke to the three men there, but mostly he spoke to the master and said something like, “That meat isn’t yours. It belongs to God. He’s only just lent you that meat for a time. The servant knew that and shared it with a man in need just as God shared it with you. The sad thing is because of your selfishness you will not be granted entrance into Heaven, but these men will.” And then the Prophet walked quietly away, leaving the man thinking about his own actions.

In the Book of Mormon it talks about beggars and making judgments. It says when someone asks for something you give it to them if you can spare it. You have to be honest with yourself, but if you can give, you must give. Interestingly the Book of Mormon anticipates our modern day thoughts of “this guy doesn’t deserve my handout” that we seem to think today. We wonder at how deserving these beggars really are. We question their sincerity and intent. We question their addictions and their habits. We are careful with our money. But the Book of Mormon, like all other great scriptures, anticipates these actions and thoughts and cuts to the heart of it all. Just give. If you have it, give it. You are not fit to judge this person, God is. If you have it, give it. If this person uses your hard earned money for illicit purposes, God will know, and He will judge the person as they deserve. You don’t have the right.

All the major scriptures and religions seem to agree. Treating others as we wish to be treated is the Law. Imagine yourself, maybe you have made a bunch of bad decisions, maybe you are addicted to drugs, or alcohol or video games, or caramel latte mocha loveliness, but you know you’re addicted. Imagine the shame in asking someone for money to feed that habit. Imagine the shame of having that habit beat you. Make you do things you would never have thought possible. Imagine the shame of it. Then imagine asking another person for help, and another, and another and another. Now imagine the shame, after having asked for and receiving someone else’s hard eared money, you know what needs to be done with that money. You know you should go get cleaned up and get yourself something to eat and back on the road to recovery. But instead you use it to buy yourself that hook, that thing that’s dragging you down. Imagine the shame you would feel. Then having to start all over again. If you were in that position, what would you want a stranger to do for you?

Back at the gas station my dad has stopped to talk to this man. I feel uneasy. The man seems sick, somehow he makes me uncomfortable, not for my own safety or the safety of my dad. I’m not worried about that. I’m worried for the man. Something seems wrong with him. And I don’t know how my dad can help him. But I know he wants money.

My dad only speaks two languages, English and Navajo. Two of the hardest languages in the world. They say speaking Navajo is harder than even Finnish or English itself. It’s tough. But he speaks it, fluently. He spoke served a mission for the LDS church back in ’68 and ’69 in Arizona Four Corners area. He served amongst the Navajo Indians and he has a respect for the Navajo that runs deep, deeper than most things. He knows their struggles. He’s seen their way of life and how they’ve been treated by our government and now how they treat themselves. He doesn’t get the chance to speak the language very often. It slips away, syllable after syllable when it’s not being used. Unused languages slip away. But at this moment he still has most of what he learned during the two years in the desert. He has the language he needs at this moment.

The man asks my dad for money. My dad looks him in the eye, much as I think Christ would have looked someone in the eye, and he says in a language that this man understands, in the language of his people, “What do you need my money for?” and the man takes a step back.

How can this white man know my language? How can this outsider speak in the tongue of my Fathers? He looks around, trapped. The shame of asking a white man for money is one thing. But asking someone who knows the beauty and subtlety of the Dine' this is almost more than his heart and pride can take. His eyes are locked on the ground. He answers quietly in Navajo, “I’m trying to feed my family.”

I remember my dad craning his neck to one side, trying to look the man in the eyes. “I wonder,” he said, quietly and with deep respect, “are you trying to feed your family, or do you want alcohol for yourself?”

The man looked up and caught my dad’s eye. “No.” he said, looking back down, “There is no money and no work. They are hungry. They need meat.” This was something that my dad understood, something Navajo, something Native American.

“You’re a good man.” My dad said. “Protecting your family is good and right. There is no shame in that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and pulled out a few bills.

Imagine the shame this man was feeling at this moment. Put yourself in his position. You’re standing out front of a public place, a dark skinned invader in a land that used by yours, in a town where people know you. You’re family is starving. Or, if those things aren’t true then you’re a liar and a drunk. But either way your life is horrible and you want nothing to do with yourself anymore. You want a new life. And of all the people to stop, of the hundreds of people you will ask for help and be rejected, the one person to stop is someone who knows your language, who knows your people, who knows your heart. Of all the people.

“Take this. Buy your family meat and milk.” My father said in Navajo, pushing the money into the man’s hand and enclosing his one hand in my fathers two clasping hands. “Take care of yourself. God bless you.” There was a promise given, and a murmured thanks. Eyes met. Understanding exchanged. Mercy was given and received.

My dad got in the car and we drove away. We talked about what had happened only briefly. But the scene stuck with me. I don’t know how often my dad thinks of that moment, but I think of it all the time. I wonder at the man's fate, at the fate of his family, his children. The scene really struck me years later as I began to earnestly read the scriptures, both of my own faith and of others. In that moment, now in my minds eye, I see Christ talking with the man, asking him what he needs and why he needs it. I see my Savior caring for another human being; not giving him something he doesn’t deserve, but helping a man who has asked for it. Even if the man uses the money for something else, the help was given. And that’s what’s important. When asked, we give. We treat others how we ourselves want to be treated.

I see Christ, and Mohammad, the Buddha, Moses and many more just like him, each trying to make the world a better place. Not judging someone for their position, but judging themselves by the cost of not doing something when it is asked of them. I see my dad, hand outstretched, voice low and respectful, looking at the man and seeing his own family, happy, healthy, laughing in a car not ten feet away. If I were this man, how would I want to be treated? And that is what the man gets. Help, when it’s asked for.

Thankful

2009-11-24T10:32:00.001-08:00

I wish I had mental email. Just a quick way to reach out and nudge you with my thoughts, to let you know I’m thinking about you. I think about all of you all the time. Friends and family, acquaintances and passerby’s. I think about all of you all the time. But sending you an email would be weird, just to say, “thanks for the toilet… again… for the tenth time…” weird. But I think it. I think “THANK YOU.” All the time. For all you’ve all to us. Here is a woefully incomplete list of things I think about all the time.

I think of my dad every time I sit on the toilet. I do. Sorry if that offends. But here’s the thing – my dad fixed the toilet in my house when I didn’t have a clue. Not only did he fixed it but he figured out a way to clean a twenty year old toilet that always looked, well, a bit shifty. He came in, cleaned it, fixed it, tightened it all up and then, to top it all off he put on a brand new oak seat and lid. Fancy. So every time I go into the bathroom and sit down on my fantastically old toilet that is new again, I think of my dad. About his sacrifice, knowledge and skill. It’s pretty dang cool.

When I sit on my furniture in my living room I think of an old professor I had at the University of Utah. She gave us these fantastic couch and chair. They are big and overstuffed and completely comfortable. You can actually sleep in the chair it’s so cozy. She and her husband could have given to goodwill, but instead she had goodwill and gave them to us. And we didn’t have to pay a thing. She makes sitting and reading and visiting in my front room very comfortable. She didn’t have to do that.

Every time I hear the piano I think of my mom. She knew we couldn’t afford a piano, and she knew the girls wanted to learn how to play. So she bought us one. It’s perfect for our home. She sacrificed whatever she could have bought with that money and she found us a perfect piano for our little living room. And now my daughters can play the piano and learn to love and appreciate music because of her amazing sacrifice.

Every time I turn on music in my room I think of my youngest brother. One day, out of the blue, he gives me a gift of a small, expensive little speaker set that allows me to sit in bed and listen to music with amazing clarity and depth. My room was silent before his gift. And now it’s filled with music. Thank you my brother.

My house that we live in was a gift from a man I had never met. Tambee and I were just barely married, not even two years when we got offered our house. We need thousands of dollars for a down payment. Thousands. No one had it. No one. And those that did have it, wouldn’t give it. We were too young, it was too early in our lives, it wasn’t the right time, we were rushing into it, whatever. No one had the money. Except for Uncle Buck. A guy I had never met. Tambee called him, told him our situation, and he, without a doubt asked how much we needed and where should he send it. He gave us the whole down payment. All of it. Without a question. And never asked for it back. That was the gift that Uncle Buck gave me. And I never met him until years later. Thanks Uncle Buck. Enjoy Heaven.

Every time I look at my tree house I think of my brother. I have a house with a perfect tree for a tree house but no skill in carpentry. One day my brother comes over and stands, hands on hips in my backyard and says, “Why don’t have you a tree house up there?” and I respond, that I wouldn’t know where to even begin. And so he says, “You buy it and I’ll build it. I can’t stand to see that tree without a tree house. It needs one and so do your kids.” So for the next few days he designed and built the most amazing tree house I’ve ever seen, with swinging gate, open sides and clear plastic roof. Amazing. A lot of hours have been spent up there; not just by the kids but by me. it brings me a lot of peace to sit in the tree houses shaded walls and look out on my yard and the park behind like some defunct king of my perfect little kingdom. All because my brother was willing to spend his time and talent on my tree house. Thanks man.

The list goes on and on and on. Peoples generosity and thoughtfulness is endless. The carpet my uncle gave us. The furniture my grandparents gave us. All the repairs my dad and brothers have done. The upgrades my sister made to the bathroom and bedrooms downstairs. The photos taken by friends and hung on our walls. And so forth and so on.

Our lives are made up of what others have done for us. We live in a world created and donated by the skill and generosity of others. And I walk through this world astounded and grateful for everything they’ve done for us. And I would like to send out quick little mental emails – little mental nudges made up of color and emotion – that let you know how much your contribution to my life has meant and how much I appreciate what you’ve done. Sending you an email, or a letter or a phone call just to let you know “Hey, thanks for that tree house you built me ten years ago. I really appreciate it. All the skill you put in to it, the time and patience with me. it means a lot to have you as a brother and a friend.” Well, that would be a bit weird. People would think I was going to commit suicide and was getting ready to end my life, wrapping up old issues and whatever.

But as I walk through my day and noticed stuff you’ve all done and think about times we’ve had and everything you mean to me I would instead like to gently reach out to your mind and nudge you. It would be just a gently nudge like two friends walking down the beach together in silence and I gently bump your shoulder with mine, you look over and I smile, like – yeah, this is a good freakin’ day, right? – and you nod back and smile. And that’s all that’s said. That’s what my mental nudges would be like. Just a gentle bumping on your brain-door you could tell it’s me because of the knock and then there would be a soft hum of music and probably a slow tumble of color – reds and oranges and light blues and greens and then a picture of what you’ve done for me – but it would be through my eyes, so you could know how much it meant to me. just to let you know I was thinking about it again. It would take maybe a second. Maybe two. And then I’d be back to my day and you’d be back to yours and we would have both made that quick connection. Wouldn’t that be great. But for now I’m stuck here, doing nothing, thinking about you and all the thing’s you’ve all done. And you’re all out there disconnected from me, not realizing how much you’ve actually meant to me. and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you don’t know how you made me who I am, how I think, how I act; your actions have had a direct impact on my life. And I’m sorry you don’t know that. Maybe I’ll send you an email later. Hope that’s not too weird.

A Week With Jesus

2009-11-13T06:40:00.000-08:00

Something magical happened this summer. I did something that made me step out of my comfort zone, way out; so far out that I came back to a place and found my own beliefs waiting – and Jesus was there to help. A friend of mine suggested that I check out a website called couchsurfing.org. It’s an incredible organization that involves pairing people who need a place to stay while traveling with people who have an extra couch that strangers can crash on. Right. That’s what I said – strangers, staying in your house. Now breathe before you get all crazy and think about it. This is an amazing community of people who believe that the world is a good place with good people in it and we only have to get them together so that the world can only get better. People are trustworthy. People are nice. People are warm and open and caring. There may be a small minority of humanity that are dishonest and criminal but they’re ruining it for the rest of us. The rest of us are tired of not being trusted just because someone decided to hurt someone else and it made it on the news. Tired. So couch surfing has decided to take the world back from it’s nasty, and completely undeserving reputation as an uncaring and cold place filled with criminals and people who want to hurt us. They want to prove that world is a good place, with good people, who care for strangers in their cities. This idea, for me, is the epitome of the Christian Ideal – love one another – which I strive to live every day.

