I suppose that I was in shock. There can’t be anyway that you are supposed to react to that kind of statement. I didn’t collapse to the ground or start moaning and wailing like in the movies. To be honest, I didn’t even weep.
I had the wherewithal to offer my shoulder for my mother to cry on but other than that I was numb. I don’t think I got what was going on. I knew; but I didn’t get it. I can’t explain any better than that.
After a minute, Mom explained that he had been hooking up a trailer to his tractor and as he was connecting the cables, the brake either slipped or wasn’t set properly and the tractor rolled back into the trailer, pinning Ryan between the truck and the corner of the trailer. My neighbor, a mortician, and the man who took care of the burial arrangements, told me later that the level of injury Ryan sustained was such that he was gone instantly; he didn’t have time to suffer.
In the days to follow, we were able to work together a rough timeline of events. Mom talked to Ryan on the phone about fifteen minutes before the accident. They had a short conversation and as she has always done with her kids, she told him she loved him when they said good bye. He told her that he loved her too, then hung up.
Uncle B’s brother (who also worked at the company) saw him heading out to where his cab was, and then a few minutes after that he found Ryan pinned. He called for help and moved the truck to get him free. 911 was called immediately and CPR was started. The chaplain who worked with the EMT’s and police told us later that the company workers who were doing the CPR did it so well that the paramedics did not replace them. They were able to begin other life saving processes without interrupting the CPR. It was very comforting to know that EVERYTHING that could have been done; was. Nobody goofed up, no one made a critical error. It just was what it was. Time to go.
As I stood there on the porch of the emergency room attempting to comfort my mother, a news van pulled into the parking lot. It made me mad.
When Punk had her surgery earlier in the week, there was a high profile, media driven circus going on at Primary’s. Another experimental surgery was taking place at the same time as Punks, and the media was ALL over it. The headlines for the better part of a week was about this surgery. It irritated me (and my sister, though she’d never admit it), that this was getting so much attention while other equally miraculous doings were ignored.
Jealousy? Might have been a little, but what really set me off was that the family at the center of this attention was really rotten. On camera it was sweetness and humility. When the cameras weren’t rolling, it was selfish, egotistical, narcissism.
A celebrity came to sign autographs. Everyone lined up except for “mommy”, who loudly stated “I’m the mother of the twins, and I have to get back to them quickly, so I’m going to go right to the front.” And you know, it was ok. Because everyone else in line at the hospital that day was just there for the tours and free donuts.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!!!
I could go on, but I won’t. We’ll just say that the sense of entitlement was astonishing, and it was powered by news feeds and refueled by “live reports”. It made me so mad I wrote a letter to the editor decrying the media intrusion into a place where families who did not get as happy an ending as this famous family did had to sit amidst the cheering circus and try to grieve or mourn.
The letter was published in the Tribune the day Ryan died.
And now, with the news of my brother’s death still ringing in my ears, a news truck pulls up to get the “dirt”. I told the Deputy that we had nothing to say to them and that if someone put a microphone or a camera in anyone's face, I was gonna perform an impromptu colonoscopy with it.
OK. It wasn’t quite that eloquent (I think what I actually said was that there’d be a fight), but I was in defense mode and wanting to get some answers, not give them. Especially to a bunch of clowns I was already mad at to begin with.
The Deputy, an imposing fellow with the kindest face you ever saw, assured me no news people would get anywhere near us. Feeling protected, I went inside and found a restroom. I walked over to the sink and looked into the mirror. It was still kind of an “out of body” thing. I looked at myself and said out loud, “Well. Life as you knew it is now officially over.”
I called the Boss.
I could fill another thirty pages with the rest of the day. One of the great oddities of shock is that you are numb in the moment and unable to act or think but for some reason the memory recorder is going full blast with double barrels.
The worst memories of my life took place over the next few hours and days. But one of the good things that I see in any of them is my brother in law.
His connection to my family was distant at best, being married to my wife’s sister. He was on vacation; his break from difficult and demanding school work, yet he stayed the whole day. He was three steps ahead of every need. He ran errands, made phone calls and made himself useful in a thousand ways. With everyone else in shock, we had the blessing of a calm and clear Brother who cared for us and made sure that nothing important got overlooked in those first few hours. When inspiration struck and I needed a camera, he had one (I took a photo of the sunset over the Great Salt Lake on the last day my brother’s mortal eyes would see. I wrote a poem that night that is posted below). When we needed someone to go to the trucking company and get Ryan’s car, he volunteered.
How do you pay THAT back?
After a very long day, I got home around ten and flipped the TV on without thinking. Since no one from our family or the trucking company was talking, the reporters had started guessing. First, they said he’d been trapped for as long as five hours, which thanks to that call Ryan made to my mother, we knew was B.S.
Some of my family got the call that Ryan was gone only to be told on TV by an ignorant “on the scene” reporter that he was still alive but in critical condition and being transported to the hospital via life flight. It was news to us.
They got stonewalled by everyone involved, so the media just made it up as they went. Worst of all, when I flipped on the TV that night, I was immediately greeted with the worst thing I’ve ever seen. I should have known better, but I still wasn’t thinking clearly.
The jerks had flown a news chopper over the yard and hovered there over the paramedics as they worked in vain to save my brother’s life. The last physical images I have of my brother were provided to me by a news chopper hovering over his body like a damn vulture.
I didn’t need to see that. My parents surely didn’t need to see that. And total strangers sure as hell didn’t need to see that.
I equate it to pornography. They took an image of something that was none of the public's business, but because it was shocking they offered it to the curious masses to improve ratings and make a buck. It’s evil.
Now, I‘m sure they can make a case for it being journalistically ethical. But ethics are one thing and morals are another. It was morally reprehensible.
The media took the pain and suffering of a family who was loud and clear in their desire for the events of the day to remain private and then publicized their half truths for financial gain. Three and a half years later, none of the people the media were trying to titillate with that footage remember it. Just those of us who have to live with the memories of their irresponsibility.
To this day, if I’m watching the news and footage of a fatal crash or accident comes on, I change the channel as quick as I can. I feel sorrow for the family and shame that I belong to a society that requires so much intrusion into private grief.
And that, faithful readers, is why I hate TV news reporters.
Up next, Part 6: How Was the Theater?
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Ryan's Poem
Here's a copy of the text in case you have eyes as bad as mine.
Every day the sun will set
Though its light may bring no heat
A thousand pretty pictures
And all are bittersweet.
Hazy redness fogs the view
Is it beauty or a mess?
A thousand thoughtful touches
Seem to bring no tenderness.
If and Why are ugly words
That prevent our faith in Him.
Like the smog that blocks the sunset
And make His Light seem dim.
But there is beauty in our trials
Like a sunset through the haze
And naught of man will ever stop
His eternal loving rays
Darkness comes to every day,
That’s just as it should be
Yet on the ‘morrow comes His Light
For all of us to see.
Every day is counted
And shall not be numbered less
For a Family is Forever
We will share togetherness.
For Ryan
August 17, 2006
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
History of the Blog, Part 4: Worst Day of My Life
All right. A deep breath, a cracking of the knuckles and a big mug full of coke.
Check, check and check. Here goes.
When last we met, I had just finished an Associate of Arts in English degree at Salt Lake Community College. At SLCC, I had a very good family friend who worked in Financial Aid, and she was able to find all kinds of grants and aid to keep things afloat financially. I could thank her again for eternity and never do justice to the love and support she offered us. Like many other blessings, we noticed how powerful it was only after it was gone.
I was headed for UVU and looking forward to a schedule full of classes that I wanted to take as opposed to the oft lamented general ed courses. Since I had no job, I was planning on doing 12 to 15 hours a semester. I could graduate in a year and a half that way. I had all the books for my classes weeks in advance and I had already done a good chunk of reading. It was exciting.
The week before classes started, the Boss’s brother in law came out to Salt Lake from New York where he was in law school. On the 17th of August (the fact I remember the exact date portends disaster, does it not?), he called me and asked if I’d like to hang out and play some XBOX.
Now please allow me a bit of digression here, it’s needed for background. My sister L and her husband B have three children. A son who is about a year younger than the Eldest, a daughter that is just older than Moe, and another daughter a little older than Puzilla.
L’s middle child is known (at least to this Uncle), as “Punk”. Punk is a walking, breathing, parting of the Red Sea. She was born with a chromosomal disorder called DiGeorge Syndrome. It has a host of symptoms that range from minor annoyances to catastrophically fatal heart defects. Because of this, Punk would have to be born at the University of Utah med center so that emergency surgery could be performed if necessary.
It was not the kind of news that anyone ever wants to hear. The excitement that usually comes from the anticipation of a new member of the family was dimmed by a good deal of worry and fear. It was very hard for my sister and her husband and we did what we could to assure them of our love and support.
When Punk finally arrived, her initial examinations and prognosis were mixed. Her heart was functioning enough that the doctors felt comfortable in waiting for a while to do surgery and that would give her time to build some strength. The bad news was there was a lengthy list of things that would need to be taken care of.
All of her internal organs were reversed from where they should have been, a condition known as Situs Inversus. Stuff that is supposed to be on the left was on the right and vice versa. Her tiny heart had what is called Pulmonary Atresia, a condition that means she effectively had no pulmonary artery to carry blood from the heart to the lungs to be oxygenated. All the blood vessels in her lungs were tiny and underdeveloped which resulted in her lungs being tiny and underdeveloped. In addition to all this she had a VSD or Ventricular Septral Defect. In normal person terms, tiny little Punk had a hole between the chambers of her heart the size of a quarter.
She has had more surgeries than you want to know about; all of them life threatening. After one of them she had a stroke that doctors said should have killed her; but her brain re-wired itself and she kept going even though it caused some complications she could have done without.
A few days before my brother-in-law and I sat down to play Madden 06, the Punk (who was about 5 at the time) had undergone an experimental surgery that doctors had not thought was possible just months before. They created a pulmonary artery and stretched the blood vessels in Punks lungs to dramatically improve her ability to oxygenate her own blood. It had gone beyond the doctors expectations and was deemed a success in every way. Punk’s recovery had been rapid and for once, problem free.
So I was really surprised that afternoon to pick up a call from my Mom and hear her sound so worried. I figured something must have gone wrong with Punk and in less than a heartbeat I was as nervous as I had ever been.
“Your brother has been in an accident at work”, she said.
Three and a half years later that sentence still puts me into a bit of shock. I was sitting on the couch playing a video game and one instant later I had prepared myself to hear bad news about my niece. Then less than ten words are spoken and I had to slam into reverse and worry about someone else altogether.