I have to admit I was a bit nervous the first time I couch surfed, because I took my fifteen year old daughter with me. we were both excited and nervous. What do you expect from a stranger who has invited you into their home? Well, if you listen to years and years of news, which deals only in very small percentage of what is actually going on in the world, then you expect to be robbed and molested while sleeping in a strangers house. Isn’t that sad? Isn’t it sad that we have come to expect violence and mischief from our brothers and sisters? Well, the opposite was true for us. We were welcomed warmly, fed an incredible meal, spent hours in entertaining and unique conversation and then given someplace warm and comfortable to sleep. Not once. Not twice. But over and over and over again. House after house after house. Each person welcoming us in their own way, with their own brand of hospitality, their own unique warmness. Each house shared their home, their food and their spare beds. But more than that they shared their warmth, their love for music, food, literature and good conversation. They opened their doors to strangers so that they could learn more about the world they live in – free of judgment or condemnation. Now come on, tell me that’s now how you want to spend your life?

So when I was headed down to Texas to see my brother graduate from the Air Force boot camp I decided to spend an extra week there couch surfing. I sent out some introductions to myself and kindly requested to spend some time on couches and I waited for a reply. In a matter of days I had gotten an email back from a guy with extremely similar interests. Plus he seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. On the day he picked me up I could tell we would get along very well. We weren’t like bosom buddies or anything but he was just cool, laid back and I knew I was going to love spending some time on this guys couch. It was only once we got back to his house and he took his brown tinted aviator sunglasses off and pulled the elastic out of his hair that was held up in a samurai kind of ponytail that I recognized him. It was Jesus. He said his name was Chuck, but I knew better. Jesus. Everyone knows him that’s why he has to wear the sunglasses. Long hair, beard, easy going, completely accepting of you and everything you are. Who would have known that I would be spending my week with Jesus? I mean, he’s famous. How lucky was I? if he wanted me to call him Chuck for the week I could totally comply. Keep up appearances and all that. Chuck. Cool.

Within minutes I was unpacked and comfortable on Jesus’ couch with Jesus and one of his buddies – I think it may have been one of the Hindu gods, I’m not sure. I can’t really recognize them without all their arms and extra heads. But this guy was just as cool and laid back as Chuck. He’d brought a backpack of stuff to Chuck’s house, something in a canister like your mom keeps flour in – you know, to keep it fresh. It was in a baggy and soon went into a strange pipe. Hindu god dude asked me if I smoked. I said I didn’t. And he just said, “cool” and continued packing the pipe full of weed. He and Jesus sat there with me and smoked a bowl, chilling and talking about where I was from and Hindu-dude’s band. We listened to a bunch of good music and laughed and spend the afternoon chilling. But then Jesus had to get to work. Jesus, it turns out, is busy. He’s got stuff to do.

Jesus spends his days making sure folks have access to free cable. Turns out he’s got How To videos on YouTube. They show you how to make your own antennae out of wire and wood and cheep stuff so you don’t have to pay those money-sucking parasites who run the dang cable companies. All the TV I watched that week at Jesus’ house came through a handmade antennae. Turns out Jesus doesn’t really appreciate the cable companies – I knew this guy was my kind of guy.

The thing is, his entire days were spent fighting for people who didn’t have what he had. Not giving it to them. But helping them get it. He educated. Helped. Uplifted. He saw dishonesty in the media and was doing what he could to keep them accountable for their actions. He wrote letters, made calls, talked with folks. He’s protested the detainment of illegal immigrants who have children. These families are being detained in prisons. Mothers and children in prison. Not enough blankets or food. Or freedom. And Jesus is fighting for them. He was tireless. Wouldn’t stop talking about all the stuff that still has to be fixed in the world. People who need help. People who don’t have the power or opportunities that others do. They need education. Not a handout, but help. Simple help. To understand what their rights are and how to get what they need to make their lives better. That’s what Jesus did every day I was with him. Most days he didn’t even have time to spend with me. He was busy looking out for the least of his brothers and sisters.

I did get to spend an evening with Jesus though. It was awesome. I always thought that the Son of God would be able to laugh at stuff; you know, have a sense of humor. I mean, look at the avocado. Seriously. You have to be a bit twisted to create the platypus, don’t you? Turns out I was right. Jesus can make jokes with the best of them. And I really do mean the best. And I really do mean make jokes. He’s funny just talking to him. I mean just hanging out with him made me feel better about the world, about the conditions we’re in. But it also turns out he’s got his own comedy troupe. Couple nights a week he and some buddies perform at a comedy club. Make people laugh. And he’s funny! Laughed my head off. He reminded people that life’s not nearly as bad as they think. It’s okay to laugh and be silly every now and again. Dude can make any situation lighter. I knew it all along.

But the thing that really impressed me. The thing I really learned about Jesus is this – he’s a gluten free vegan. Right. Disappointing I know. I was really hoping that Jesus was a rib-man. I mean Texas barbeque and all that. I thought for sure he would be a slow-hickory-smoked bbq guy. I really had hoped to sit down and eat some ribs with Jesus you know. Just see what made him tick. The thing is, I got my wish. When he asked me what I wanted to do while I was down there I sheepishly said Texas BBQ. And he said, “Okay. Let’s go.” I quickly said, guiltily I might add, that I didn’t want to step on his beliefs. I mean if he didn’t eat meat I could certainly find something else to eat while I was there. He wouldn’t hear of it. “If it’s meat you want, then I’ll get you the best BBQ in Texas.” And he did. Turns out it’s Jamaican. I know. Jamaican. Who would have thought it? But he was right. Best dang BBQ I’ve ever had. I ate several pounds of ribs and beef brisket with this sweet and spicy sauce while sitting on Jesus’ living room floor while he ate a spinach salad with a strawberry vinaigrette. And with not one once of judgment.

But while I sat at Jesus’ feet, eating amazing amounts of Jamaican BBQ, this is what he taught me – listen to your body. No one should be vegan, or vegetarian, or carnivore, or whatever unless their bodies tell them to. Pay attention to you body after you’ve eaten. Jesus explained that he wasn’t gluten free or vegan because he didn’t believe in killing. He was vegan because his body needed him to be. He explained that if your body responds well to meat, then you should eat it. If it responds well to gluten then eat it. But pay attention. After you’ve eaten, how do you feel? If your stomach is upset, your skin is problematic, if your digestion is wonky or your health poor – perhaps it’s because of what you eat. Pay attention to what your eating. Your body will tell you what it likes and doesn’t like. Jesus likes the taste of pork but his body isn’t as healthy as it could be when he eats it. So he doesn’t. He only consumes food that is healthy for him. Pretty simple really. Eat what is healthy for you.

Since visiting with Jesus I haven’t stopped eating meat. But I have paid closer attention to how I feel after eating. And boy have I been amazed. I’ve discovered so much about myself since this summer. I pay attention to my stomach, my digestion, my skin, my head and my general feeling of health after I’ve eaten and for hours later. When I get a headache I ask myself what was I eating earlier. What has gone into my body. When I unexpectedly feel tired I think about what have I eaten that might have caused my tiredness. It’s changed everything. I’ll tell you something. Since spending the summer with Jesus I eat more fruit. Turns out it’s pretty dang good. I also love spinach. Eat mounds of it now. I can’t believe how good I feel after eating spinach. I just feel… well good! I’m not saying I’m running marathons or that I’ve even lost weight. I haven’t. But I do FEEL better. My body feels better.

Try it for a couple of days. Eat spinach, or vegetables, or fruit for an entire day. Monitor how you feel. Then the next day eat normal stuff, meat and cheese and whatever. Then see how you feel. You might LIKE one better than the other, the taste of it, but pay attention to how you FEEL. And then ask yourself this question – What would Jesus do?

I got to spend several days on Jesus’ couch. Had a lot of good conversations with him when he wasn’t busy trying to save the world. Learned a lot about myself too. Got a lot of good music. Turns out Jesus also has incredible taste in music. Hooked me up with some amazing ambient stuff – Thievery Corporation. Chill. Just freakin’ chill. I’ve spent hours just listening to them and thinking about my time with Jesus.

You see, the thing is, couch surfing is a way to touch base with folks you never would have gotten a chance to meet in the first place. They show you around their town, hook you up with the best places to eat, and most importantly, well, most importantly you get to spend talking with and getting to know someone in the world who is different than you – but the same. They have different upbringings, different taste in music, different beliefs in God, they might even smoke weed every now and again. But they also believe that life is good, people are honest, there is enough to go around and that sharing, well sharing, that is the best action of them all. So you can decide which to focus on. Differences or Similarities. One drives us apart, the other brings us together.

I gotta say, I’ve made my choice. Treating others the way I want to be treated. Treating others as if they were the Savior himself, or Buddha, or Muhammad or Krishna makes me see the world as if it were filled with gods. And treating gods the way they deserve to be treated, well, that’s the way I want to live. That’s the way I choose to see my world. Learning and living and sharing along the way. That’s the only way for me. And I owe a part of it to Jesus – codename Chuck. Thanks man. My brother in another city. Come skiing some time – I won’t have any weed, but I’ll definitely have some spinach.

NaNoWriMo

2009-11-07T07:04:00.000-08:00

This month is the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Which means thousands of dreaming novelists will be trying to write 50,000 words during this month. Including me. It's a small novel - 50,000 words, but it's a beginning. So, for this month, every weekday from 5am to 7am I'm trying to pound out 3,500 words.

Here is something I wrote this week... hope you enjoy it.

I Heard the Bells
I was raised around two grandfathers who both served in the military, my grandpa Charles served in the navy while my grandpa Wayne served in the air force. It was never central to the family, I mean we never really focused on it, but it was always there – pictures, stories and the pride of serving your country. And it’s become almost cliché or foreign sounding now, but I love my country. I am incredibly proud to be an American. Plus, I still remember a pretty serious talk my dad had with me when I was still in high school about college. He told me that if I was going to go to college, and he thought I should, that I would have to pay for it on my own. The family couldn’t afford to send me to college. If I was to go to college I would have to figure out a way on my own. All of these things sort of combined I guess and I don’t really remember all the details of how it all came about; not sure how I even made the decision, but sometime during my senior year I decided to join the navy reserve.

Joining the military was a good decision and one that I’m still proud of today. There were times when Tambee and I seriously considered doing it full time. I loved the structure, the camaraderie and the confidence I felt as part of the military. The navy changed who I was and how I view the world. It gave me invaluable training and confidence in myself, my abilities and the decisions I make. It gave me the ability to really see myself, my actions and my decisions and then be able to explain them, under pressure to a superior. Invaluable.

So I flew away in November of 1988 – six months after I graduated from American Fork High School. I was the oldest kid in our family and I had a really strong bond with my parents. I can’t really express how tough it was to go. Maybe it was best that I did it so fast, I broke the apron strings rather than cut them. And I flew away to San Diego. I cried on the plane. It felt like part of me had been ripped away. I had always enjoyed the closeness of my family, it really was like a comforter to me, and being away from all that had left me with a serious empty feeling. The first letter that I wrote said something about living every day like it was your last and keeping your Heavenly Father close. Truer words were never spoken.

I was in boot camp for Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years Eve without my family. During that time I wrote a couple dozen letters to my family. It was ridiculous how homesick I was. I remember standing on the parade ground one day, it may have been Thanksgiving Day, not long after arriving at boot camp. The trainers had been yelling at us, I had no one to talk to, no members of the church that I knew of, and I was alone. We were standing on the parade ground, being yelled at, and it was raining. I remember it was raining hard enough that it ran down my face like tears, and I was glad, because there were actual tears running down my face as well. And I was glad that no one would know I was crying.

I felt an ache during boot camp that I can’t really describe because I was actually alone in a crowd. Many of these guys were nothing like me. They did not have the same values I had – I was soft while they were all hard. There was no one there who really knew me or cared about me. Many of these boys had been without families before or had no real ties at home so it wasn’t that big of a deal. Plus, let’s me honest, I was a momma’s boy. I had been held, and loved and protected my entire life by my parents who probably never considered that their boy would leave them for the military. So this really came as a shock to all of us. And boy did I feel alone.

Christmastime was the worse of course. I mean, Thanksgiving had been hard, but Christmas, well it was awful. The ache of being alone was nearly unbearable. Being able to go to church really made a huge difference and it was my only real lifeline back to home. It was so nice to be able to slip away on a Sunday, away form the barracks, away from the language and the hardness and slip into the warmth and love of the church. Being with the members there really made a real difference. Christmas that year came on a Saturday and I went to church that next day. I had been feeling increcibly homesick and sad. I felt like I was in the middle of whatever the opposite of home was – coldness, uncaring, worldly. There were times I wondered if God was even listening to me.

There was someone there who did listen to me – his name was King. I don’t really remember anyone’s name from boot camp except for his. That’s all I remember. He was a big Black guy from some big city somewhere, but I’m not really sure where. Boot camp was new for me in another way because I was from downtown Utah, Whitesville for sure, at the time. And I had never really seen or talked to people of color. It was a new and exciting experience for me. I don’t really remember color even being an issue for anyone. I don’t remember talk of Mexican, or Hispanic, or African American or anything like that. It may have gone on and I was just clueless, but I don’t remember it. I think maybe King liked me for my innocence, or maybe he just knew I needed to be looked after and so he put himself in the way of stuff. I don’t really know.

I remember King saying that he had been a drug dealer in the city where he came from. I remember him saying that he made a lot of money but didn’t want to grow up like that. I remember him saying he wanted a different life and he hoped the Navy would give it to him. And I remember him helping me to run.

I was a lousy runner. I’ve always been on the chubby side and running has never been easy for me. I have these strange, double-jointed knees that bend backwards at odd and uncomfortable angles. Turns out it makes running especially hard for an unatheletic chubby kid. And those big long runs you take in boot camp, well, they are the worst. Sometimes I talk about helping King in school during boot camp, but the fact is I’m not sure I really did. I know there were times though that because of him, I finished a run. He would yell at me and get me to pick up the pace a bit. I hated running. Still do. But it was because of him that I was able to finish many of those runs.

But it was this particular Christmas that I really remember because I did feel so alone. Not just alone because my family wasn’t there, my friends weren’t there and my house and neighborhood was far away, but because I didn’t really connect with anyone on a personal level. And so going to church was a real balm for me. It was an island of peace amongst all the other stuff. And I remember going to church that day and listening to the speakers and hymns. But most of all one particular hymn – I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day. That hymn struck such a cord in me that day. Never had a hymn struck me with such truth and meaning. The final lines were:
“And in despair I bowed my head “There is no peace on earth,” I said, “For hate is strong and mocks the song Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The wrong shall fail, the right prevail With peace on earth, good will to men.”

By this point in the song tears were running down my cheeks. My Heavenly Father was gently reprimanding me. He was reminding me that evil has its place in the world, and just because I am confronted with things I don’t like or am not comfortable with does not mean he doesn’t exist or that he has forgotten me. How selfish I had been to think such a thing. Through this hymn I was reminded that dark times are how we are able to appreciate the light and that my Heavenly Father watches over all his children and blesses them with what they need. My Heavenly King had sent an earthly King to watch over me and protect me – and I had missed it. I missed it even then. Wherever you are King – thank you. I pray my Heavenly Father watches out for you every day the way you did for me so many years ago.

I guess the important thing about boot camp, at least for me, is that I made it. I made it. I graduated, I made the runs, I got in shape and I made it. Boot camp was a huge turning point for me because I learned that physically I was capable of so much more than I had thought. I learned that the only guys I really didn’t like, from a racial standpoint, were the white supremacists. And I learned that with the help of my Heavenly Father, and the folks he sent to watch out for me, I was capable of standing on my own and conquering anything I put my mind to.

Dinner on Samhain

2009-10-29T06:43:00.000-07:00

The evening was unseasonably warm. I had waited for this particular day for all year. I had relished the entire day, feeling the warmth of the sun, watching the changing leaves chasing themselves through the damp streets, and smelling the smoke come from random chimneys as they practiced for an actual cold spell. Usually Halloween was cold in my part of the country; so cold it was hard to enjoy being outdoors. Don’t get me wrong, we still enjoyed the night, with all its candy and delicious frightening undertone. We created costumes that barred our skin against the cold, cowboys with jeans and chaps but not Indians, with only loincloths, you understand.

But this year, well this year was different. Something strange, “unseasonably warm”, the weatherman had said and I believed him. I also believed the strange weather was the harbinger of something that would change me; the pricking in my thumbs was a dead giveaway.

I’ve always been a fan of the unknown, the unknowable. I admit I’ve been amused, even fascinated by the occult; palm reading, astrology and especially tarot cards have given me much pause over the years. Like every young man I’ve loved hearing about hauntings, ghosts who wait for loved ones and events to set them free, vampires whose sexual prowess is a magnet for unsuspecting girls to be drawn to their ultimate, yet deeply satisfying demise. The threat of the unknown that runs below the surface of midnight has always been an incredible draw for me; it has been the cause of much lost sleep, undone homework and dark fantasies. I live to be scared, and quite honestly, I believe in all that hokum. I think it’s real. Which gives me a chill every time I go up the stairs. Even to this day I can’t go up the stairs, the darkness behind me, without turning around, my back to the wall, just once on the ascent.

Years ago when I was interested in symbols and their meanings I got hooked on tarot cards. I was fascinated by their ancient, yet incredibly familiar, symbolism. I couldn’t get over how even though they had been created centuries ago, the original symbolism seemed to draw truth out of anyone who would give themselves over to the cards. I started using them, looking for the symbolism in my own life, messing around with the deck at coffee shops. People would stop by and ask a question or show an interest and I would do a reading for them. It was strange and a bit spooky at how good I was. I was able to peer into their lives for just a moment, using the old cards as a window to their personality and problems. The symbols and the persons eyes would speak to me and I would speak the truth. It was fun and a bit spooky. Somehow, by opening myself to the cards, I was able to draw on an ancient or untapped power that could speak to me.

My parents had always told me to stay away from that kind of thing – that if it wasn’t a part of Gods plan or design then it was of the Devil. And the Devil would try and mimic God by prophesying and fooling you into thinking that you knew something you didn’t. I always felt a tinge of guilt as I would draw another card from the pile, turn it over and the symbols would speak through me to the person asking the question. But not guilty enough to stop. I loved the feeling of knowing secrets, of prying into someone’s life, a stranger, who I knew nothing about, and looking through those cards like windows into their private lives.

I loved the feeling of playing with something I didn’t understand, and so I would keep reading the cards for people. I would look for the strange, the fantastical, the eerie or the haunting or unexplained, and I explore their origins, or just allow the mystery to wash over me.

When I was a kid I had a map in my room. It was a world map, huge, and colored. The National Geographic had made it for a classroom, but I had it in my bedroom. I mounted it on a large piece of corkboard, so that it could be filled with little, red-headed pins, like in the movies. I wanted to track something of interest to me, but that no one else seemed to know about or even care about. I wanted to map the unexplained. I started with Big Foot, or Sasquatch as the Indians called him. A red-headed pin was stuck in the mountains of the Pacific Northwest, somewhere in the miles of oldgrowth forest was a giant ape-man. A pin was stuck into a small lake in Scotland for the Loch Ness Monster, hidden beneath its murky depths. There was a pin for the Mothman of North Carolina, the chupacabra of the Southwest, the giant winged lizard of Texas, and dozens of others. My map blistered with pins, each red point representing some unexplained moment in human history. I was transfixed by the idea of the unknown being just below the surface and I looked for it everywhere.

So on this particular All Hallows Eve I found myself sitting in my living room as I did every year, watching out the windows for children to come with their yells of delight while teenagers skulked around in the darkness and bushes looking for ways to trick those of us who deserved it. I loved the silly, childish part of Halloween as much as I enjoyed the dark underbelly of it all. I loved watching the kids show up, smiles on their faces, bags held out at arms length and unflinching expectation of praise and candy. It was my second favorite part of Halloween.

The best part of Halloween was the history of it all. The ancient tradition of the year ending, the harvest coming in, and people waiting for the dead, on this night of transitions to visit their ancient homes for a single night. You wait for those who come, you wait for them with honor and gifts, and those who don’t will be punished. And if you’re forced to travel, if you have to be out on the roads, with those who have passed before, make sure you dress like them. Looking like a demon or ghost might get you passed those who actually are visiting from the Other Side; and if they don’t catch you then you can’t be drawn into their world just beyond the veil which is drawn so thin on this of all nights. The point of All Hallow’s Eve is to be kind to those who have gone before you; give them honor and gifts as they deserve; do not short them or your curse will be drastic.

And like all modern people I know these old traditions, these silly superstitions, are foolish, childish, but I still do them. So on this night I make an extra plate of food and I leave it outside; it’s piled high with the food I prepared for my family and has a hefty drink next to it. I have lots of treats for everyone that comes to my door, big or small, scary or cute, everyone gets gifts of candy and praise. I do not discriminate. Because those who refuse gifts to passerby’s who are too scary or too big, run the risk of offending a wandering spirit who only wants to feel the warmth of humanity for one night of the year.

The evening is incredibly warm, pleasantly so. The number of trick or treaters is huge, due to the inviting weather. Outside I can hear laughter and screams; kids and adults alike are enjoying themselves more than any other year. The kids are comfortable and warm and are having a great time. My own kids are out having their own fun with friends. I’ve propped the door open so I can smell the leaves and smoke and rainy breeze and hear the kids running and screaming and laughing. I’m sitting at the table, in between knocks on the door, and lazily flipping through my tarot cards. Traditionally this is the best night of the year to read your future; the line between this world and the next is thin and fragile and a deck of tarot cards is just the thing to peer through the veil of mystery and pierce the future. The Fool crossed by the Four of Swords. Above is the Queen of Wands. Below is the Queen of Rods. Before is the Queen of Shields. After is the Queen of Swords. I’m surrounded by women. Not a bad start to the end of the pagan year.

There is a wind at the door. Just a breeze really. And a small ash gray cat. A kitten really. She is standing there as if she is part of our household. She mews softly and looks around, her yellow eyes adjusting to the brightness of the room. She rubs herself against the door frame and then walks into the room as if she’s been here a million times before. She walks in, as big as life, jumps on the couch, does a couple of cat-turns and lays down, closes her eyes, and quietly starts to pure. A shiver runs up my back and down my arms. I look at my wife and she looks at me and we both smile and shrug our shoulders.

My wife has never really been a Believer. She tolerates me and my silly beliefs, but she doesn’t really buy into it. She would rather have cutsy pumpkins and smiling ghosts on the walls, rather than the cobwebs on the ceiling, the pictures hung with old cheesecloth and the witches table, spread with handmade wand, Book of Shadows, ingredients of all kinds and random bones and tarot cards strewn about. She thinks it’s a bit macabre; I think it’s cool.

So, when this completely out of the ordinary thing happens she looks a bit taken back. Maybe I hide it better than she does but I’m a bit shocked as well and excited. When does a small kitten wander away from its home, only to make itself completely comfortable in a strangers living room? Only on Halloween. We smile and laugh, and wait for the kitten to leave, but it doesn’t. Kids come and go; the candy level drops and within minutes, as a group of kids leave, there is another visitor, this time a white one. She is the same size as the other one, and like the other one, doesn’t hesitate to come into the house, jump up onto the couch and curl up next to its friend. The first one opens its eyes long enough to see who is there and then closes them as the second one settles in.

There is little time to consider what this all means because there is a third visitor at the door. She is the same size as the first two and as black as coal. She looks at all of us, walks straight to the couch as if by forgone direction, and jumps up to join her sisters. I am speechless. The three kittens, for the rest of the night, purr, fight, jostle, sit and stare. They make no movement to leave the house. They ask for nothing while they are there. For the rest of the evening they just sit and enjoy the trick-or-treaters that come to our door with us.

The evening is over too quickly. It always is. Halloween always ends much too soon for me and moves onto the sickly sweet holidays without a backward glance. But this evening is worse. It seems only minutes and the noises from outside die down; the wind picks up and a chill actually touches the air. It’s getting late and the candy is running out. As if from a silent signal all three of our guests get up from their place, stretch, yawn and stretch again and make their way to the door. There is no sweet mewing at my feet, no plaintive longing in their eyes, there is only the surety of moving toward the door and the use of a house that is only mine for this lifetime but has an older owner. For that night the house wasn’t mine, but belonged to someone else. They came and they used what was theirs, pure and simple. And the night went on; the cards were restacked and reshuffled and dealt once more; and never did those cards come up again. And the next year was bitterly cold.