I’m pretty sure that I blew my mental transmission right there and that’s why the rest of the day passed in kind of a blur. My youngest brother had been working for a trucking company in their freight yard, moving trailers around the docks and preparing them for shipment. Nobody knew better than me how dangerous that kind of work was and a flood of very bad thoughts crossed my mind.
“How bad is it?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“I don’t know yet”, Mom said. “But say a prayer and I’ll call you back when I know more.”
That sounded a little ominous to me, but this family had survived a trillion trips to the emergency room, and dealt with the complications of Punk’s condition, so I had little doubt that things were OK. They were always OK.
I said goodbye to Mom and hung up the phone. I told the Boss what Mom had told me, and we rounded up the kids and knelt for an impromptu family prayer. I remember asking the Lord to help us not worry, and that Uncle Ryan would be alright. I also remember feeling the Spirit wash over me the way it did when the Boss and I have made our toughest decisions. At that point there was little doubt in my mind that things were going to be OK. The Spirit had told me so, and the Boss and I hadn’t jumped off of those cliffs about school because we weren’t willing to listen to the voice of the Spirit.
Mom called back a few minutes later and said she had talked to Uncle B (Punk’s Dad) who worked at the truck yard with my brother. He had told her that the paramedics were working on him but that they were going to bring in life flight to get him to a hospital quicker.
That bit of info gave me chills, but Punk had been airlifted once, so I knew that it didn’t have to mean a matter of life and death. I told Mom about our prayer and the feelings we had and told her not to worry.
She had been up at Primary Children’s hospital sitting with Punk so Aunt L could get some rest and so she was a quick walk away from where the life flight would bring my little brother. Dad was out of town; in fact he was sitting on a plane flying home and we could not get a hold of him until he landed in Salt Lake. I didn’t want Mom to sit there by herself, so I told her I was coming.
My brother in law, in his first of many acts of unforgettable service that day, offered to go with me up to the hospital to be with Mom and the Boss could keep the kids out of the way at home. I was glad he was there; I was in shock and not in much shape to be driving. I spent the half hour talking his ear off and reassuring myself of the feelings I had during our family prayer. It was going to be alright.
We got to the hospital, found the emergency room and found my Mom standing on the porch outside the door talking to a Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Deputy. I walked out onto the porch and when the door opened, Mom turned around. Her face was twisted into a look of desperation and grief that I had never seen and never want to see again. She looked up at me and in a strong clear voice that belied her countenance said almost matter-of-factly,
“He’s gone. They couldn’t save him, and he’s gone.”
Next up: Part 5 Why I Hate TV News Reporters
Check, check and check. Here goes.
When last we met, I had just finished an Associate of Arts in English degree at Salt Lake Community College. At SLCC, I had a very good family friend who worked in Financial Aid, and she was able to find all kinds of grants and aid to keep things afloat financially. I could thank her again for eternity and never do justice to the love and support she offered us. Like many other blessings, we noticed how powerful it was only after it was gone.
I was headed for UVU and looking forward to a schedule full of classes that I wanted to take as opposed to the oft lamented general ed courses. Since I had no job, I was planning on doing 12 to 15 hours a semester. I could graduate in a year and a half that way. I had all the books for my classes weeks in advance and I had already done a good chunk of reading. It was exciting.
The week before classes started, the Boss’s brother in law came out to Salt Lake from New York where he was in law school. On the 17th of August (the fact I remember the exact date portends disaster, does it not?), he called me and asked if I’d like to hang out and play some XBOX.
Now please allow me a bit of digression here, it’s needed for background. My sister L and her husband B have three children. A son who is about a year younger than the Eldest, a daughter that is just older than Moe, and another daughter a little older than Puzilla.
L’s middle child is known (at least to this Uncle), as “Punk”. Punk is a walking, breathing, parting of the Red Sea. She was born with a chromosomal disorder called DiGeorge Syndrome. It has a host of symptoms that range from minor annoyances to catastrophically fatal heart defects. Because of this, Punk would have to be born at the University of Utah med center so that emergency surgery could be performed if necessary.
It was not the kind of news that anyone ever wants to hear. The excitement that usually comes from the anticipation of a new member of the family was dimmed by a good deal of worry and fear. It was very hard for my sister and her husband and we did what we could to assure them of our love and support.
When Punk finally arrived, her initial examinations and prognosis were mixed. Her heart was functioning enough that the doctors felt comfortable in waiting for a while to do surgery and that would give her time to build some strength. The bad news was there was a lengthy list of things that would need to be taken care of.
All of her internal organs were reversed from where they should have been, a condition known as Situs Inversus. Stuff that is supposed to be on the left was on the right and vice versa. Her tiny heart had what is called Pulmonary Atresia, a condition that means she effectively had no pulmonary artery to carry blood from the heart to the lungs to be oxygenated. All the blood vessels in her lungs were tiny and underdeveloped which resulted in her lungs being tiny and underdeveloped. In addition to all this she had a VSD or Ventricular Septral Defect. In normal person terms, tiny little Punk had a hole between the chambers of her heart the size of a quarter.
She has had more surgeries than you want to know about; all of them life threatening. After one of them she had a stroke that doctors said should have killed her; but her brain re-wired itself and she kept going even though it caused some complications she could have done without.
A few days before my brother-in-law and I sat down to play Madden 06, the Punk (who was about 5 at the time) had undergone an experimental surgery that doctors had not thought was possible just months before. They created a pulmonary artery and stretched the blood vessels in Punks lungs to dramatically improve her ability to oxygenate her own blood. It had gone beyond the doctors expectations and was deemed a success in every way. Punk’s recovery had been rapid and for once, problem free.
So I was really surprised that afternoon to pick up a call from my Mom and hear her sound so worried. I figured something must have gone wrong with Punk and in less than a heartbeat I was as nervous as I had ever been.
“Your brother has been in an accident at work”, she said.
Three and a half years later that sentence still puts me into a bit of shock. I was sitting on the couch playing a video game and one instant later I had prepared myself to hear bad news about my niece. Then less than ten words are spoken and I had to slam into reverse and worry about someone else altogether.
I’m pretty sure that I blew my mental transmission right there and that’s why the rest of the day passed in kind of a blur. My youngest brother had been working for a trucking company in their freight yard, moving trailers around the docks and preparing them for shipment. Nobody knew better than me how dangerous that kind of work was and a flood of very bad thoughts crossed my mind.
“How bad is it?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“I don’t know yet”, Mom said. “But say a prayer and I’ll call you back when I know more.”
That sounded a little ominous to me, but this family had survived a trillion trips to the emergency room, and dealt with the complications of Punk’s condition, so I had little doubt that things were OK. They were always OK.
I said goodbye to Mom and hung up the phone. I told the Boss what Mom had told me, and we rounded up the kids and knelt for an impromptu family prayer. I remember asking the Lord to help us not worry, and that Uncle Ryan would be alright. I also remember feeling the Spirit wash over me the way it did when the Boss and I have made our toughest decisions. At that point there was little doubt in my mind that things were going to be OK. The Spirit had told me so, and the Boss and I hadn’t jumped off of those cliffs about school because we weren’t willing to listen to the voice of the Spirit.
Mom called back a few minutes later and said she had talked to Uncle B (Punk’s Dad) who worked at the truck yard with my brother. He had told her that the paramedics were working on him but that they were going to bring in life flight to get him to a hospital quicker.
That bit of info gave me chills, but Punk had been airlifted once, so I knew that it didn’t have to mean a matter of life and death. I told Mom about our prayer and the feelings we had and told her not to worry.
She had been up at Primary Children’s hospital sitting with Punk so Aunt L could get some rest and so she was a quick walk away from where the life flight would bring my little brother. Dad was out of town; in fact he was sitting on a plane flying home and we could not get a hold of him until he landed in Salt Lake. I didn’t want Mom to sit there by herself, so I told her I was coming.
My brother in law, in his first of many acts of unforgettable service that day, offered to go with me up to the hospital to be with Mom and the Boss could keep the kids out of the way at home. I was glad he was there; I was in shock and not in much shape to be driving. I spent the half hour talking his ear off and reassuring myself of the feelings I had during our family prayer. It was going to be alright.
We got to the hospital, found the emergency room and found my Mom standing on the porch outside the door talking to a Salt Lake County Sheriff’s Deputy. I walked out onto the porch and when the door opened, Mom turned around. Her face was twisted into a look of desperation and grief that I had never seen and never want to see again. She looked up at me and in a strong clear voice that belied her countenance said almost matter-of-factly,
“He’s gone. They couldn’t save him, and he’s gone.”
Next up: Part 5 Why I Hate TV News Reporters
Monday, December 28, 2009
One More Reason Not to Go Green
I'm still waiting for Al Gore and his henchmen to begin the crusade against the Mongolian Gerbil hordes. So far, not a squeak. And this week, I found further evidence that going green is actually hazardous to our health.
My niece, who lives in Kansas, is back in Utah with her husband for the holidays. Her husband started getting a sore throat and within a day he was in intensive care at the hospital.
According to the doctors, he had an advanced case of strep throat that had spread and attacked his epiglottis; that little flap of tissue that closes off the passage to the lungs when we swallow food. In his case, the tissue had swelled to an enormous size, and was practically shutting off his airway all the time. They were worried that it was going to close completely and he'd suffocate.
Didn't sound all that fun to me.
As it was, the doctors were amazed that he was able to keep breathing with the infection as bad as it was. Most people with that degree of swelling tend to croak. (Hey, that's the best pun I've had in minutes, and even I didn't even see it until I went back to proof read. I don't know where they come from, it's like a gift or something...).
The Doctor asked him if he was originally from Kansas and when he was told that he grew up in Utah, the doctor said, "Oh, that explains it. Years of living in the valley and adapting to the constant inversions have strengthened the tissue of your epiglottis and improved your response to respiratory distress. That's how come you were able to keep moving the swollen tissue to breath."
In other words, if it hadn't been for the inversion, my niece's husband would probably be dead. Instead of destroying the human race as Al continues to insist, it may be adapting us into a race of super humans, able to breath when lesser men would keel over and die!
Global Warming indeed.
Death to Gerbils!
My niece, who lives in Kansas, is back in Utah with her husband for the holidays. Her husband started getting a sore throat and within a day he was in intensive care at the hospital.
According to the doctors, he had an advanced case of strep throat that had spread and attacked his epiglottis; that little flap of tissue that closes off the passage to the lungs when we swallow food. In his case, the tissue had swelled to an enormous size, and was practically shutting off his airway all the time. They were worried that it was going to close completely and he'd suffocate.
Didn't sound all that fun to me.
As it was, the doctors were amazed that he was able to keep breathing with the infection as bad as it was. Most people with that degree of swelling tend to croak. (Hey, that's the best pun I've had in minutes, and even I didn't even see it until I went back to proof read. I don't know where they come from, it's like a gift or something...).
The Doctor asked him if he was originally from Kansas and when he was told that he grew up in Utah, the doctor said, "Oh, that explains it. Years of living in the valley and adapting to the constant inversions have strengthened the tissue of your epiglottis and improved your response to respiratory distress. That's how come you were able to keep moving the swollen tissue to breath."
In other words, if it hadn't been for the inversion, my niece's husband would probably be dead. Instead of destroying the human race as Al continues to insist, it may be adapting us into a race of super humans, able to breath when lesser men would keel over and die!
Global Warming indeed.
Death to Gerbils!
Ton of Bits
OK, here's one brought to you by the "Ghost of Destruction Past". Squizzle has been growing like a weed lately and like all one year olds, he likes to grab stuff and hit things. So we got him one of those little hammer and peg sets and Santa brought him a xylophone (what was he thinking?) and a few other toys he could weaponize for battle with his siblings.
He loved the unwrapping part, and he did have a good time with the paper. But unlike the other kids when they were small, he was actually interested in what was in the paper. He grabbed the hammer and started banging away on the pegs. His coordination still isn't that good so he spends a good deal of time missing, but he is in heaven. Watching him play with the toy reminded me of a very funny story.
When my youngest brother was only a little older than Squizzle, he had a similar toy hammer set. He loved that thing and would happily spend all day pushing those wooden pegs from one side of the board to the other. At some point, he began chanting something while he was swinging away. This in itself was very funny, kind of a kindergarten chain gang thing. "Gonna dig me a hole...."
Anyway, after a while, it became clearer what he was saying. He'd hit the peg and then say "Ton of bits". We all figured he was pretending to smash the peg into smithereens.
Then one day, Dad was in the basement doing some home improvement project or other and he hit his thumb with the hammer.
"Son of a...."
And from nowhere, my little brother came tearing into the room with his little toy hammer shouting at the top of his lungs
"Ton of Bits! Ton of Bits! Ton of Bits"
Close to twenty five years later, it's still funny. But I'm watching Squizzle like a hawk. Whatever he says, he didn't hear it from me. Honest, Mom.
I Have Returned...
What a week. It's been a while since I spent any time writing, but it wasn't for a lack of material. I had my camera and a pen with me most of the time, and I wrote down half a dozen ideas for future posts. When I started this blog, I figured that I had enough stories to last a week or so. Not much of a worry anymore.
After a few visits from the "Ghost of Destruction Past" combined with the ever current destruction of the Present, I have no worries that I can type inexhorably towards the unavoidable destruction of my Future. Clarence the Angel might be able to keep me from jumping off of the bridge, but he can't stop the runts from pushing me!
Rather than one lengthy post that will take a month to write and read, I think that I'll break it up into smaller bits and that way if I have to walk away, I won't leave anything half finished. I will also start work on History of the Blog Part 4 today, so both of you who are interested will get more soon.
Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and if you got coal, I hope it came with a stove to burn it in.
After a few visits from the "Ghost of Destruction Past" combined with the ever current destruction of the Present, I have no worries that I can type inexhorably towards the unavoidable destruction of my Future. Clarence the Angel might be able to keep me from jumping off of the bridge, but he can't stop the runts from pushing me!
Rather than one lengthy post that will take a month to write and read, I think that I'll break it up into smaller bits and that way if I have to walk away, I won't leave anything half finished. I will also start work on History of the Blog Part 4 today, so both of you who are interested will get more soon.
Hope you all had a Merry Christmas and if you got coal, I hope it came with a stove to burn it in.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
WooHoo!
Sometime between when I went to bed at 3 and now, the visitor counter went over a hundred. Who knew so many people needed the literary equivalent of epicac?
Barf if you want, I don't mind.
I saw that I got some hits from far away places where cousins, aunts and uncles and other family are, and I imagine that with the holiday, people have more time to read silliness and news flashes. If you haven't been here before, welcome to the nuthouse that is my life. If you're coming back for more, you need psyciatric help more than I do.
If you want a good laugh, you really ought to go to the post called "Dad has two heart attacks, or why kids shouldn't watch Superwhy". I still laugh when I think about it, and I know I'll never write anything better than that. It was too good to make up.
And by way of review for those not here from the start, My kids are: The Eldest, Moe, Puzilla, Peff and Squizzle. My wife is the Boss, my sister is Beak and her kids, who I watch most weekdays, are Reaggers and Bub.
Comment all you want on what you read, because if you don't, my therapist thinks I'm talking to my self too much and evidence that you are paying attention earns me extra time in the exercise yard.
It's time to get packed up and head off to the family activities, so Merry Christmas to all of you!
Barf if you want, I don't mind.
I saw that I got some hits from far away places where cousins, aunts and uncles and other family are, and I imagine that with the holiday, people have more time to read silliness and news flashes. If you haven't been here before, welcome to the nuthouse that is my life. If you're coming back for more, you need psyciatric help more than I do.
If you want a good laugh, you really ought to go to the post called "Dad has two heart attacks, or why kids shouldn't watch Superwhy". I still laugh when I think about it, and I know I'll never write anything better than that. It was too good to make up.
And by way of review for those not here from the start, My kids are: The Eldest, Moe, Puzilla, Peff and Squizzle. My wife is the Boss, my sister is Beak and her kids, who I watch most weekdays, are Reaggers and Bub.
Comment all you want on what you read, because if you don't, my therapist thinks I'm talking to my self too much and evidence that you are paying attention earns me extra time in the exercise yard.
It's time to get packed up and head off to the family activities, so Merry Christmas to all of you!
A Merry Christmas to All of You!
Well, the marshmallow popcorn is delivered, most of the wrapping is done, and the Boss has only one more nightgown to sew. And it's only 2:30 A.M. Nice. Good thing I never do anything, or I might not have the energy for this (wink, wink; nod, nod)kind of work.
I enjoyed the heck out of Tuesday's bowl game, it was nice to see the Coug's drop a hammer on somebody. Nothing Oregon State did went right, and I'd have felt sorry for them if the two BYU games I attended this year hadn't been Florida State and TCU. How's that for bad Karma?
So even though I could sympathize with Beaver fans, I'm not going to lose any sleep over their displeasure. They'll find some excuse for it; it was the wind, or a hangover from the civil war loss, or too much time at the black jack tables. Anything but the second best team in the MWC taking the second best team in the Pac 10 out to the woodshed for an education.
I must confess that I have not worked on my "History of the Blog" series for a couple of days now. I told you all before that I'm waiting for a little bit before I give up procrastinating. Besides, if I'm up until three wrapping, I'm lucky to have time to post this mindless little drivel.
I know for a fact that part four is going to be the most difficult segment for me to write and I am not sure that I want to rehash those things right in the middle of the happiest time of the year. Let me get through Christmas and I'll put some effort into telling it like it was. Again, sorry if I've left you hanging.
On a Runt related item, I had a fun experience this morning. Beak was on her last day of work today. I was up until 3 last night as well, wrapping and cleaning up the kitchen from the popcorn (Since it was mostly the Boss and Beak who made the stuff while I watched the game, the least I could do was the dishes), and I was shredded when the kids got here this morning. I set Squizzle in his crib with a bottle, told the kids to stay out of things and went to get dressed. I came back upstairs and caught Bub with an open bag of popcorn, after I had already asked him at least three times to stay out of it. So I swatted him on the backside and set him in the corner. He didn't cry, didn't blink, didn't say a word.
I asked him, "Why can't you stay out of things when I tell you no?"
He looked up at me with a face that can only be described as cherubic. He stared me right in the eyes... and wet his pants. On purpose. Right there in the corner of the living room. It was one of the best "bite me" moments I have ever seen and I'd have laughed at his creative version of "get bent" if I'd had more than an hours worth of sleep.
But I did only have an hours worth of sleep, so I just shook my head, changed his pants and got on the computer and put my horde of destroying angels up for sale on EBAY.
There are no takers.
Enough. It's three A.M. on Christmas Eve morning and I know I won't get another chance to sleep until early January.
I hope you all had a happy Christmas Adam yesterday, and have a wonderful Christmas Eve today, and may Santa visit every one of your houses with piles and piles. Gifts or Coal is up to you.
Merry Christmas!
I enjoyed the heck out of Tuesday's bowl game, it was nice to see the Coug's drop a hammer on somebody. Nothing Oregon State did went right, and I'd have felt sorry for them if the two BYU games I attended this year hadn't been Florida State and TCU. How's that for bad Karma?
So even though I could sympathize with Beaver fans, I'm not going to lose any sleep over their displeasure. They'll find some excuse for it; it was the wind, or a hangover from the civil war loss, or too much time at the black jack tables. Anything but the second best team in the MWC taking the second best team in the Pac 10 out to the woodshed for an education.
I must confess that I have not worked on my "History of the Blog" series for a couple of days now. I told you all before that I'm waiting for a little bit before I give up procrastinating. Besides, if I'm up until three wrapping, I'm lucky to have time to post this mindless little drivel.
I know for a fact that part four is going to be the most difficult segment for me to write and I am not sure that I want to rehash those things right in the middle of the happiest time of the year. Let me get through Christmas and I'll put some effort into telling it like it was. Again, sorry if I've left you hanging.
On a Runt related item, I had a fun experience this morning. Beak was on her last day of work today. I was up until 3 last night as well, wrapping and cleaning up the kitchen from the popcorn (Since it was mostly the Boss and Beak who made the stuff while I watched the game, the least I could do was the dishes), and I was shredded when the kids got here this morning. I set Squizzle in his crib with a bottle, told the kids to stay out of things and went to get dressed. I came back upstairs and caught Bub with an open bag of popcorn, after I had already asked him at least three times to stay out of it. So I swatted him on the backside and set him in the corner. He didn't cry, didn't blink, didn't say a word.
I asked him, "Why can't you stay out of things when I tell you no?"
He looked up at me with a face that can only be described as cherubic. He stared me right in the eyes... and wet his pants. On purpose. Right there in the corner of the living room. It was one of the best "bite me" moments I have ever seen and I'd have laughed at his creative version of "get bent" if I'd had more than an hours worth of sleep.
But I did only have an hours worth of sleep, so I just shook my head, changed his pants and got on the computer and put my horde of destroying angels up for sale on EBAY.