My Teaching Philosophy

2009-10-09T11:25:00.000-07:00

When you’re in the middle of your educational degree, and you’re thinking about lesson plans, curriculum and class objectives, there is often a question that is asked – What is your philosophy of teaching? This is a challenging question, because we all want to be the best teachers we can be, whih means nurturing our students to places they haven’t seen or experienced before. It means, for most of us, that we help our students to a place they wouldn’t have been able to get before. It means understanding the material so well that we can approach it from multiple angles in order to help any student understand what is being taught. It means making the world a better place through our students.

Now, that said, I don’t think many people would disagree with me about the above paragraph. But how we accomplish the lofty goals above is a matter of much debate, not only within our districts and schools but also within ourselves. We all struggle with how to help our students reach these goals because some paths seem legitimate while others do not. What seems inappropriate today, may seem perfectly acceptable tomorrow. And what we’ve been doing for years as a matter of course, may be a very wrong choice starting today. So, how can I find my way through this prickly, but perfectly vital area of education? The way I’ve always done it; I stumble my way through, looking ahead for clues as to where I’m going, slashing and hacking at the surrounding entanglements in order to get at the crutial treasure that I believe is at the center of this thorny mess.

I believe choice and accountability is crucial. Students must make their own choices and then live with the consequences. For my part, the part of the teacher, what that means is being clear in my expectations, directions and consequences. the students must know what I expect of them and what will happen if those expectations aren’t met. They have to know where they are going, and then choose whether or not to go there. The expectations must be attainable. They may not seem attainable to the student, and in fact I think this is vital point, the student may even think what you ask is impossible. They need to know that with your help they can make it. When a task is too easy there is no joy in arriving at its completion, short of a cursory moment of being done. But if you believe the mountain you are climbing may beyond your reach, and you struggle and strain and finally conquer the peak, it is an incomparable exhilaration when you’ve accomplished your goal. Those kinds of goals must be set by the teacher and then nourished by the teacher so that the student can accomplish the goals that have been set out for them.
Choosing what the teachers asks is vital. Teachers who force compliance and strongarm their students into achieving the objectives may get results from their students, but the students won’t have learned or enjoyed the ride.

Learning is fun. Think about the last time you learned something that you really wanted to learn. You were exhilarated. Most likely you wanted more. You wanted to understand whatever it was you were learning to a greater and greater degree. Bringing that kind of environment inot the classroom is my goal. Now, I don’t have the luxury of letting my classroom be a completely open environmrnt. My students don’t have the option of learning whatever they want at their own pace. That is ideal, but the practical side is that students must learn what is presented to them, when it is presented to them. Which means it is my job to present my material to my students so that they see why it is to their benefit to learn what I have to teach. Once we recognize the inherent value in what is being taught, we are much more likely to invest ourselves in the learning process, because we see why learning it will benefit our own lives. Allowing students the opportunity to see the benefits of learning what you’re teaching is half the battle to keeping a classroom manageable. A teachers task, as I see it, is to present the material to the students so that they see why they should want to learn it. From that point on, learning becomes interesting and fun, because I’m not learning it for any outside person or force, but for myself.

Setting classroom standards, and the consequences for not following the standards, is vital to good classroom management. A teacher needs to be clear on what is appropriate and not appropriate in their own classrooms. Teachers need to be comfortable and confident in their classroom requirements. When students challenge them on why a given rule is in place the teacher needs to be able to answer that challenge in a calm and intelligent way. Exerting ones authority may get desired results in the short term, but it will backfire in the long term. Almost more important than the actual rules is a teachers list of interventions should the rules not be kept. A teacher needs to have these interventions in place from the start, and the students need to be aware of these interventions so that they never come as a shock to the student when they are implemented as a consequence for breaking one of the rules. Students should never be surprised at a consequence. When standards are being broken a teacher will not threathen a student with consequences that they, the teacher will enforce. A good teacher will inform the student that their, the students actions, are leading to a given consequence. And if that given behavior continues, then the student has chosen the consequnce that comes with tht behavior. The teacher has nothing to do with. These are natural consequences that come from the behavior; the student chose them, not the teacher.

Handling your classroom in this way takes the teacher out of the authority role in such a way as to empower the student. The teacher still has the right and ability to adjudicate in any matter, but the student is given the power to choose for themselves, knowing that their behavior has an effect on the people and environments around them. The student makes the choice, and with that choice comes a consequence, good or bad. The teacher has nothing to do with it. When a student asks me if they should be doing a given task or behavior, I always respond in such a way that they understand the consquence that comes with that behavior or task. And then I leave it up to them. If the behavior continues then the consequence naturally follows; if the behavior changes, then the consseuqnce changes.

This is why it’s vital for students to understand the consequnce before it is administered so that they have the time and ability to choose. If the consequnce comes as a surprise then it reinforces the feeling of powerlessness in the student, that they don’t have control over their lives. But if a student understands that if their behavior continues there will be consequences, not administered by the teacher, but chosen by the student, then the student has within their power to change their actions.

There cannot be a feeling of antagonism between a teacher and their students. Students need to feel that their teacher is someone who likes them, someone who looks after them, and someone who will help them when they need it. If students feel that their teacher is above them, or looking for them to fail, then building a relationship of mutual trust is incredibly difficult, especially if the teacher feels superior to the students. Students must know that their teacher is human as well; they don’t have all the answer, and they make mistakes too. Students need to feel comfortable in a classroom so that learning can occur. But teachers are always in charge. This is a fine line to walk. Teachers must create a safe and trusting relationship with their students while maintaining their ultimate authority in the classroom. This relationship will allow a teacher to correct behavior while maintaining that relationship.

A student needs to feel that they will be treated fairly by their teacher, but not necessarily equally. This is a really fine line to walk. Students see how teachers treat other students; and when they themselves aren’t treated that way the difference in treatement can cause a student to question a teachers fairness. This is where a good solid relationship comes in handy. A teacher is then able to explain that their actions are different for different students in different circumstances. A teacher must also be comfortable in their decision and decision making process. This means that when unfairness is pointed out a teacher is willing to accept that they made a mistake and try and remedy that mistake and admit their shortcomings as they expect their students to do. This demonstrates to the student that the teacher is human and humble enough to make mistakes as well. Teachers who rule through their classrooms by threats, intimidation and the perception that they are infallible makes for an incredibly shaky and unstable classroom foundation. Once students realize the teacher is not infallible then their authority is gone, and they are left with nothing but threats and intimidation. Students may learn under these circumstances, but it is under duress, and ultimately ends in the student paring the negative emotions they associate with their teacher with the subject matter, leading to the opposite of an educators objectives – that the student learn while loving the subject.

There are times when consequences must be tempered with an understanding of the situation. If the situation is truly out of the hands of the student then consequences may be modified and only a teacher can adjudicate these situations. But if the student couldn’t have controlled their behavior, consequences, no matter how harsh it seems, must be meted out appropriately. It is the teachers responsibility to teach a student about choice and responsibility and to recognize when something is their own fault. Students must learn how to take responsibility for their own actions, even when those actions lead to an undesirable consequence.

Teachers should not be expected to entertain. But they must be expected to know their subject matter very well. They can also be expected to present the information in such a way as to make it clear, accessible and understandable to students. This takes work. Extreme amounts of work. And often, what works for one class, does not work for another, and the teacher is forced to modify their presentation on the fly. This is one reason why understanding of the topic is vital. If a teacher is only mimicking what they have heard, then when a serious, in depth question is asked, or when a class is not grasping a given topic, then the teacher must be prepared to take a different tack in order to ensure everyone understands what is being taught.

Teachers should be expected to keep up with current trends and technologies. This is an extremely challenging requirement. In a time when technological advances are reaching exponential levels, learning about a technology before it becomes obsolete is challenging, to put it mildly. But be assured, students are familiar with the technology, and they are using it. If you aren’t up with the current trends, even ahead of what the students are participating in, then your classroom will lack the necessary energy to carry the students through the subject. Keeping abreast of the technological curve is challenging. It is like browsing a bookstore for a book you don’t know the title to. Teachers must familiarize themselves with current, dependable websites and people who can help direct them to the best sources out there that will enable their classrooms to reach the next level. Relying on geeks, pod casts or specific sites to do your work for you is half the battle. Visit these sources as often as you can, surf the web, and keep an open mind. Remember, a bookstore is full of stuff you will never use 95% of the time; it is up to you to find that golden 5% that can benefit you, your classroom and your students.

My classroom is a place of safety, trust, loving kindness and learning. I want my students to know they have a resource in me first, and that I can also teach them something, second. I want to them to see me as another place to go for help – perhaps it will be help with psychology or history, or it might be help with something at home, or at work. But building that relationship of trust is vital if I am going to become the kind of teacher I want. Students must know they can trust you to treat them fairly and justly. Your classroom has to be a place of kindness and learning. And it can only be accomplished by having an open door policy, that requires understanding, choice and responsibility.

My educational philosophy is one that starts with myself. I must be prepared and energetic about my subject matter. I must have clear objectives that I expect my students to meet. I must know what behaviors are acceptable in my classrooms and what consequence will follow those behaviors, both positive and negative. I must be mentally prepared to administer those consequences even when I like the student, because what understanding choice and consequence is more important than whatever subject I’m teaching at the moment. Students will benefit more from learning how the world works, than how any given subject works; students must understand that I am looking to the future and so must they. Technology is vital to an understanding of our world and it is up to me, the teacher, to familiarize myself with whatever will make my classroom work better. I must build relationships with my students that they can trust, relationships that model strong adult roles and points them into the future, whatever it may hold for them. My relationships with my students must show them how an educated person learns and educates themselves; but it must also show them how an adult functions in the real world. They need to see someone other than their parents as role models, and a teacher is one of them. As a teacher I must be available to them, but I must never forget that I am not a student, I am their teacher. And being their teacher means being a good role model, giving them a firm educational and personal foundation, pointing them into the future using my subject matter and technology and in modeling that learning can, indeed, be fun. Learning is fun. But we must apply ourselves to find that fun. We have to give ourselves the chance, and know that work is part of the bargain, before we can see the fun for ourselves. As a teacher I am required to know myself, know my students, and know my subject matter. Once I’ve figured those three things out I will have become the kind of teacher I want to become and I will have finally arrived at my destination.

My Grandpa’s Work Ethic

2009-10-02T06:43:00.000-07:00

When I was just a kid my grandpa and dad worked as construction workers. They suffered through scorching hot and bitterly cold days. They listened to foulmouthed, lazy foremen; dealt with good men and lousy pay; they poured their hearts and sweat into each and every project. They are incredibly proud men and I admire them both greatly for it. On super cold mornings, when I’m headed to work, I think of my dad doing the same for me year after year after year and I weep at the thought of it. A semester away from graduating college, and a lifetime away from better pay. But it was in this environment that I was raised. You did your own dirty work, fixed your own plumbing and buckled down and did what needed to be done.

It wasn’t long after elementary school that my grandpa retired. He’s always been tougher and more active than any of us. Still today at eighty-five he could beat me in a foot race, arm wrestle or house building. He’s amazing. So, once he’d retired he couldn’t slow down. He had so much energy that he had to pour it into something. And so he started mowing lawns.

He picked up one lawn, then another, and another, until finally he had dozens, up to forty or more lawns that had to be mowed every week. Now, I don’t kid myself into thinking he needed my help. He could have done all those lawns without me, probably better without me. But he took me in. I don’t know why, but he allowed me to work side by side with him and get paid at the same time. I helped with my grandpa’s lawn mowing for several years. And in that time I learned a few things that have come to mean something.

Always aim straight and cut half a swath. When you’re mowing, pick a point and walk toward it; this makes the lines look ruler straight. In addition don’t take more than half the width of the mower in new grass. If you take a full swath it’s too much for the mower, it bogs it down and the lines don’t look as good. Taking half a swath is the best way to get a good looking lawn.
Do a good job edging. Preparing for a job is half the battle. If you do a good job edging the lawn will look much better than if you didn’t. The edge of a lawn is one of the first things people notice; it makes the lawn looked finished and professional. Edging helps cover mistakes you might have made while mowing. But if it’s edged right, people won’t notice. Preparing for the job by edging helps in the finished project.