There are no takers.
Enough. It's three A.M. on Christmas Eve morning and I know I won't get another chance to sleep until early January.
I hope you all had a happy Christmas Adam yesterday, and have a wonderful Christmas Eve today, and may Santa visit every one of your houses with piles and piles. Gifts or Coal is up to you.
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Oh, Crap, I'm out of time!
The Boss starts her Christmas vacation today!!! And boy oh boy have we got a lot to do. Beak is working this morning and then we are going to make marshmallow popcorn today. Preparing this traditional awesomeness on a day other than Christmas Eve is blasphemy and a mortal sin. But I called my mother, who happens to be a Saint (don't you love that about us Mormons? EVERYBODY gets to be a Saint), and she said I'd be forgiven for starting early.
I don't really have a choice. Our list hit sixty plus this year, and we don't have time to spend all day at mom and dad's, deliver sixty bags of popcorn in addition to all the names on everyone else's lists and still get to the Boss's mom and dad's in time for their traditional dinner. By doing our deliveries ahead of time we save ourselves a lot of rushing around on a day that is supposed to be celebratory.
But it means moving the zoo to today. Between last minute prep, popcorn and the two BYU games on TV (Let's make sure our priorities are straight here), I don't think that I'm going to have the time to devote to an installment of History of the Blog. I might rush one up if it were any other post, but a post titled "Worst Day of My Life" is going to require a little time to get right. I also have to edit and post a short story that goes along with it, so it will be at least tomorrow before I continue that series.
Sorry to leave you hanging.
I'll snap some pictures of Popcorn Fest '09 and post if anything on the level of "Two Heart Attacks" comes up, otherwise, I'll post again tomorrow to wish you all a happy Christmas Adam.
Merry Christmas!
I don't really have a choice. Our list hit sixty plus this year, and we don't have time to spend all day at mom and dad's, deliver sixty bags of popcorn in addition to all the names on everyone else's lists and still get to the Boss's mom and dad's in time for their traditional dinner. By doing our deliveries ahead of time we save ourselves a lot of rushing around on a day that is supposed to be celebratory.
But it means moving the zoo to today. Between last minute prep, popcorn and the two BYU games on TV (Let's make sure our priorities are straight here), I don't think that I'm going to have the time to devote to an installment of History of the Blog. I might rush one up if it were any other post, but a post titled "Worst Day of My Life" is going to require a little time to get right. I also have to edit and post a short story that goes along with it, so it will be at least tomorrow before I continue that series.
Sorry to leave you hanging.
I'll snap some pictures of Popcorn Fest '09 and post if anything on the level of "Two Heart Attacks" comes up, otherwise, I'll post again tomorrow to wish you all a happy Christmas Adam.
Merry Christmas!
Monday, December 21, 2009
History of the Blog, Part 3: Are You a Tank?
One of my all-time favorite movies is Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey. It’s another one of those cult classic films that not a lot of people remember exists, but that I can recite word for word.
Yeah, I know. I can’t remember my own birthday half the time but I can remember entire movies that I haven’t watched since high school. It’s called selective memory, and mine selects “Useless”. It’s really sad, but then so am I.
Both the Bill and Ted movies are awesome, but the second one is my favorite. The guys get themselves killed by evil robot Bill and Teds from the future. It’s very complicated and I don’t have the space to explain it all. But if you haven’t seen them they are required watching before you can continue reading any more of this blog.
Seriously. Go watch them. Right now. We’ll wait.
Naturally, the boys wind up headed straight to hell. They find themselves falling down a large pit. Both of them are screaming like little girls. They keep falling and screaming. They run out of breath. They inhale and start screaming again, falling all the while.
Finally, Bill turns to Ted and says, “Dude! This is a totally deep hole!”
Ted: “Yeah. You wanna play twenty questions?”
Bill: “Are you an animal, a vegetable or a mineral?”
Ted: “Mineral”
Bill: “Are you a tank?”
Ted: “Dude! You totally guessed it!”
They high five and cheer and then they look at each other, look down, and then start screaming again. After another 5 or 10 seconds, they hit the rock hard ground with a horrible thud.
I know the feeling.
More than once since we jumped into the bottomless pit called “go back to school”, have I turned to the Boss and commented, “Dude, this is a totally deep hole.” We just keep screaming and falling. Most days, it feels less like free fall and more like when Homer Simpson tried to jump the Grand Canyon on a skate board and bounced off every rock, outcropping and ledge on the way to the floor.
Seriously, if there is an obstacle in our path to wherever it is the Lord wants us, we have usually overcome it by smashing into it at terminal velocity. It gives “Going through trials” a whole new meaning. Of course going through trials is never as easy as going around them, but you definitely find out how tough you are when you try to imitate Wile E. Coyote.
Now when I stopped the last post, the Boss and I had just jumped. I quit my job, and somehow managed to keep from using Grandpa’s “tin beak” line when I did; but it wasn’t for lack of a desire. I was trying to follow the Spirit and burning bridges didn’t seem like it would help move the process along. I know it was the right way to handle it but I regret the necessity. I even agreed to hang around and helped train my replacement, though to this day I regret it. I felt used.
To top it off, I later learned that within six months the things that were irritating me so badly were all cleared up, my replacement had been hired at more than I would have made even with a raise, and the business moved from the other side of the valley to a shop that is less than five minutes from my house. It was enough
to make me go back and ask the Lord one more time to remind me I was doing what he wanted because the lines of communication suddenly appeared a little fuzzier than they had seemed when we made our decision.
I got confirmation again that yes, I had done right. So I guess learning that my old problems had cleared was a way to tell me that something really, really good is going to come of all this and the Lord just needed a reason to push me along toward it. Otherwise, he could have told me to stay and things might have been pretty sweet. But like I've said, there were reasons for this whole experiment and I had no way to comprehend them at the time.
So now what?
One of my real passions is wrestling. I love it. When I die and find myself with a little time to kill before the Boss gets Translated, I hope to find that the Celestial Kingdom is a big building with 150 mats and everyday is a Saturday afternoon. (Football will be shown on the massive jumbotron above the mats, and they hang the newest Cubbies world championship banner between rounds. And my eyes will be good enough I can sit in the back of the gym if I want and still see everything)
In my opinion, the best thing about wrestling is that it teaches you the values and ethics you need to get your Man Card. Hard work, dedication, perseverance, self control, team work, honesty and respect. The things that most guys learn in scouts, I learned in wrestling. I spent every day of every winter from the time I was 5 until I graduated high school practicing under the greatest wrestling coach that ever picked up a whistle in the state of Utah. I knew his practice schedule by heart and I learned all the moves a champion needed, even if I didn’t personally have the ability to always perform them.
My coach was always more concerned about what kind of person you were becoming than how good a wrestler you may be. When I thought about it, the off chance I might be able to help kids as much as he helped me was enough to convince me. I wanted to be like him.
I had made attempts to get into coaching over the years and loved every minute that I got, but to have a realistic shot at becoming a wrestling coach I needed to become a teacher. This was good news for me, because teaching is one of the other things that I love to do.
I guess I finally knew what I wanted to be if I ever grew up. Good for me! It only took three decades. I could coach wrestling and teach.
I put two and two together and came up with five and decided that I better not try to teach math. I love literature and I love poetry, and surprise! I love to write. So English seemed like a pretty solid choice. I told the Boss of my brilliant plan and we prayed about it. I told the Lord I wanted to become a teacher. I figure he has a little sympathy for me as He himself was a teacher by profession and so in what was one of the strongest spiritual experiences I have ever had, we got confirmation that I should do it.
I got enrolled at SLCC and found out that I had dropped out of school only about ten credits short of an AA degree. I know. It was a sin that just keeps paying off in pain, ain’t it? I took a couple of extra semesters to get back into the flow of things and get some lower level English classes taken care of at a school where the tuition was cheaper. And also something about the three bone-head math classes that were required to just get me eligible for Math 1010 (I told you two and two was five).
To try and shorten an already very long story, one of God’s greatest miracles occurred on the day in the spring of 2006 when I passed Math 1010. I had my AA degree in English. I did my very best “Tommy Boy” impersonation running across the quad at SLCC and turned several cartwheels in the living room when I got home, much to the delight of the girls.
I next had to decide where to transfer to finish my degree. In my infamous past, I had been at the U and one of the reasons I used for dropping out was that I found myself using most of my time defending my apparently irrational decision to be a Mormon. I could write another post on all the stupidity I dealt with from professors while I was there, but suffice it to say that I came by my Hatred (yeah Max, me too) of the U honestly.
I understand if you are a Ute (Two of my sisters inexplicably married some of them) and I agree that you have your agency. I love you anyway, but I’m not changing my mind. I really Hate that place.
It may make you feel better that while I'm a fan of the sports teams, I don’t care that much for BYU as a school. I know I wouldn’t last ten minutes there. No Cokes? Thanks but no. Not to mention, the Boss was keeping us afloat; not wealthy. No way could we afford tuition at that joint.
Then I discovered Utah Valley. I loved the place from the second I went to check it out. Geographically it’s closer to Provo than Salt Lake, and philosophically it’s the same way. I could be openly Mormon in a class and not get docked grades, but I could wear a beard and swear if I felt like it. It wasn’t quite BYU but it was far from Utah. For transport, I could catch a bus at the Sandy Trax that dropped my on the front porch, and a bus pass came with tuition. Best of all, even though my eligibility was long gone, they have the only collegiate wrestling team in the state. In short, it is the perfect university. Go wolverines!
We prayed about it again to make sure, and then I enrolled for the fall semester of 2006.
And that’s when the proverbial excrement went into the rapidly rotating oscillator.
Next Up: Part 4 Worst Day of My Life
Yeah, I know. I can’t remember my own birthday half the time but I can remember entire movies that I haven’t watched since high school. It’s called selective memory, and mine selects “Useless”. It’s really sad, but then so am I.
Both the Bill and Ted movies are awesome, but the second one is my favorite. The guys get themselves killed by evil robot Bill and Teds from the future. It’s very complicated and I don’t have the space to explain it all. But if you haven’t seen them they are required watching before you can continue reading any more of this blog.
Seriously. Go watch them. Right now. We’ll wait.
Naturally, the boys wind up headed straight to hell. They find themselves falling down a large pit. Both of them are screaming like little girls. They keep falling and screaming. They run out of breath. They inhale and start screaming again, falling all the while.
Finally, Bill turns to Ted and says, “Dude! This is a totally deep hole!”
Ted: “Yeah. You wanna play twenty questions?”
Bill: “Are you an animal, a vegetable or a mineral?”
Ted: “Mineral”
Bill: “Are you a tank?”
Ted: “Dude! You totally guessed it!”
They high five and cheer and then they look at each other, look down, and then start screaming again. After another 5 or 10 seconds, they hit the rock hard ground with a horrible thud.
I know the feeling.
More than once since we jumped into the bottomless pit called “go back to school”, have I turned to the Boss and commented, “Dude, this is a totally deep hole.” We just keep screaming and falling. Most days, it feels less like free fall and more like when Homer Simpson tried to jump the Grand Canyon on a skate board and bounced off every rock, outcropping and ledge on the way to the floor.
Seriously, if there is an obstacle in our path to wherever it is the Lord wants us, we have usually overcome it by smashing into it at terminal velocity. It gives “Going through trials” a whole new meaning. Of course going through trials is never as easy as going around them, but you definitely find out how tough you are when you try to imitate Wile E. Coyote.
Now when I stopped the last post, the Boss and I had just jumped. I quit my job, and somehow managed to keep from using Grandpa’s “tin beak” line when I did; but it wasn’t for lack of a desire. I was trying to follow the Spirit and burning bridges didn’t seem like it would help move the process along. I know it was the right way to handle it but I regret the necessity. I even agreed to hang around and helped train my replacement, though to this day I regret it. I felt used.
To top it off, I later learned that within six months the things that were irritating me so badly were all cleared up, my replacement had been hired at more than I would have made even with a raise, and the business moved from the other side of the valley to a shop that is less than five minutes from my house. It was enough
to make me go back and ask the Lord one more time to remind me I was doing what he wanted because the lines of communication suddenly appeared a little fuzzier than they had seemed when we made our decision.
I got confirmation again that yes, I had done right. So I guess learning that my old problems had cleared was a way to tell me that something really, really good is going to come of all this and the Lord just needed a reason to push me along toward it. Otherwise, he could have told me to stay and things might have been pretty sweet. But like I've said, there were reasons for this whole experiment and I had no way to comprehend them at the time.
So now what?
One of my real passions is wrestling. I love it. When I die and find myself with a little time to kill before the Boss gets Translated, I hope to find that the Celestial Kingdom is a big building with 150 mats and everyday is a Saturday afternoon. (Football will be shown on the massive jumbotron above the mats, and they hang the newest Cubbies world championship banner between rounds. And my eyes will be good enough I can sit in the back of the gym if I want and still see everything)
In my opinion, the best thing about wrestling is that it teaches you the values and ethics you need to get your Man Card. Hard work, dedication, perseverance, self control, team work, honesty and respect. The things that most guys learn in scouts, I learned in wrestling. I spent every day of every winter from the time I was 5 until I graduated high school practicing under the greatest wrestling coach that ever picked up a whistle in the state of Utah. I knew his practice schedule by heart and I learned all the moves a champion needed, even if I didn’t personally have the ability to always perform them.
My coach was always more concerned about what kind of person you were becoming than how good a wrestler you may be. When I thought about it, the off chance I might be able to help kids as much as he helped me was enough to convince me. I wanted to be like him.
I had made attempts to get into coaching over the years and loved every minute that I got, but to have a realistic shot at becoming a wrestling coach I needed to become a teacher. This was good news for me, because teaching is one of the other things that I love to do.
I guess I finally knew what I wanted to be if I ever grew up. Good for me! It only took three decades. I could coach wrestling and teach.
I put two and two together and came up with five and decided that I better not try to teach math. I love literature and I love poetry, and surprise! I love to write. So English seemed like a pretty solid choice. I told the Boss of my brilliant plan and we prayed about it. I told the Lord I wanted to become a teacher. I figure he has a little sympathy for me as He himself was a teacher by profession and so in what was one of the strongest spiritual experiences I have ever had, we got confirmation that I should do it.
I got enrolled at SLCC and found out that I had dropped out of school only about ten credits short of an AA degree. I know. It was a sin that just keeps paying off in pain, ain’t it? I took a couple of extra semesters to get back into the flow of things and get some lower level English classes taken care of at a school where the tuition was cheaper. And also something about the three bone-head math classes that were required to just get me eligible for Math 1010 (I told you two and two was five).
To try and shorten an already very long story, one of God’s greatest miracles occurred on the day in the spring of 2006 when I passed Math 1010. I had my AA degree in English. I did my very best “Tommy Boy” impersonation running across the quad at SLCC and turned several cartwheels in the living room when I got home, much to the delight of the girls.
I next had to decide where to transfer to finish my degree. In my infamous past, I had been at the U and one of the reasons I used for dropping out was that I found myself using most of my time defending my apparently irrational decision to be a Mormon. I could write another post on all the stupidity I dealt with from professors while I was there, but suffice it to say that I came by my Hatred (yeah Max, me too) of the U honestly.
I understand if you are a Ute (Two of my sisters inexplicably married some of them) and I agree that you have your agency. I love you anyway, but I’m not changing my mind. I really Hate that place.
It may make you feel better that while I'm a fan of the sports teams, I don’t care that much for BYU as a school. I know I wouldn’t last ten minutes there. No Cokes? Thanks but no. Not to mention, the Boss was keeping us afloat; not wealthy. No way could we afford tuition at that joint.
Then I discovered Utah Valley. I loved the place from the second I went to check it out. Geographically it’s closer to Provo than Salt Lake, and philosophically it’s the same way. I could be openly Mormon in a class and not get docked grades, but I could wear a beard and swear if I felt like it. It wasn’t quite BYU but it was far from Utah. For transport, I could catch a bus at the Sandy Trax that dropped my on the front porch, and a bus pass came with tuition. Best of all, even though my eligibility was long gone, they have the only collegiate wrestling team in the state. In short, it is the perfect university. Go wolverines!
We prayed about it again to make sure, and then I enrolled for the fall semester of 2006.
And that’s when the proverbial excrement went into the rapidly rotating oscillator.
Next Up: Part 4 Worst Day of My Life
Saturday, December 19, 2009
History of the Blog, Part 2: Jumping Off a Cliff
I try hard to be like Nephi, and I love to “liken the scriptures” unto myself (1 Nephi 19:23). There is a journey to discipleship and the “straight and narrow path” isn’t just a clever nickname. The narrowness of the way means that each of us are going to go past some common landmarks on our path to discipleship, and when we read the stories in the Bible and the Book of Mormon, we can see the prophets whom we love go through the same kinds of trials and tribulations that we do. It’s helpful to me to know that guys like Nephi had to fight some of the same battles I am fighting.
1 Nephi 2:16 is a current favorite scripture of mine because Nephi says that when he prayed, the Lord “did soften my heart…wherefore I did not rebel against him [Lehi] like unto my brothers.”
That word; soften. It tells me something about Nephi. He wasn’t all that pleased to be dropping everything he had to start slogging off into the wilderness. But once he got the confirmation from the Lord, he did what he was told. It was a small first step for him, and one that prepared him for a bigger leap of faith later. His testimony got stronger, and it’s not long after this that the Lord asks him to go back to Jerusalem.
I’ll bet he wasn’t all that keen on this idea, either, but that is when he issues his famous “I will go and do” declaration that every primary child knows by heart. He had to start with little steps and trust. Then he takes a bigger step, and trusts some more. Then just when he figures he’s got a grip on this whole “follow the Spirit” thing, he comes to a real doozey of a step.
Nephi has been obedient, and before the words of his promise to “go and do” are out of his mouth, he gets tested with a string of faith building, perseverance testing circumstances.
Go get the brass plates. Laban says no.
Go try to buy the brass plates. Laban says, I’m gonna kill you.
Go get the brass plates anyway. His brothers turn on him and say THEY are gonna kill him.
At what point do you figure Nephi wanted to look at the sky and say, “Come on! Where are we going with this? ” He had to be wondering why the Lord was putting him through so many trials.
Couldn’t the Lord have struck Laban dumb, like Korihor, and then let Nephi take the plates the first time they asked? For that matter, couldn’t the Lord have provided a way for Lehi to go get them BEFORE they even left Jerusalem?
Of course he could, but He knew that Nephi needed these little trials of faith to prepare him for the really big jumps that were coming up.
It must have been tough to go back to Laban’s house. But Nephi had learned to trust the voice of the Spirit when it came to him. “I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do” (1 Nephi 4:6). That is not a particularly comfortable position to be in, not knowing what the Lord has in mind for you to do, but running toward it anyway.
And the Spirit leads Nephi right up to the figurative edge of a big, deep, bottomless cliff that is filled with fog and says to the boy, “Jump”.
Kill Laban and take the plates.
And this is where Nephi goes from just having a testimony to being a Disciple. Instead of saying “I don’t kill anybody, no way, no how”, he trusts the Spirit that he recognizes from that day weeks or months before when his heart was softened and he got his testimony.
He’s not all that happy about it, though. “I shrunk and would that I might not slay him.”
In effect, Nephi says, “That ain’t what you taught me in Sunday School!”
The Spirit then explains to Nephi that there are circumstances that require him to do this difficult thing, one that he never thought he’d be asked to do. And the reason was the spiritual well-being of his family; their need for spiritual nourishment versus Laban’s repeated refusal to obey the commandments of God.
It had to be this way, even though Nephi didn’t like it, the Lord didn’t like it, and Laban sure as heck didn’t like it.
And it is my opinion that the reason Nephi was able to jump into the abyss and do the things that were asked of him was because he had learned to hear and trust the Lord when he was asked to do little things, like leave home. His trust grew to the point that when the Lord asked him to do one of the things that he really, really didn’t want to, his faith and trust saved him from damnation.
Now I tell this, not because I want to hold an online Sunday School class, or preach a sermon. I tell it because the Boss and I got a chance to relate to Nephi in the early part of 2005.
As I explained in Part 1, work had been going badly and I was coming to the realization that I needed a change. I had mixed feelings about it, because I was only about one small raise away from letting the Boss quit her job altogether and be a stay at home Mom, which is all she has ever wanted.
Part, but not all, of why I wanted to leave was that when I went in for my wage review that January I was told I was doing a great job, but there would be no raise for me anyway. It meant the Boss wasn't going to be able to quit, and it shook my faith in just how far ambition and want-to was going to be able to take me. It felt like a kick in the face, and combined with the other things that were going on, I started looking for a tin beak.
The more I looked at the situation, the more convinced I became that I needed a change. The more I thought about change, the more I realized that one warehouse job is pretty much like the next. The day I asked my shop buddy for a tin beak was the day it dawned on me that the only way I was ever going to get out of the mess I was in was to go back to school.