Blow the walks clean. After you’ve finished mowing, take a circuit around the sidewalks with the mower; clear the walks so they don’t have any grass clippings on them. Cleaning up after yourself is important because it makes a good final project, and it reflects good on you. A job worth doing, is a job worth doing well. Even though you’re tired and hungry, once the job is done it’s worth cleaning up after. Clean up all around the yard and you will be more satisfied with the job you’ve done. Leaving clippins is lazy and doesn’t reflect well on the person who mowed.

Take a break every now and again. Every morning at ten in the morning we would take a break. Coke and powdered doughnuts. We may have had other things but I remember the coke and powdered doughnuts. I remember sitting in the shade of my grandparents front porch and talking to my grandpa about working and fishing and family. He was the wisest person I knew. And sitting there, talking to him, made the world seem more sane and understandable. I still love drinking a Coke. Drinking Coke is like liquid memories to me. The taste and smell of the Coke bring me back to that place and time; when things are tough and I’m not sure I want to continue in the hot sun and dusty grass, a Coke helps to bring it all back into focus. Grandpa would never quit. Never.

Appreciate what you’ve got. My grandparents had a very traditional relationship. Every day at noon we would take another break; my grandma would have lunch prepared and waiting on the table. And while the world has come to see this as unequal, my grandparents never did. My grandpa never stopped telling me how much he loved and appreciated my grandma. He thanked her and gave her a kiss every time. He was kind and respectful to her for all she did. They are a great couple. Even now, twenty years after I mowed lawns with him, and fifty years after marrying her, he points out how much she means to him. He tells us all how beautiful she is and how much he loves and appreciates her. He knows how good he’s got it.

Mowing lawns taught me a whole host of things. My grandpa is a great man and I would do well to follow in his footsteps. He is a hard worker who finishes what he starts; he demands quality and gives praise only when you’re deserving of it. He is a hero of mine and I am lucky to have known him and to have gotten the opportunity to know him as well as I did. He didn’t have to let me work with him but I’m sure thankful that he did. Without him I wouldn’t be the man I am today, mostly due to all the lawns we mowed and all the Cokes we drank.

Separate But Equal

2009-09-26T18:03:00.000-07:00

When it comes to midnight movies I support segregation. As a young man growing up in a small town I was ridiculed for my interests and pastimes. You see, I was a Geek. I was a comic book reading, Dungeons & Dragons playing, super hero watching kinda guy. A Geek. And I took a lot of flack for it. It took me some time, thousands of dollars in therapy and not a little bit of medication to come to grips with the fact that this is who I am. I am not an athlete. I do not enjoy talking about, watching or participating in sports. I do not understand fashion. I do not understand spending huge amounts of money and time on clothes, shoes and accessories. And I sure as heck do not understand women.

I’ve played countless video games, I know all the captains of the USS Enterprise, I know what color light saber a Jedi carries as opposed to a Sith, I’ve attended multiple comic book and gaming conventions, I own cartoon movies that belong to me and not my children, and I’ve invented my own gaming scenarios. I am a Geek. I’ve paid my dues to society. I’ve taken my licks and now that Geeks are in the mainstream I’m a bit peeved.

I’m a little angry that the general public is absorbing my culture as if they’ve always lived it. It feels somehow cheap and lazy for them to take something that was never accepted when I was doing it, but is now the newest thing and it’s all fine. But I guess I can learn to deal. But here’s the thing, I don’t really like people wearing comic book t-shirts unless they’ve read, and preferably owned, that particular comic book title. I don’t really like it when people are talking about superhero movie characters like they’ve always known them. I don’t really like kids playing D&D like it’s something new and who have never heard of Thac0 or Gary Gygax. I don’t really like it when people dress up like their favorite characters and go to the movies. All of these things feel ike they belong to me because I have always done them.

But I would be willing to forgive all of these little offenses if I could get one thing. People should not be allowed to attend a midnight screening of any geeky movie unless they can pass the test that comes before it. You don’t get to participate in the coolest night that that particular movie is showing, unless you can show that you deserve it. You have to pass a test to attend. There, I’ve said it, and I’m not sorry. I think you have a right to see the movie, just not with me. for the past thirty-five years I’ve been abused and taunted for my likes and hobbies. Now, I’m saying it out loud – when it comes to midnight showings, I’m better than you. If you can’t pass my test, then you are not my equal and should not be allowed to enjoy the wonder and novelty of the midnight showing.

So, if you’re attending a midnight showing that involves a comic book character you had better be able to tell me who has written and drawn that character in the past and who your favorite writer and artist is. At the very least you have to know the difference between DC and Marvel. Please don’t talk to me about Spiderman and Batman, or Wonder Woman and Hulk, unless you’re ready to talk about some really obscure crossovers. You should be able to tell me about the hero’s different incarnations. You had better be able to tell me how their costumes went through differing changes and what team, if any, that they’ve belonged to. And you as sure as heck better be able to name and identify the actual characters in the movie and their relationship with the title character. Comic book movies are finally coming into their own and I don’t want just anyone sitting next to me at midnight.

If you are coming to a Star Wars movie you had better know the difference between the original movies and Episodes I-III. You had better be able to tell me what metaclurians are and why they are so lame. If you want to attend a Star Wars movie with me you better understand where this movie fits in with all the other movies and whether or not the storyline is approved or not. And if you want to dress like a character in the movie you better be able to tell me more than their name; you had better be able to tell me how they fit in with the storyline and how they integrate into the greater arc. You had also better be able to talk to me about Lucas and his role in creating the series. You should also be able to tell me the basic histories of all the major characters and how they interrelated. Star Wars is a defining force for Geeks and it shouldn’t be viewed on the first night by newbies.

If you are seeing a Star Trek movie you had better know the odd/even rule. You should know how many captains came before and after Shatner. You should know the difference between a Klingon and a Romulan and which one of them can cloak their ships. You should know what DS9 means. You should know what the Federation is and why there is a Prime Directive and its purpose. Star Trek is vital to our culture; you should be able to compare and contrast technology in the series with actual technology today and how it came about. And for crying out loud, if you can’t tell me what a Red Shirt is, then you have no business sitting next to me and sharing my air.

There are countless other franchises and names that have a Geek connection. I don’t have time to explain everything you need to know for each one. In fact, if you don’t know already know what is necessary for entrance into this unique fraternity then don’t even try. It’s too late. Please don’t ask me about my Wolverine tattoo and make yourself look like the freaking idiot you are by saying something like, “Hey, he looks just like the guy in the movie.” Or show up to a Bond movie dressed like 007 carrying a wine glass. I mean seriously. It’s embarrassing for us, and it just makes you look stupid.

I don’t show up to your tailgate parties, dressed in a brand new red jersey to the Jets game, spouting statistics and years that I’ve just recently memorized. I don’t try and figure out the difference between a first down and a double-header. I wear my normal clothes and I watch the Super Bowl for the commercials. It’s foolish for me to try and become you; so please, for all that’s good and holy, don’t try and be me. I’ve worked my whole life to be this Geeky and quite frankly you might have the knowledge, but you sure as heck don’t have the experience. Not only do you have to like this stuff, but you have to be ridiculed for several years before you qualify for being Geek. Most of us have decades of being ridiculed behind us. I have a lifetime of knowledge when it comes to ridicule. Don’t show up to my midnight showing, one of the few things Geeks really have going for them, and pretend you’re me. you’re not.

Take my test. If you pass it, you’re free to sit and enjoy the flick. But if you can’t pass it, and I mean with flying colors, then you’re still allowed to see it - just not with me. You see, I want you to think that we are equals, but it’s just better if we keep it separate, that way you won’t feel awkward around me and I won’t have to point our all your obvious flaws when it comes to things Geeky. But here’s the catch. You used to be in power. It used to be important that I couldn’t quote who the fastest running back was. Now, it’s my turn. If you don’t know the difference between Norton’s Hulk and Bana’s Hulk; if you won’t know why Spiderman 3 sucked, or what J.J. Abrahams is doing with Star Trek; if you don’t know about Watchmen and the Spirit, then it’s you that will look the fool. It is the Age of the Geek, and soon you will understand what it means to be ridiculed for liking something as ridiculous as football. But for now, enjoy your status.

The Greatest Sacrifice

2009-09-21T10:21:00.000-07:00

One of the things Tambee and I found that we didn’t have in common when we got married was how to spend money. I wanted toys, and she wanted necessities. She wanted to be practical and I wanted to have fun. I would get money for my birthday and spend it on games, comics and food. She got money for her birthday and she would spend it on pictures for the walls and winter coats for our girls. It was frustrating that she didn’t have my values. I felt bad for her but I tried to explain that life was about having fun and she needed to loosen up a bit.

Tambee never seemed to have a problem sacrificing for the family. When the kids needed something, they got it, even at the expense of something Tambee wanted to do. When the house needed something she would cancel her plans and get to work. Never complaining. I was always irritated by her lack of complaints. I was so irritated that I would complain twice as much for both of us – letting her know how I felt about things and that I knew how she was feeling too. I’m sure she appreciated me vocalizing her actual feelings. I’m sensitive like that.

I think one thing that most women are good at is sacrifice. They know that it’s part of who they are as women that they are going to be called upon to sacrifice themselves on the alter of childbearing. They know that pain is part of the job. And it’s strange, at least in my experience that they never say anything about it. When I get a hangnail, I guarantee, people know about it. If someone can do something to ease my pain I think it’s their responsibility to help me through my difficult times. But with Tambee, she’s like a pioneer, she sucks it up and takes it like a, well, you know, like a man.

I don’t however think most women think about the other sacrifice they will make on behalf of their children, and that is their figures. I know that Tambee thinks about her figure all the time and she’s not happy with the way she looks. She wants that girlish figure back. How many people would be willing to give up their athleticism for their children? How many people would be willing to gain a considerable amount of weight for their children? My eternal companion has done both. She thinks her figure makes her less attractive. She’s wrong. Every time I look at her I think of the sacrifice she made for me, our kids and the family. How she gave up one of her most valuable possessions in order that we could have kids. And I am in awe of her. I am so blessed to have someone who was willing to do that for me, for our family. I am so blessed to not have a wife who is obsessed with her figure, her weight and her looks. I know it’s not where she would like it to be. But she chooses to spend time being with me, being with the family and enriching her mind, rather than being at the gym. And that means a lot.

I know some people won’t appreciate what I’m saying. They’ll say she could loose the weight if she wanted. But if they say it, they’re missing the point. She sacrificed for me. She sacrificed for her kids. She sacrificed for her family. What greater compliment can be given of a person? That is why my wife is my hero. That is why my wife is more beautiful now than on the day that I first laid eyes on her. And that is why I love my wife more now than I ever did before. Each day just keeps getting better.

How I Met the Love of My Life

2009-09-14T11:06:00.000-07:00

I guess I’ve always done what I was told. I was a good kid. Most days. I was obedient and thoughtful. And so, as a Latter Day Saint, when the time came that I was nineteen I did what I was supposed to do – I went on a mission. I had no idea where I would be sent, but when I got called to Hawaii I was pretty excited. Then, about half way through my mission I was transferred to Seattle, Washington. I wasn’t as excited to go from Hawaii to Seattle as I had been to go from Utah to Hawaii, but I made due. But once I got there I was hooked. It is easily one of the most beautiful places in the world. The cloudy skies, the rain, the incredible forests that stand at the edge of every yard and road was, and continues to be, enchanting. I was taken immediately.

I served there in Seattle for about seven months. I was comfortable with the people and the area and was as familiar with American Sign Language as I had ever been. I was at the top of my mission game. I was supposed to go home in August, a bit early, but I had been asked to help interpret a Deaf Conference at BYU and my mission president had agreed. It was in the first part of that summer that I noticed the most amazing girl I had ever seen.

The first thing I noticed about this girl was her smile. She could have been in a toothpaste ad. Her smile was like the sun. and when she smiled it was like the rest of her face, then her body, then the surrounding countryside would light up. It was quite amazing. The thing is, when people hear me talk about this girl, and that I was on a mission, they will assume that my thoughts were inappropriate. But I assure you, dear reader, they were not. I was, at that point in my mission, in full missionary mode. I had my head in the game – so far in the game, that I nearly missed getting together with this amazing girl. So, she had been called to serve in the Deaf Branch in Lynnwood because she spoke sign language. She had taken some classes in college and was willing to serve in the primary with the little deaf kids.