We fasted, prayed, went to the Temple, and waited for an answer. Almost immediately, the Boss had a chance at a promotion and a big time raise. We prayed about that, and the Spirit led us right up to the edge of a big, deep, bottomless cliff that was filled with fog and says to us, “Jump”.
Let the Boss take the promotion and support the family, while you go back to school.
And our response? “That ain’t what you taught us in Sunday School!”
Just like Nephi, though, we got an explanation. The reason was the spiritual well-being of our family; our need for the spiritual and temporal nourishment that can only be provided by a full time mom versus the impossibility of this blessing coming to pass as long as I was minus a college degree. It had to be this way for me to get one, even though I didn’t like it, the Lord didn’t like it, and the Boss sure as heck didn’t like it.
To my mind, it was a whole lot like getting asked to slay Laban. In fact, “Slaying Laban” was nearly the title of this blog, but I didn’t think anyone would get the joke. Here was the Lord asking us (and in particular, the Boss) to do the one thing we absolutely, positively did not want to do.
Who knew the consequences of 1997 would come back to bite me nearly a decade down the road? (I mean other than my Father, Father-in-law, and pretty much every other responsible adult who knew me then?)
Just like Nephi, we weren’t all that happy to drop all that we had to go slogging off into an unknown wilderness just because the Lord said so. But we did what we had learned to do when the leap of faith wasn’t quite so steep.
We jumped.
I quit.
Surely, underneath all this fog, the Lord had provided a parachute, a trampoline, a big splashdown pool…something. Maybe it was going to be like Indiana Jones, and we’d step down onto a camouflaged pathway a foot and a half below the edge.
Yeah.
Riiighhhtt!
Next up: Part 3 Are You a Tank?
1 Nephi 2:16 is a current favorite scripture of mine because Nephi says that when he prayed, the Lord “did soften my heart…wherefore I did not rebel against him [Lehi] like unto my brothers.”
That word; soften. It tells me something about Nephi. He wasn’t all that pleased to be dropping everything he had to start slogging off into the wilderness. But once he got the confirmation from the Lord, he did what he was told. It was a small first step for him, and one that prepared him for a bigger leap of faith later. His testimony got stronger, and it’s not long after this that the Lord asks him to go back to Jerusalem.
I’ll bet he wasn’t all that keen on this idea, either, but that is when he issues his famous “I will go and do” declaration that every primary child knows by heart. He had to start with little steps and trust. Then he takes a bigger step, and trusts some more. Then just when he figures he’s got a grip on this whole “follow the Spirit” thing, he comes to a real doozey of a step.
Nephi has been obedient, and before the words of his promise to “go and do” are out of his mouth, he gets tested with a string of faith building, perseverance testing circumstances.
Go get the brass plates. Laban says no.
Go try to buy the brass plates. Laban says, I’m gonna kill you.
Go get the brass plates anyway. His brothers turn on him and say THEY are gonna kill him.
At what point do you figure Nephi wanted to look at the sky and say, “Come on! Where are we going with this? ” He had to be wondering why the Lord was putting him through so many trials.
Couldn’t the Lord have struck Laban dumb, like Korihor, and then let Nephi take the plates the first time they asked? For that matter, couldn’t the Lord have provided a way for Lehi to go get them BEFORE they even left Jerusalem?
Of course he could, but He knew that Nephi needed these little trials of faith to prepare him for the really big jumps that were coming up.
It must have been tough to go back to Laban’s house. But Nephi had learned to trust the voice of the Spirit when it came to him. “I was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do” (1 Nephi 4:6). That is not a particularly comfortable position to be in, not knowing what the Lord has in mind for you to do, but running toward it anyway.
And the Spirit leads Nephi right up to the figurative edge of a big, deep, bottomless cliff that is filled with fog and says to the boy, “Jump”.
Kill Laban and take the plates.
And this is where Nephi goes from just having a testimony to being a Disciple. Instead of saying “I don’t kill anybody, no way, no how”, he trusts the Spirit that he recognizes from that day weeks or months before when his heart was softened and he got his testimony.
He’s not all that happy about it, though. “I shrunk and would that I might not slay him.”
In effect, Nephi says, “That ain’t what you taught me in Sunday School!”
The Spirit then explains to Nephi that there are circumstances that require him to do this difficult thing, one that he never thought he’d be asked to do. And the reason was the spiritual well-being of his family; their need for spiritual nourishment versus Laban’s repeated refusal to obey the commandments of God.
It had to be this way, even though Nephi didn’t like it, the Lord didn’t like it, and Laban sure as heck didn’t like it.
And it is my opinion that the reason Nephi was able to jump into the abyss and do the things that were asked of him was because he had learned to hear and trust the Lord when he was asked to do little things, like leave home. His trust grew to the point that when the Lord asked him to do one of the things that he really, really didn’t want to, his faith and trust saved him from damnation.
Now I tell this, not because I want to hold an online Sunday School class, or preach a sermon. I tell it because the Boss and I got a chance to relate to Nephi in the early part of 2005.
As I explained in Part 1, work had been going badly and I was coming to the realization that I needed a change. I had mixed feelings about it, because I was only about one small raise away from letting the Boss quit her job altogether and be a stay at home Mom, which is all she has ever wanted.
Part, but not all, of why I wanted to leave was that when I went in for my wage review that January I was told I was doing a great job, but there would be no raise for me anyway. It meant the Boss wasn't going to be able to quit, and it shook my faith in just how far ambition and want-to was going to be able to take me. It felt like a kick in the face, and combined with the other things that were going on, I started looking for a tin beak.
The more I looked at the situation, the more convinced I became that I needed a change. The more I thought about change, the more I realized that one warehouse job is pretty much like the next. The day I asked my shop buddy for a tin beak was the day it dawned on me that the only way I was ever going to get out of the mess I was in was to go back to school.
We fasted, prayed, went to the Temple, and waited for an answer. Almost immediately, the Boss had a chance at a promotion and a big time raise. We prayed about that, and the Spirit led us right up to the edge of a big, deep, bottomless cliff that was filled with fog and says to us, “Jump”.
Let the Boss take the promotion and support the family, while you go back to school.
And our response? “That ain’t what you taught us in Sunday School!”
Just like Nephi, though, we got an explanation. The reason was the spiritual well-being of our family; our need for the spiritual and temporal nourishment that can only be provided by a full time mom versus the impossibility of this blessing coming to pass as long as I was minus a college degree. It had to be this way for me to get one, even though I didn’t like it, the Lord didn’t like it, and the Boss sure as heck didn’t like it.
To my mind, it was a whole lot like getting asked to slay Laban. In fact, “Slaying Laban” was nearly the title of this blog, but I didn’t think anyone would get the joke. Here was the Lord asking us (and in particular, the Boss) to do the one thing we absolutely, positively did not want to do.
Who knew the consequences of 1997 would come back to bite me nearly a decade down the road? (I mean other than my Father, Father-in-law, and pretty much every other responsible adult who knew me then?)
Just like Nephi, we weren’t all that happy to drop all that we had to go slogging off into an unknown wilderness just because the Lord said so. But we did what we had learned to do when the leap of faith wasn’t quite so steep.
We jumped.
I quit.
Surely, underneath all this fog, the Lord had provided a parachute, a trampoline, a big splashdown pool…something. Maybe it was going to be like Indiana Jones, and we’d step down onto a camouflaged pathway a foot and a half below the edge.
Yeah.
Riiighhhtt!
Next up: Part 3 Are You a Tank?
Friday, December 18, 2009
History of the Blog, Part 1: The Begining of the End
I have no runts requiring my attention today. Or tomorrow. And next week only on Monday. With the likelihood of mishap, disaster, hilarity, or destruction significantly reduced by the presence of the Boss and or Beak, I might have struggled for interesting post materials. Then this morning the thought occurred to me that I have not yet recorded the lengthy and boring history of how we came to be at the place we are. If something else comes up that is post worthy, I'll post it, otherwise, the next little while will deal with how I came to be Fatdaddy ("He ate and ate and ate" says the Boss. Not exactly what I meant).
I am not sure if you will find any of this interesting, entertaining or unworthy of your time. You may get offended and if so, I apologize. As I say in church all the time, "If you are offended by something I say, I am deeply sorry. I meant to offend someone else and you just happened to catch some of the shrapnel."
I had quit school around '97, either right before or right after the Eldest was born. I didn't decide to quit; class just became less and less of a priority until I told the Boss it didn't make sense to pay tuition for classes that I wasn't attending anyway. Not my most intelligent decision ever, and that is saying something for me.
I admit now that I got lazy (Me?!! Really?!!)and since I still had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up, I ignored my father, father-in-law, and pretty much everyone else I knew and quit. I was making big money stocking groceries on store shelves, man. I was cool. It was all under control.
This meant that I spent a lot of time in grocery warehouses and on forklifts. Most of them were really dangerous jobs. Not so much physically dangerous (I guess they kind of were), but dangerous in that I was afraid to leave them. Even when they sucked and I was getting hosed, I couldn't walk away because anywhere I went, I was not going to be starting over in the same salary ballpark. I knew it and they knew it.
When this understanding became mutual between us life would inevitably get worse for me, not them. I had no marketable skills and no education to speak of. What I did have was a wife and daughter who needed to be provided for. We started praying and I went to the Bishop to get a referral to LDS Employment.
Within a week, I found a job as a shipper/receiver/delivery person in a small family owned business. It was heaven. I liked the people I worked with, I was good at what I was doing and the hours and benefits were the best I'd ever had. Pay was better than what I had been getting from the grocery jerks and I got treated with respect. People were happy to teach me about the industry and I learned a lot. It was about this time that I started to see how ready and willing the Lord was to guide me into good things if I was willing to trust him.
It didn't take a genius to see that folks at that place were doing alright financially, and there was money to be made for someone with a little gumption and a foot in the door. In spite of my lack of education, I did have my foot in the door.
The Boss had been hanging around at her current employer working whatever hours she wanted to; basically for goof off money. We put a couple of bucks away for a rainy day and could pay for everything we needed and most of what we wanted. Moe joined the family, and we bought a house in June of 2002. In August we loaded the girls into a minivan and left on the vacation of a lifetime. We didn't tell them we were going to Disneyland until we drove past the front gate in Anaheim. They freaked.