My first real memory of this girl is me walking by a classroom she was in. I don’t think she was teaching, I think she must have been in a meeting, because she was sitting back in the old metal church chair and her legs were kicked out straight in front of her. She was wearing an ankle length, grass green, skirt, a white button up blouse, and white shoes. Her hair was the color of honey and it was pulled back. I remember walking past the room, seeing her there, and needing to walk past just one more time. I think I had forgotten something important that forced me to go back again, and maybe one more time. My real memory though, is of sunshine. This girl shone. She was just sheer beauty.

We really only got the chance to talk a couple of times. I invited her to a picnic that the branch was having but she turned me down. Something with friends. And even now when I think back and inviting her I wasn’t looking for anything inappropriate, I only wanted to see her out of church and keep her active in the branch. I was doing it for Jesus.

The second chance I got to talk with her was when she was telling me that she was leaving. She had been living with her family during the summer while she was home from BYU but she was heading back in August. She told me she had an apartment in Provo but she was moving. She was a bit discouraged because once she got down there she didn’t know anyone with a truck who could help her move. Like any good missionary, with service on the mind, I flipped out my trusty missionary planner and I offered to help her with her move. My brother, I informed her, happened to be large, well muscled and own a truck. He and I would be happy to help her move at any time. She was only too happy to accept my offer. And so we set a date, not to date, but to move her apartment.

I vaguely recall that there was some kind of communication issue in between the day we set the date and actually getting together. But those trivial issues are secondary to the fact that we DID actually get together. My brother and I were able to meet her at her apartment and lend a hand. Now, she will tell the story about how my brother was dressed like a cowboy, in tight jeans, tight t-shirt, boots and a hat. And she will also talk about how I was in red and black skull shorts and a maroon t-shirt and how she felt bad that I didn’t understand color matching. She may have fallen for me for the same reason that little girls need to keep a wounded puppy, because without them, the puppy will die on its own. It’s really incapable of taking care of itself and so God has chosen beautiful girls for the job. I was lucky enough to be the puppy and she fell for me.

She and I had a good time together from the first moment we really got a chance to be alone. She was beautiful and I made her laugh. We were a perfect couple. From that first time we started spending more and more time together. And like a good Mormon we fell in love quickly and without complication. God wants us to be quick about getting married, and so we did. From start to finish our engagement was something like three months total.

We had two receptions, one in American Fork and one in Seattle. The one in American Fork was laid back and easygoing, while the one in Seattle was planned, decorated and executed with military effectiveness. We thought about eloping, but never got up the nerve. Because we were both the oldest kids, we tended to have a bit more responsibility than was healthy. But I loved being around her then, and I still do. Marrying her was one of the best things I’ve ever done. There have been days when we don’t get along, but she is my shining example of what I want to become. And I try hard every day to make her laugh. Because without it I’m up the creek without a paddle. Once the laughter stops, she’ll realize who she married and I’m out on my ear.

But until the day that she realizes what a goofball she’s married to I relish every moment with her. She is incredibly smart, artistic and beautiful. Her smile still makes me smile, and it still lights up her eyes, then her face, then the entire room, and finally my world. I wouldn’t trade her for anything.

Wait and See

2009-09-04T12:15:00.000-07:00

There is an old Chinese proverb that goes something like this: There was once a man who had a son who had grown, and the two of them lived simple lives on a farm. One day their horse ran away. When the neighbor found out about it he said, “Oh, bad luck.” And the father replied, “We’ll wait and see.” The next day the horse returned with a herd of wild horses. The neibhbor said, “Oh, good luck.” And the father replied, “We’ll wait and see.” The next day the son tried to ride one of the horses and was bucked off and broke his leg, the neigbor said, “Oh, bad luck.” And the father said, “We’ll wait and see.” The day after that the army came through the town, pressing young men into the service of the military but could not take the young man because of his broken leg. The neighbor said, “Oh, good luck.” And the father said, “We’ll wait and see.” And the story continues for all of time.

The moral of the story is that we cannot see, at our current place in time, what effect some event will have on our lives. We cannot judge events as individual happenings, free of everything else. And we cannot judge how something might affect us in a week, or a month, or a year or a decade based on how it is affecting us today. Things change. Everything changes. And keeping an open mind to see what changes is the only way to live. Once we find ourselves locked into a particular way of thinking, once we cannot move because of mental ossification, then our lives become smaller and filled with less meaning. If we cannot be open to something new, something different, even something that challenges who we are, then our lives are lost and they’re not worth living.

I cannot imagine living a life where I knew all the answers. I spend a lot of time thinking. A lot. My days are filled with varying degrees of reading, writing, watching movies, listening to information in a variety of forms and teaching. Most of what I do is input. I am filling my brain with as much information as I can pack into it. The problem for me is that with all this information things just keep getting more complicated, not less. And so consequently I’ve become less sure of any one thing or any one issue. I’m just not sure. I’ve read and heard and seen too much to think something is simple and has a simple answer. And so I think some more. I read some more and I listen some more. I’m just hoping to figure it all out, or given that I can’t figure it all out, maybe just figure something out. Something small. Anything really. I’d be happy.

And so when I meet people who are incredibly sure about something I view them with a mix of skepticism and awe. I shake my head trying to clear the cobwebs away and understand what they understand. I’m not a brilliant person. I’m just average. I do my best with what I’ve got. But one thing that can’t be said about me is that I think too little, that I read too little and that I know too little. So when I meet someone who seems to have the answers I’m a bit suspicious. I suspect that they don’t really have the answers they claim to. I suspect that they got tired of looking and thinking and reading and finally just made up their mind. They made a decision and became comfortable with no new information. And now they look smart. “This is how it is.” They say with confidence. “I know it for sure.” Wow. What guts it would take. What confidence. To be able to say with assurity that something, anything, is a given way.

In the end though I look at these people with pity. They have given up; they have given in. It’s easier to allow your mind to solidify than to keep it flexible and ready for new information. And so I guess I see them as mentally handicapped. But the handicap is something they could control if they wanted. It’s a self-imposed limitation. It’s just easier not to challenge themselves any more. It’s easier to not think about that topic any more. I’ve decided. That’s it. It’s done.

And it’s strange because once someone has made this decision to not let any new information in it makes them look confident in their decisions and they look smart. The doors of their minds are sealed tightly to keep out any new information, but on the outside they speak their mind with confidence knowing that nothing is going to keep them from a vocal opinion, not even new information. These people spew their opinions anywhere and everywhere with a freedom given only to young children talking to strangers and we listen to them. We give them our ear, our time and our money.

How can it be that we punish people for changing their minds. Politicians are punished when they change their minds. Now, I understand there is a difference between political expediency and intellectual flexibility. But, once a politician has changed their mind on something we find it negative. We don’t like it. We want our politicians rock solid, unmoving, foundational. And in the end this need that we have makes our politicians afraid to speak their minds when they’ve changed them. Which creates mistakes.

We must accept and even embrace newness. We must be comfortable with the idea that we may not always know the answers. We may be adrift sometimes. And that’s okay. Being adrift allows us time to think and meditate. When we’re adrift we need to remember the things that were right when we went adrift. Use those things to keep us safe and sturdy until we can reach another place of safety and surety until we are once again set adrift. Expecting that being adrift won’t happen is foolhardy. We must expect change, expect unsurity, expect differences. And in expecting those things we won’t be thrown when they actually happen. And they will happen. They will.

Embracing change will help us live better. Expecting that things will stay the same is a form of madness. How can we expect our lives to follow any given path? How can we expect people to not change? How can we expect to have anything we own, use, watch or know about to stay solid, unmoving and unchanging? Only a fool would expect as much. But we are all fools. We all expect our lives, and everything in them, to stay the same. And when change happens it unnerves us.

It’s interesting that when change happens to children it’s exciting. When change happens to adults it’s unsettling. What happens to the brain between childhood and adulthood? It’s simply a matter of flexibility. The more we use our brains the more likely we are to stay flexible and fresh, inviting change rather than avoiding it. We have to look at each new experience as a chance to grow and expand ourselves. We must welcome change as a way of understanding ourselves and our world better. We must see change for what it is – a blessing. It helps us grow.

Is change uncomfortable? Absolutely. Just like exercise, new information works our brains in new ways, straining the muscles of the brain. We must learn to adjust and figure out what this new information is doing to our brains. We must adjust ourselves to this new exercise, allow our minds time to cope and then move on. Using exercise as a metaphore for information in the brain helps us to understand that that information can ultimately help us to become stonger and even more flexible. But there is no gain without pain. Which means with each new piece of information there will be soreness in the brain. We will want to quit because it’s easier to not exercise than it is to exercise. But with each repetition of the new exercise we will get stronger and more confident. And once we’ve become used to that exercise we move on to a new one starting the process over. Never quitting we become stronger, more flexible and more able to handle any situation that comes our way.

Change is a way of life. Judging change as either positive or negative is a waste of time. Ignoring the fact that change is a way of life is childish and stupid. Ignoring change is like a child covering its eyes, pretending not to see the vegetables still on its plate. So why not dive in? Why not do everything we can to enjoy the change? And the only way to enjoy change is to accept change. Change must be embraced in order to be enjoyed. We must come to a new way of thinking. We must understand that change is real and change is happening, every day to every one of us. And those who accept that change will happen are happier than those who resist it. Resisting change is foolish.

I am not promoting a political agenda. Being conservative or liberal is not what I’m talking about. You can be the most conservative person int eh world and still accept that grandchildren will grow up, that food will not always be cooked the same and that buildings will be torn down and new ones will replace them. Your political views are yours to keep. But accepting the assurance that change will happen is universal. Change happens to all of us, to everyone, throughout all time.

Accepting change will change your life. It will make you happier and more comfortable and certainly more mentally flexible. We all know those people who freak out when something doesn’t go as planned. Plans change and they can’t deal with it. They loose themselves in the fact that things aren’t going the way they expected, change is happening all around them, and they can’t do anything about it and so they despair, freak out, become angry or despondent. These people are living their lives with an expectation that things will go as planned. And while we all know that things don’t often go as planned, we often expect them to. Isn’t it interesting that even knowing other peoples plans didn’t happen as they expected them to we still expect our plans to go as we planned. This paradigm shift is vital for our survival.

The one thing we know about the future of this world is it won’t be like it was yesterday. Tomorrow, literally the day after today, will be different than it was today. Things will change that we couldn’t have anticipated. So, if we cannot anticipate the actual change, why not anticipate change in general? If we are to prepare ourselves and our children for the future then we must be prepared for change. What change? You may ask. But the answer is, we just don’t know. We cannot predict what changes may come, but we can predict that change itself will come. Will those changes be good or bad. We’ll just have to wait and see.

Just a Stone

2009-08-28T10:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve always carried a knife. Ever since I was a kid it was expected of me, boys in my house carried knives. I was the oldest, but all my brothers carry knives, all of them. My grandpa too. I was given my first knife when I was five. Cut my hand open. Carved a dinosaure track in the mud with it and my mom and the postman believed me. Dupes. It was the work of a pocketknife. The one my dad gave me. We were expected to have them. If you ask my dad, “Do you have your knife on you?” his response was always, “Do I have my pants on?” which was the answer yes, couched in a kind of manly bravado which means – “If my pants are on, I have my knife.”

Now, you might assume that I grew up on the streets, where a knife meant survival. I guess there are really two kinds of people who grow up being expected to carry a knife – those who look to their knives as a form of defense and a survival – What if someone attacks me? And those who look at their knives as a tool used in everyday life, our work requires a knife – What if there’s cord that needs cuttin’ or a fish that needs guttin’?. I’m that second guy. Grew up in a small town in Utah, surrounded by fields of alfalfa, corn and cows. I wasn’t a farm boy myself, but growing up in a small town like that certainly has its own peculiarities. I was raised with country music and old time rock and roll, going to church every Sunday and wearing cowboy boots wasn’t out of the ordinary. I never considered myself a cowboy, I wasn’t required to do a ton of chores down on the farm, but I was definitely a country boy.

Being raised in an avid hunting, fishing and camping family meant being a full time knife carrier. You never knew when you were gonna need one. And part of carrying a knife meant keeping it clean and sharp. There was nothing worse than a dull knife; it kinda reflected on the person carrying it. If your knife was dull and unused then you were the same way. If your knife was sharp and clean then that spoke to the kind of person you were as well. And our dad expected us to have sharp, clean knives. Not just kind of sharp, not just kind of clean, but incredibly sharp and clean. It speaks to the kind of people he expected us to be. The Boy Scout motto was our motto – Be Prepared. This was drilled into us over and over again. Wherever you are be ready for whatever might come; and having a good, clean, sharp knife was always part of being prepared for anything.

Sharpening your knife meant using the kit. The kit was special and it belonged to my dad. The kit was magical – like it had been a part of the world forever, like it had come across the plains with our people, like it had been forged by our blacksmith ancestors; it was special. It was a religious sort of ritual that was done the same time, and with a bit of reverence and awe. Your knife reflected you. The kit belonged to my dad and was kept in a special place. It was housed in an old metal box which somehow made it more valuable and not less. Inside was an array of important things, many of which I never really understood. They were arranged neatly, like a soldiers rifle gear I always imagined. Inside were several sharpening stones, each with a different hardness that could hone the blade of your knife to increasingly dangerous edges. There was a small bottle of oil that was used for the surface of the stone, allowing the knife to glide along the surface of the stone, carefully honing its edge.

On a normal day, with a normal knife, there was a specific order to sharpening the knife. It was like the Japanese tea ceremony; devilishly simple in its concept, but a lifetime of learning locked in its simplicity. Old men couldn’t sharpen their knife like my dad, it took talent and intent and practice and soberness. The biggest stone was large and gray, a couple inches wide and eight inches long. It was heavy and sat in its own metal frame, keeping it sturdy and protected. Once the stone was out, and set perpendicular to your body the oil was dropped onto its surface. Three small drops, one at the end, one in the middle, and one at the end. And then the sharpening began.

The knife was sharpened in a specific way using the big gray stone. The knife was drawn from right to left, as if cutting a slice out of the stone. The blade was held at a fifteen degree angle to the stone, just enough to give it a good tapered edge, but not so high was to make the edge sharp but easily blunted. The action was then repeated with the knife being drawn from left to right. Blades were never circled on the stone. This only dulled them, said my dad. Sometimes the blade was drawn three times from right to left, and then three times from left to right. You would do this, drawing the knife across the stone over and over, with machine like precision, until the blade was perfect. The knife is sharp when it will shave the hair off your arm, or catches easily on a fingernail. But most often you could just feel the sharpness with your fingertips.

Once the knife was sharp the ritual wasn’t over. The knife was then cleaned with the rag. The blade was polished and all debris was cleaned out of it. Once done the knife was closed or put back in its sheath. Then the stone was completely cleaned with the rag by wiping off all the excess oil. The stone was put away and the oil was put back in, the rag was folded up and laid on top of the stone to protect it. The case was closed and carefully put back in its place.

For many years my dad would do sharpen my knives for me. It was magical to watch him; there is something primal about a son watching his father sharpen a blade. It’s a practice that is thousands of years old. It’s special. But there came a time when I was old enough to do it. The kit wasn’t given to me, but I was allowed to use it when necessary. My dad said I was ready. It was a big deal. I would take the old stone out of the metal box, take the rag out and lay it next to the stone, take the oil vial out and stand it up next to the stone and then take my knife out. From there I would begin to sharpen with seriousness and attention. Sharpening a knife was serious. It wasn’t to be fooled with or joked about. The stone was my dads; the blade was mine.

I don’t remember how the stone broke. I only remember it falling. I remember it tumbling to the ground, the stone reaching the ground before its metal tray. But worst of all I remember the stone breaking. I remember the three large pieces laying there like my heart. I had broken the family sharpening stone. I had broken my fathers stone. Something that had been passed to him and would have been passed to one of us had it not broken. I stood there completely stunned and mortified. I knew what had to be done; I had been raised to be honest, but this is one of the times when I knew something special had been broken, something really special.

I drew myself up and waited for my dad to come home. I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing him, of him looking at me with sadness. I came to him with a completely sober expression. He must have known right away that something was wrong. I drew in a breath and then told him. I was sharpening my knife and the stone was broken. Broken bad. Beyond repair. And then I waited. I waited for the inevitable disappointment and anger; I waited for a curse or threat or tirade. But I got none of that. Once again my dad proved he was better than that. He was clean and sharp; his point was perfect.

I remember he smiled; it wasn’t a big smile but he smiled and looked at me with incredible love and forgiveness. He must have known the storm that was raging inside me at that moment; he knew that I knew how important that stone was. He just shrugged and said, “It’s just a stone.” And then smiled again. I knew it wasn’t true. I knew it wasn’t JUST a stone. It was important, irreplaceable and priceless to him and to the family. I knew I had broken something important. But he showed me one of the most valuable lessons I’ve ever learned – possessions are just objects we’ve placed value on. People are more important than possessions. It was just a stone, but I was his son and knives could be sharpened on other stones, but relationships blunted on the force of personality could never be repaired.

Deer Sneezes

2009-08-25T11:09:00.000-07:00

I think every son starts out wanting to please his father. We want our fathers to see us as their equals, their peers, someone to be trusted and confident in. We measure ourselves with them as a yardstick; how they dress, how they act, how they talk, all have an effect on us as boys and even into manhood. I’ve always loved my father; always admired him for his character and integrity and there is no doubt I’ve always wanted to be like him. Even now when I see people they tell me they want to be like my dad. Imagine the burden of being the son of a saint. It’s easier being the son of other things – less to live up to. But my dad, I mean wow, there’s no one like him, certainly not me.

So growing up I really did want to be like him. My identity was tied directly to my father; in a lot of ways it still is. Even now, I’m a grown man with children of my own and I still look to him as my comparison, to know how I’m doing. So as a kid I wanted desperately to be like him. I did everything I could to be like him. I followed him everywhere and I even tried to like the things he liked. When he went deer hunting, I went hunting. When he went pheasant hunting, I went pheasant hunting. When he went hiking and camping I went hiking and camping. I learned to love the outdoors from my dad. I learned to love hiking and camping and being in the outdoors from him. I have a deep reverence for the wilderness now. I’m not sure I could be a whole person without the wilderness. I still want to be like my dad; he still inspires me to be a better person, to respect everyone and to keep my opinion to myself unless asked.

Unfortunately, even as a small child, I knew I was different from my dad. I don’t think I consciously knew. I tried as hard as I could whenever I was with him. And I was always disappointed when I didn’t feel like I measured up. It’s important that you understand my dad never judged me – not to my face and not by any action he did or didn’t do.

That was part of the problem. I wanted him to be angry with me. I wanted him to sigh deeply and shake his head. I wanted him to sit me down, and finally end the charade. “Son.” I imagined him saying, “I appreciate the years you’ve tried hard to be my son. But your mom and I feel like it’s time you understood something important.” At this point he would look me in the eye and with a bit of relief and a smile creeping in at the corners of his mouth at finally getting rid of me he would continue, “You see, when you were a small boy. Well, you were never really small, but young. When you were young, your mother and I came upon a troupe of traveling chubby performers. People who talked a lot but didn’t like to move and walk much and who were prone to severe grass, shrub and animal allergies. We helped them find food and facial tissues, and they gave us you in appreciation of our efforts. So you see son, you don’t need to try anymore. Your doughy and lethargic nature comes by you naturally. You don’t need to come hunting or hiking with me any more.” And then with that they would equip me with two dozen doughnuts, some cheese and sausages and a roll of extra soft bathroom tissue and send me out into the cold world to find my real mom and dad. At least, that’s the way I thought it might go. Because you see, I really wasn’t much like my dad.

One early morning my dad and I got up and driven out to the mountain to go deer hunting. He was teaching me to love the outdoors and to move silently through a world of animals and plants; to love nature and to respect it. He was like an Indian in those old movies. He was completely silent and in tune with Mother Nature, slipping in and out of the shadows and pine needles like a smoke over water. I, on the other hand, could hardly walk through a wooded area without tripping, falling and leaving a considerable trail of blood. I was not stealthy nor was I equipped for prolonged walks of more than thirty or forty steps. After that I would become winded and weary. And so I always wanted to go with my dad, but I was always fearful that I wouldn’t be able to make it and disappoint him; or worse yet that he might leave me somewhere on the mountain and tell my mom that I had died out there amongst the poison oak and ragweed in a fit of snot-filled sneezes.

I remember finally making it to our spot. It was perfect. It was a secluded stand of trees, just off a well used game trail. We found a comfortable spot, on the top of the mountain and waited. I tried desperately to calm my ragged lungs; my dad tutored me in stealthy breathing, but it seemed of little use. My overly plump frame was unused to that kind of strain and I was breathing heavily, in and out, in and out, taking deep gulps of air in order to live. Unfortunately for my dad, who I was so desperately trying to please, my over sensitive nose picked up on whatever windborne pollen was in the air and I began to sniffle. Then I began to snuffle. Then I started to sneeze. I tried hard to keep them in, but the resulting trumpet blast that came out my overly sealed lips would only have been appropriate had we been hunting wild pachyderms.

It wasn’t long before my saint of a father had finally reached the end of his patience. With a long sigh and a shake of his head my dad said I should go. At first I thought my worst fears had been realized. He was asking me to leave for good. And then I realized that he was asking me to go away from him. He needed to hunt and no deer would come to him with Snow Whites most pathetic buddy by his side. So he told me to go down the mountain, way over that way, he pointed to the north. Then when you’re in the very bottom of the valley come back up toward me. If there is anything in the valley you’ll drive the deer right up to me.

I was vindicated. I could actually prove myself. I could sneeze and stumble my way to success. If I followed his instructions I would trip my way down the mountain, sneezing and gasping as I went, find the bottom of the valley and using the skills learned from my dad, climb back up the mountain and be the cause, rather than the failure, of him getting his deer. And so enlivened by the prospect of finally becoming a good son, I got up, crawled out of our hideout and began my way down the mountain.

Once I was out in the open, hopping and tripping my way down the slope, my sneezing began in earnest. My short legs, chubby belly and uncoordinated gate kicked up a fair amount of whatever it was that was causing my nasal passages to be inflamed and they began to go into overdrive. My sneezing, eye watering and runny nose took on monumental proportions. Being in the suburbs as a child was bad enough when springtime allergies took hold, but pushing and beating my way down a pollen laden mountainside was tantamount to Fatman and Little Boy rather than a homemade pipe bomb. And my nose was exploding.

I stumbled my way down the mountain, sneezing, coughing, snuffing and snorting all the way down. I wasn’t worried about making any noise. I just was careful to watch where I was going, marked where my dad was, and worked my way down into the valley. Once I hit bottom, both figuratively and literally and tried to quiet my breathing as best I could. I knew that if I could get as close as possible to whatever was in the bottom of this valley, I would have a better chance driving it up the small wash to where my dad waited for a son who couldn’t even breath quietly to do something right. Once I was in position I slowly started working my way across the valley floor, through a dense set of trees, and came face to face with my fathers dream – an entire herd of deer, many of them large antlered bucks. I smiled, sneezed and worked my way toward the now, completely spooked, herd of deer. Within moments they lost that deer in the snot-light look and bolted, up the mountain, away from me and toward my dad. Perfect, I thought. I’ve done it.

I never saw them again; I knew they were headed toward my dad and that he would see them and know what to do. But I kept my bearings, watched where I was, where I’d been and where I was going. I kept my dad’s spot in sight and I slowly made my way back there, confident he wouldn’t be there because he had killed the big one. Finally, out of breath, sneezing ferociously, I stumbled out of the bush and into my father, still sitting in the same spot I had left him in hours before. I searched his face for a sign, anything, that he had seen what I saw. When he didn’t say anything, I asked, “Did you see them?”

“What?” he said, still not comprehending the lack of my failure.
I was young then, and guileless. I didn’t know that sometimes lies are okay, that sometimes it’s allowable to omit things that may hurt feelings. But I was clueless and beyond any real thought since there was no air in my lungs and the brains that I had were quickly draining out my nose. “The deer.” I gasped, “There was a whole herd of them. Big bucks.” My voice trailed off because I realized, much, much too late what was happening.