Somewhere between West Jordan and Point of the Mountain, we told them that they were going to be getting a new brother or sister in April. So I guess Puzilla has been to Disneyland, but only in the most metaphorical sense. We went to Sea World and ate dinner with Shamu, got to go behind the scenes at the penguin exhibit and spent three solid days tearing through Disneyland like a hurricane. It was the one of the happiest times in my life.
Back at work, things had been moving forward and I was given a chance to work as a salesman for the repair department and had gotten a couple of very nice raises. I didn't see any reason that I wouldn't turn that good job into a great career, but it wasn't to be. Peff was born in October of 04 and shortly thereafter things started going south.
I won't detail the specifics, but over a very short period of time, my job satisfaction went downhill in a hurry and I suppose that the feeling must have been mutual. At the time I was a little bitter about it, but looking back, I know it had to be. There were reasons.
My Grandfather had been a very successful salesman in a similar industry, and I actually met many people who knew him and had done business with him. As I was named after him, I was frequently asked if I was any relation to him. I am still proud to say that I am.
I once heard Grandpa tell the story of how he came to have his own business. As I remember the story, he had spent a standout career as a salesman and manager of a good sized company. As he got a little closer to retirement, they brought in someone younger and less experienced to, in not so many words, become his boss. Adding insult to injury, they then asked him to train the man.
To quote Grandpa, "I told those fellows that I'd rather strap on a tin beak and go pick S#!@ with the chickens than do that. Then I walked out the door and started my own thing."
I know it wasn't as simple as that, but the story loses some of the humor if you know how hard he had to work and how much he put on the line and how gutsy he and grandma had to be to even try it.
And you really had to hear Grandpa tell it to get the the most out of the gallows humor. He had a real talent for taking bad turns and tough experiences and making them into something worth laughing about. He laughed at stuff that would have killed mere mortals. NOBODY tells stories like Grandpa did. I miss him.
And one day, when I had a particularly bad day at work, I found myself asking one of the shop guys to make a tin beak for me. It was time for a change.
Next up: Part 2 Jumping Off a Cliff
I am not sure if you will find any of this interesting, entertaining or unworthy of your time. You may get offended and if so, I apologize. As I say in church all the time, "If you are offended by something I say, I am deeply sorry. I meant to offend someone else and you just happened to catch some of the shrapnel."
I had quit school around '97, either right before or right after the Eldest was born. I didn't decide to quit; class just became less and less of a priority until I told the Boss it didn't make sense to pay tuition for classes that I wasn't attending anyway. Not my most intelligent decision ever, and that is saying something for me.
I admit now that I got lazy (Me?!! Really?!!)and since I still had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up, I ignored my father, father-in-law, and pretty much everyone else I knew and quit. I was making big money stocking groceries on store shelves, man. I was cool. It was all under control.
This meant that I spent a lot of time in grocery warehouses and on forklifts. Most of them were really dangerous jobs. Not so much physically dangerous (I guess they kind of were), but dangerous in that I was afraid to leave them. Even when they sucked and I was getting hosed, I couldn't walk away because anywhere I went, I was not going to be starting over in the same salary ballpark. I knew it and they knew it.
When this understanding became mutual between us life would inevitably get worse for me, not them. I had no marketable skills and no education to speak of. What I did have was a wife and daughter who needed to be provided for. We started praying and I went to the Bishop to get a referral to LDS Employment.
Within a week, I found a job as a shipper/receiver/delivery person in a small family owned business. It was heaven. I liked the people I worked with, I was good at what I was doing and the hours and benefits were the best I'd ever had. Pay was better than what I had been getting from the grocery jerks and I got treated with respect. People were happy to teach me about the industry and I learned a lot. It was about this time that I started to see how ready and willing the Lord was to guide me into good things if I was willing to trust him.
It didn't take a genius to see that folks at that place were doing alright financially, and there was money to be made for someone with a little gumption and a foot in the door. In spite of my lack of education, I did have my foot in the door.
The Boss had been hanging around at her current employer working whatever hours she wanted to; basically for goof off money. We put a couple of bucks away for a rainy day and could pay for everything we needed and most of what we wanted. Moe joined the family, and we bought a house in June of 2002. In August we loaded the girls into a minivan and left on the vacation of a lifetime. We didn't tell them we were going to Disneyland until we drove past the front gate in Anaheim. They freaked.
Somewhere between West Jordan and Point of the Mountain, we told them that they were going to be getting a new brother or sister in April. So I guess Puzilla has been to Disneyland, but only in the most metaphorical sense. We went to Sea World and ate dinner with Shamu, got to go behind the scenes at the penguin exhibit and spent three solid days tearing through Disneyland like a hurricane. It was the one of the happiest times in my life.
Back at work, things had been moving forward and I was given a chance to work as a salesman for the repair department and had gotten a couple of very nice raises. I didn't see any reason that I wouldn't turn that good job into a great career, but it wasn't to be. Peff was born in October of 04 and shortly thereafter things started going south.
I won't detail the specifics, but over a very short period of time, my job satisfaction went downhill in a hurry and I suppose that the feeling must have been mutual. At the time I was a little bitter about it, but looking back, I know it had to be. There were reasons.
My Grandfather had been a very successful salesman in a similar industry, and I actually met many people who knew him and had done business with him. As I was named after him, I was frequently asked if I was any relation to him. I am still proud to say that I am.
I once heard Grandpa tell the story of how he came to have his own business. As I remember the story, he had spent a standout career as a salesman and manager of a good sized company. As he got a little closer to retirement, they brought in someone younger and less experienced to, in not so many words, become his boss. Adding insult to injury, they then asked him to train the man.
To quote Grandpa, "I told those fellows that I'd rather strap on a tin beak and go pick S#!@ with the chickens than do that. Then I walked out the door and started my own thing."
I know it wasn't as simple as that, but the story loses some of the humor if you know how hard he had to work and how much he put on the line and how gutsy he and grandma had to be to even try it.
And you really had to hear Grandpa tell it to get the the most out of the gallows humor. He had a real talent for taking bad turns and tough experiences and making them into something worth laughing about. He laughed at stuff that would have killed mere mortals. NOBODY tells stories like Grandpa did. I miss him.
And one day, when I had a particularly bad day at work, I found myself asking one of the shop guys to make a tin beak for me. It was time for a change.
Next up: Part 2 Jumping Off a Cliff
Please Observe the Holiday
For those of you who live in caves or p.o.w camps or a religious commune in the Western Utah Desert, I offer the following Public Service Announcement. Today is national "Answer the Phone Like Buddy the Elf" day.
I know that all of you have been waiting since Thanksgiving for your chance to pick up the phone and say "Buddy the Elf, what's your favorite color?".
I also know that many of you plan to carry the celebration over to dinnertime when a square meal with each of the four food groups will be served. Candy, Candy canes, Candy corns, and Syrup. So be sure to pour maple syrup on your spaghetti, and wash it down with a coke. Belching is optional.
Remember, "The best way to spread some Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear!"
Merry Christmas!
I know that all of you have been waiting since Thanksgiving for your chance to pick up the phone and say "Buddy the Elf, what's your favorite color?".
I also know that many of you plan to carry the celebration over to dinnertime when a square meal with each of the four food groups will be served. Candy, Candy canes, Candy corns, and Syrup. So be sure to pour maple syrup on your spaghetti, and wash it down with a coke. Belching is optional.
Remember, "The best way to spread some Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear!"
Merry Christmas!
And the Angel goes to...
You may have noticed that I have taken down the Christmas movie polls, and just for posterity, I will record the winners here now. None of this should be new to you.
Best Comedy (Other than Christmas Story)
A tie! Elf and Tim Allen's The Santa Claus both got five votes with Christmas Vacation trailing by one. I was personally disappointed that Scrooged, a Bill Murray classic, did not do a little better. If you haven't seen it yet, it's usually in the $5 bin at walmart this time of year. It does have a few slightly off color gags and scary/gross out moments so watch it before you show it to the runts, but I think it is hilarious.
Best Cartoon (Other than the Grinch)
Charlie Brown Christmas took this one going away. I seem to remember the stop-motion Rudolph and Frosty shows being a lot cooler when I was young, perhaps they have not aged as well as Charlie Brown. Or maybe I'm just a little more calloused than I used to be.
Best Old School (Other than It's a Wonderful Life)
Biggest boat race in the bunch. White Christmas took 11 votes, nothing else got more than two. If you haven't seen the Alister Sim version of A Christmas Carol, you need to. It is hands down a hundred times better than the George C Scott version (all I ever see is Patton talking about the "pile of goo that a moment before was your best friend's face..." That can be distracting when watching a Christmas show!). This was a can't miss category, they were all good.
Best Action (Other than Die Hard)
Die Hard. Unanimous, though some of you didn't vote for this cinematic masterpiece. All I want to know is if John McClain fought Mike Ditka, could the winner beat Chuck Norris?
And the Heavyweights
A minor upset here as the Grinch mustered just enough votes to take down It's a Wonderful Life. How can you go wrong? I say pop 'em both in and have a double feature with the kids.
Heck, you still got a week. I know you've all got wrapping and sewing and baking to do between now and the big day, start at the top and watch all of 'em. Watch with your kids and you can count it as family home evening!!!
More to come,
Merry Christmas!
Best Comedy (Other than Christmas Story)
A tie! Elf and Tim Allen's The Santa Claus both got five votes with Christmas Vacation trailing by one. I was personally disappointed that Scrooged, a Bill Murray classic, did not do a little better. If you haven't seen it yet, it's usually in the $5 bin at walmart this time of year. It does have a few slightly off color gags and scary/gross out moments so watch it before you show it to the runts, but I think it is hilarious.
Best Cartoon (Other than the Grinch)
Charlie Brown Christmas took this one going away. I seem to remember the stop-motion Rudolph and Frosty shows being a lot cooler when I was young, perhaps they have not aged as well as Charlie Brown. Or maybe I'm just a little more calloused than I used to be.
Best Old School (Other than It's a Wonderful Life)
Biggest boat race in the bunch. White Christmas took 11 votes, nothing else got more than two. If you haven't seen the Alister Sim version of A Christmas Carol, you need to. It is hands down a hundred times better than the George C Scott version (all I ever see is Patton talking about the "pile of goo that a moment before was your best friend's face..." That can be distracting when watching a Christmas show!). This was a can't miss category, they were all good.
Best Action (Other than Die Hard)
Die Hard. Unanimous, though some of you didn't vote for this cinematic masterpiece. All I want to know is if John McClain fought Mike Ditka, could the winner beat Chuck Norris?
And the Heavyweights
A minor upset here as the Grinch mustered just enough votes to take down It's a Wonderful Life. How can you go wrong? I say pop 'em both in and have a double feature with the kids.