My fathers face fell. He shook his head, probably wishing he had left me in the valley when he had the chance, and said simply, “No. I didn’t see anything.” He looked over his overly husky son then, my raspy breath and pink face making a spectacle, and maybe for the first time he saw me realizing what he had, and said, “Come on. Let’s get lunch.” And so we went to lunch, my dad and me. Together. We ate and talked and laughed together. My allergies, once we weren’t hunting, cleared up miraculously. Still to this day I’m a bit on the chubby side and my allergies still give me grief sometimes. I look at myself and wonder what it would have been like to have turned out more like my dad. I wonder if he wonders. I wonder if he wishes for something different; does he wish I had been in better shape, or a better hunter? Sometimes I wish it. If for nothing else to be more like my dad.

Death Race

2008-08-25T11:15:00.000-07:00

Jason Stratham is good at a couple of things. He's good at looking good, acting tough and kickin' the crap out of people. This movie was meant for Jason Stratham. The entire movie is made for the actors to look good, act tough and kick the crap out of each other. Pretty simple really. Jensen Ames (Stratham) is a tough guy with no real future. He works at the steel mill, but looses his job. The only real good thing he's got is his wife and kid (see where this is going?). After some unfortunate business he ends up in jail. Not only is Jensen Ames a tough guy, he also happens to be a race car driver, who happens to be an ex-con. I ask you - What could be better?! So, once in prison he gets to do what he does best - just in case you forgot, it's look good, act tough and kick the crap out of people. That is the scope of this movie - looking good, acting tough, and kicking the crap out of people. No brains needed. Check them at the door. Get in, hold on, and shut up. That's all this movie requires. Simple, just like Jason Stratham. If you like beat 'em up, shoot 'em up, kick the crap out of 'em movies - you'll love Death Race. If blood, language and the lack of any real storyline bothers you, don't waste your time.

Swing Vote

2008-08-19T11:20:00.000-07:00

Let the political movies begin! With the voting season in full swing, soon the movies will begin that tell us how we should be voting. Swing Vote isn't one of them. It doesn't tell you how to vote, it just tells you to VOTE.

This was a great movie about a common man - and I do mean common. He was so not interested in politics and his world, his own daughter has to register for him to vote. He isn't that smart, and he's quite apathetic about the system. But in the end he proves that one person can make a difference. One person can count.

I wasn't really looking forward to this movie. But I really liked it. I would highly recommend it to anyone.

The Dark Knight

2008-08-03T07:06:00.000-07:00

This is easily my favorite movie of the summer. It may also be one of my favorite movies ever - I still need time to let it all settle. I've seen this movie three times as of this writing. I love it.

I grew up with Batman. I read the old comics; I still buy Batman comics. And here's the thing - Batman and Joker were never funny, silly or childlike. They were always dark and scary. Truly disturbing stories. So, when I heard the movie was coming out I was skeptical that they could pull off the Batman I grew up with. They succeeded completely. It is an amazing film. It is dark and disturbing. Definitely not for everyone, especially young children.

This movie perfectly portrays the struggles the Dark Knight has to go through to bring Gotham out of the darkness. It also illustrates the dichotomy of how Batman seems to cause what he's trying to fight. Darkness creates darkness. It cannot create light.

Hellboy II

2008-07-11T12:40:00.000-07:00

So, I've been a Hellboy fan for a long time. I was immediately drawn the the stories of Hellboy - dark, creepy and based on real stories. Pretty cool. But as I learned more about Hellboy I was deeply touched by the idea of Hellboy himself. The idea that despite your parents, despite your place of birth, and despite what you are destined to do - you can choose. You decide your character. This was, and continues to be, deepy moving. In addition, Hellboy is just good, clean fun. He is the ultimate man's man. Hellboy II delivers all the goods. It is fun to watch and incredibly entertaining. The story is well paced and well written. The monsters are a bit cheesy and sometimes it's a bit too obvious when something is generated, but I'll allow it 'cause Hellboy is a bit cheesy and obvious. The ride is fun. Hellboy II is well worth full price - even if it's only to see the Barry Manilow musical sequence (I'm not kidding). Well worth your time and money. If you haven't been introduced to Hellboy, now is a great time to get acquainted.

Wyoming Road Trip

2008-07-07T23:05:00.000-07:00

Last week I got the opportunity to go to Wyoming with a good friend of mine. We always have a great time, talking about everything from comics, to music, to church and family and back to comics again. I always feel renewed after a road trip with him. Simply awesome. I owe him a big thank you for allowing me to tag along. Really cool. So anyway, here are some pictures I took while with him. Hope you enjoy them.

Hancock

2008-07-07T22:00:00.001-07:00

I have always been fascinated by the idea of heroes being human. We were all raised on Superman and Batman - basically selfless heroes with a passion for helping and protecting. But I always felt that if I had the powers of Superman or the wealth of Batman, I'd probably be a real jerk. Well, here's Hancock. Unfortunately the movie gets lost in itself. Things aren't real clear. The story is a bit shaky. And we're left wondering about... well, stuff. The original premise of what would a alcoholic jerk with super powers be like is lost in some other... well, stuff. That's not to say I disliked Hancock. I liked it. I've already seen it twice. It's good. It's just not great. It could have been great had it focused on it's original idea; it's an uncomfortable question, but one worth asking. But instead somehow it just got lost along the way in all the... well, stuff.

Wall-E

2008-06-28T11:31:00.000-07:00

Our world is filled with specialists. We go to specific stores for specific things. Movies are the worst for specializing. Its almost impossible for everyone to be happy any more. I stood in line for another movie the other day and listened to the mom in front of me try to figure out which movie to see. It turned out she decided on two. Two movies. One movie wouldn’t satisfy her four children - only two would do. Wall-E is the rare exception. It is perfect. And I know folks will want to knit pick with me. But my response to these jaded skeptics is: go see it again. Its perfect. Wall-E is funny, intelligent, engaging, visually stunning with an incredible story and moral. Perfect. This is it. Take everyone you know. Everyone. Take the day off, take the family and go see Wall-E. The only problem you'll have is where to go for lunch. But in the end Wall-E is worth calling in sick for.

Wanted

2008-06-27T11:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve been waiting for this movie for a long time. Not as long as Batman of course, but a long time. It started out as a comic. And let me be clear - it was possibly the most blood-soaked, profanity-filled, piece of literature I've ever read. The movie is much like the comic. It is not for everyone to be sure. But for those who like their movies violent, and filled with Matrix-like impossible stunts, this is your movie. Let me also be clear that like the comic it is not mindless like so many of its illegitimate cousins. Wanted comes with a moral. It has a reason for being. And if you have a moment to look past the bullets, blood and boobs you will find a tightly scripted story that speaks to how we're living our lives. This movie comments on what we're doing with the talents we've all been given. Wanted is not for everyone, but for those who enjoy this kind of movie it is well worth your time. I can easily say that for those people Wanted is worth paying full price.

Get Smart

2008-06-20T11:28:00.000-07:00

Get Smart isn't smart. It is mildly intelligent. In the middle of the summer desert its a cool drink of water. It isn't icy cold; it doesn't have a slice of lemon; it doesn't have large chunks of ice floating in it; and it certainly isn't a frosty Mountain Dew. Get Smart is refreshing but not thirst quenching. It takes its action-spy sequences way too seriously and its comedy not nearly serious enough. The jokes were funny but not hilarious. It was a good movie, but not a great movie. It was a quick respite for the summer heat as we wait for the big oasis that we hope is coming. If you've seen all the others and you have an afternoon free Get Smart is worth the price of a matinee.

The Happening

2008-06-17T20:19:00.001-07:00

Ever since The Sixth Sense I’ve loved M. Night Shyamalan; and ever since that fateful movie Shyamalan has rested on his laurels. He keeps reminding us of what he’s done in the past, rather than focusing on the future. And with ever decreasing returns I find it increasingly difficult to defend him and his genius. The Happening is the antithesis of The Sixth Sense. It is shallow, predictable and preachy; it teeters between silliness and camp, but never makes it to camp – which would have upped the enjoyment level to passable. The acting is one-dimensional and even laughable in parts; and the story is obvious and preachy. The zombie-level violence is completely unnecessary to the story and is gory to an extreme. The blood in this movie is the final straw to a perfectly stupid Shyamalan film. Normally I can recommend even the silliest of movies for a dollar theater or a video rental. But in the case of The Happening I would encourage, even implore, you to not see this film. It is a waste of time, money and brain power.

The Incredible Hulk

2008-06-13T20:17:00.000-07:00

Comics, and comic movies, have so much potential – and rarely do they reach that potential. The problem is, everyone still thinks of comics as two dimensional, mindless, violence-filled silliness. This movie could have been about Bruce Banner, a man plagued by an incredibly destructive menace crashing around inside of him; but instead it’s about nothing more than Hulk’s physically destructive capabilities. But it seems the studios would rather stick with what’s safe; and so we get mediocre movies, rather than great cinema. So we’re left with mediocre CGI; in The Hulk you can’t help but notice the effects – they’re noticeable – which makes them mediocre. Very little character, tons of violence and destruction. In the end the Hulk isn’t a bad movie; but it’s not a good one either. Comics, and their respective movies, have once again been relegated to Saturday cinema, rather than serious literature as they should be. A shame. This movie is good – if you have the time, it’s worth a matinee price.

Kung Fu Panda

2008-06-06T20:15:00.000-07:00

I’m not a Jack Black fan. And I don’t particularly like silly animated movies (unless they’re Pixar, and then I’m a fanatic). So I went to Kung Fu Panda with very little excitement. It was a movie that filled the gap between Indiana Jones and the Hulk. Imagine my surprise to discover possibly one of the summer’s best movies. It was an incredibly colorful, imaginative and humorous ride. I loved every minute of it. It was funny without debasing itself to gross humor; it was stylistically amazing because of the actors that inhabited the characters – ala Jackie Chan, Lucy Liu and Angelina Jolie. Simply amazing, having kick-butt characters as the voices for the country’s greatest martial artists. And the moral of the story was heartfelt without being cheesy. I can’t really recommend this movie highly enough. Awesome. Take the family, take a date, take yourself – but go see Kung Fu Panda.

The Man Who Killed the Deer

2008-06-05T20:03:00.001-07:00

This is my first book of summer. My dad read this book when he was younger; and I am a firm believer in reading the books your parents read. I learn something much deeper and richer when I read the things my father read.

This book is an amazing, poetic and insightful look into the American Indian. It discusses the loss of culture, fighting against a "superior" culture, and the pull of what to teach ones children. It is a challenging book, but it was well worth my time and effort.

Narnia: Prince Caspian

2008-05-28T20:09:00.000-07:00

I'm not a big fan of the Narnia movies. But this movie was fun. It wasn't great, it wasn't stunning, but it was fun. Good, clean, family fun. And I really enjoyed it. I have to say that the older I get the more I appreciate media that I can recommend to anyone. This movies is one of them. Perfect for nearly anyone. You don't have to see the first one, or even read the books to get it. Just go and see it and enjoy.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

2008-05-22T19:52:00.000-07:00

I've been waiting for this movie for twenty years. Seriously. I was eleven years old when Raiders of the Lost Ark came out. And I was eleven and a half when I got a genuine leather bullwhip - 12 feet long. Dang near beat myself to death learning how to use that thing. But I did it. Indiana Jones has arguable had more of an impact on who I am than Star Wars. Seriously. So, it's with that that you read this post.

This movie was awesome. This movie is exactly like the other three. Same formula, same bad jokes, same impossible stunts and the same indestructible Indiana Jones. I know that some of you have a problem with Indiana Jones going after aliens instead of something more archaic. So here's my brief argument for why it's okay:

All Indiana Jones movies have been about the pursuit of power by corrupt governments. All the power sources have been just a story, something unbelievable to Indiana Jones. Now, when you make the forth movie, twenty years after the third, you have two choices, pretend the main character doesn't look twenty years older and have him go after Nazi's again, or have him appear in the 1950's and have him go after Communists. Now, Communists were into world domination, just like the Nazi's, but unlike Hitler, they were after sources of power that were science based, not religiously based, hence, mind control.

In the end this movie is super fun. Is it silly? Yes. Is it unbelievable? Yes. Does it make me giddy with nostalgia, perhaps enough to overlook some of it's shortcomings? Heck yes. So, go to the newest Indiana Jones flick and have some fun. Get some popcorn and sit back and learn why as a child I nearly gave my mother a heart attack with the welts I gave myself.