Heck, you still got a week. I know you've all got wrapping and sewing and baking to do between now and the big day, start at the top and watch all of 'em. Watch with your kids and you can count it as family home evening!!!
More to come,
Merry Christmas!
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Now what?
I saw this week in the paper where Bronco Mendenhall said that he went to Oregon State just so he could play against BYU, and after he beat them his only thought was "Now what?"
That's kind of where I am this morning. I've spent the better part of the last day wondering if I ought to hang up my keyboard now and retire. How am I ever going to beat that post? I'm still laughing and it happened to me. There was this kind of mental disconnect while it was happening that made it seem like out-of-body fiction and that detachment got cemented in my mind when I wrote it down. I really did freeze when Peff asked me that question; and even after I figured out what he was actually talking about it took me about thirty seconds to start laughing. The man who has something to say about everything found himself stunned speechless.
It was not a sensation I expect to become accustomed to.
But the question remains, "Now what?" I mean, what if that post is my "Ender's Game" and nothing I ever write will be able to compete with it? I don't want to be JD Salinger, afraid that another story might mess up the legacy of my Holden Caulfield.
"Gosh, that last post was OK, Fatdaddy, but it was no 'Dad Has Two Heart Attacks'."
I don't think I can take that kind of rejection, McFly. But when I brought this up to a couple of people yesterday, I got the same response from both of them.
"Are you nuts? You don't want to ask that question, because you know that these kids will find a way to top that, and when they do, you will pay for it. It will probably hurt. A lot."
And I suppose they are right. I started this blog to document what I considered to be the most destructive force in the known universe and these little monkeys have yet to ascend to the status of a Black Hole. But I can't underestimate their capability to do so. Please be patient, though. It might take a while to get back to yesterday's level.
In the meantime, I posted some pics of yesterday's gingerbread house project. Uncle C decided to spend the day with Reaggers and Bub, so it was just Peff, Squizzles and Motor. I think they did a fine job. The "Christmas Lights" running on the front and back eaves are Motor's idea, and I think they turned out all right.
Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Dad Has Two Heart Attacks, Or, Why Kids Shouldn't Watch "SuperWhy"
That's it, the experiment is over, I throw in the towel. Dads are simply not emotionally equipped to deal with the duties of motherhood. Call me a misogynistic S.O.B.; call me a cave-man, knuckle-dragging, hair-pulling chauvinist pig. I don't care.
Men CANNOT be the primary caregivers for children over any lengthy period of time. We simply lack the magic. And the iron will.
Let me explain.
It's Wednesday today, and that means baking. I'm planning on gingerbread houses from a cheap kit we got at walmart. Since Uncle C has the day off for bereavement time, I told him to sleep in and then bring the kids over anyway and take a little time off for himself this afternoon. Motor usually comes over around 9:30 or 10.
Well I figured that this meant once I got the Boss and the girls shipped off, I could go down and grab a quick shower before the usual Wednesday chaos erupted. Now I can't leave Squizzles with Peff, especially when Peff is "Bunny hunting" (He loves to play "Raving Rabbids" on the XBOX). So I grab Squizzle and tell Peff that I'll be in the shower should Uncle C or Aunt S arrive early.
I put Squizzle on the bed with a bottle and hopped in the shower. About three tenths of a second later, I had my first heart attack of the morning. The Boss, a thousand blessings be upon her, has one really rotten trick she likes to pull on me. She waits until I get in the shower and then sneaks in and pulls the curtain back ala "Psycho", scaring the he!! out of me. She has done it repeatedly for years and I never see it coming and she never stops laughing about it.
Squizzles, it would seem, has developed his mother's twisted sense of humor. He climbed off the bed (a very recent trick he learned), crawled to the bathroom door, pushed it all the way open and invited himself over to the tub. He then proceeded to play peek-a-boo with an unsuspecting Daddy. When the curtain snapped back, I jumped (and I mean physically JUMPED) around and saw nothing. Until I looked down at an obviously pleased Squizzle. Not how I planned to start the morning, but nothing compared to where it was going.
After a minute long battle of shower curtain tug-o-war with Squizzles, I gave up on the shower and got dressed. Just as I was putting my shoes on, I hear a knock at the bedroom door. I figured Uncle C must have arrived. I opened the door and found Peff standing there.
"Um, Dad?"
"Yes, son?"
"Can I, um, watch you pee?"
****We now turn to Dr. Snake Oil to explain the following .01 seconds in medical terminology...
"As you see here, the subject is a male in his mid thirties, non smoker and suffering from obesity, blindness and a mild form of psychosis. Otherwise in perfect health. If I may direct your attention to the Temporal Lobe of the brain (yes, that's it right there, the small portion of grey matter just to the front of the slowly spinning hamster wheel), you will see that the just received auditory stimulus has caused a chain reaction of sorts. The heart, under an instant and massive crushing force has slammed an immense volume of blood up the circulatory route to the Temporal Lobe and the resulting pressure has caused this major artery here to burst open like Andrew George in overtime. This has predicated a rare, simultaneous myocardial infarction and debilitating stroke. Massive paralysis has now engulfed the subject, terminating only when he can gather enough force of will to mumble weakly"....*****
"'scuse me?"
"I want to watch you pee. You know. The movie Mom got in Redbox last night. "U" "P".
You know dad, Up. The movie?"
"wow."
"Um, yeah, sure buddy. You go knock yourself out. I'm gonna lie down for a minute."
You see, Peff loves to watch Super Why on PBS. He has learned all his letters and the sounds they make. He has even started to put them together in words, which is pretty amazing. And because he is his father's son, he's also an unrepentant show-off. If he can read even a little bit, he likes to let you know by spelling whatever word he sees.
There is nothing so dangerous as a little knowledge. You pee. "U" "P". Up.
I've said it before and I'm sure I'll say it again,I can't make this stuff up. Holy Lord, I thought I was going to die. I still might. We men just aren't equipped to handle this kind of crap. And that is why I give "U" "P". I can't take it anymore.
Men CANNOT be the primary caregivers for children over any lengthy period of time. We simply lack the magic. And the iron will.
Let me explain.
It's Wednesday today, and that means baking. I'm planning on gingerbread houses from a cheap kit we got at walmart. Since Uncle C has the day off for bereavement time, I told him to sleep in and then bring the kids over anyway and take a little time off for himself this afternoon. Motor usually comes over around 9:30 or 10.
Well I figured that this meant once I got the Boss and the girls shipped off, I could go down and grab a quick shower before the usual Wednesday chaos erupted. Now I can't leave Squizzles with Peff, especially when Peff is "Bunny hunting" (He loves to play "Raving Rabbids" on the XBOX). So I grab Squizzle and tell Peff that I'll be in the shower should Uncle C or Aunt S arrive early.
I put Squizzle on the bed with a bottle and hopped in the shower. About three tenths of a second later, I had my first heart attack of the morning. The Boss, a thousand blessings be upon her, has one really rotten trick she likes to pull on me. She waits until I get in the shower and then sneaks in and pulls the curtain back ala "Psycho", scaring the he!! out of me. She has done it repeatedly for years and I never see it coming and she never stops laughing about it.
Squizzles, it would seem, has developed his mother's twisted sense of humor. He climbed off the bed (a very recent trick he learned), crawled to the bathroom door, pushed it all the way open and invited himself over to the tub. He then proceeded to play peek-a-boo with an unsuspecting Daddy. When the curtain snapped back, I jumped (and I mean physically JUMPED) around and saw nothing. Until I looked down at an obviously pleased Squizzle. Not how I planned to start the morning, but nothing compared to where it was going.
After a minute long battle of shower curtain tug-o-war with Squizzles, I gave up on the shower and got dressed. Just as I was putting my shoes on, I hear a knock at the bedroom door. I figured Uncle C must have arrived. I opened the door and found Peff standing there.
"Um, Dad?"
"Yes, son?"
"Can I, um, watch you pee?"
****We now turn to Dr. Snake Oil to explain the following .01 seconds in medical terminology...
"As you see here, the subject is a male in his mid thirties, non smoker and suffering from obesity, blindness and a mild form of psychosis. Otherwise in perfect health. If I may direct your attention to the Temporal Lobe of the brain (yes, that's it right there, the small portion of grey matter just to the front of the slowly spinning hamster wheel), you will see that the just received auditory stimulus has caused a chain reaction of sorts. The heart, under an instant and massive crushing force has slammed an immense volume of blood up the circulatory route to the Temporal Lobe and the resulting pressure has caused this major artery here to burst open like Andrew George in overtime. This has predicated a rare, simultaneous myocardial infarction and debilitating stroke. Massive paralysis has now engulfed the subject, terminating only when he can gather enough force of will to mumble weakly"....*****
"'scuse me?"
"I want to watch you pee. You know. The movie Mom got in Redbox last night. "U" "P".
You know dad, Up. The movie?"
"wow."
"Um, yeah, sure buddy. You go knock yourself out. I'm gonna lie down for a minute."
You see, Peff loves to watch Super Why on PBS. He has learned all his letters and the sounds they make. He has even started to put them together in words, which is pretty amazing. And because he is his father's son, he's also an unrepentant show-off. If he can read even a little bit, he likes to let you know by spelling whatever word he sees.
There is nothing so dangerous as a little knowledge. You pee. "U" "P". Up.
I've said it before and I'm sure I'll say it again,I can't make this stuff up. Holy Lord, I thought I was going to die. I still might. We men just aren't equipped to handle this kind of crap. And that is why I give "U" "P". I can't take it anymore.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Rudolph the Big Rack Reindeer
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Having had an excusably busy couple of days this weekend, Beak remembered to bring the spectacular work of Reaggers the artist today. She was right, the thing does have great antlers. And don't be fooled by the peace symbols on the bridle. That deer would kill you and your whole family if Santa would let it. Just look at the crazy, googly eyes. The drunken, Kennedy-esque nose. That deer is nuts. Someone needs to put it down, before it starts foaming. Very dangerous game, those reindeer.
Busted
Woke up in a bad mood today, not sure why, but so did all the monkeys. I've busted up two full out, knock down fist fights and as I type, Reaggers is pinching Bub. Someone is gonna die today, and it'll probably be me.
I left my phone down on the dresser to charge this morning and didn't hear the Boss calling to see how we were. She has a meeting downtown this afternoon so she decided to drop off a coke (how does she know exactly when I need one?) and see if the kids had tied me to a chair and that's why I wasn't answering the phone.
Bad timing for me.
Now so far this morning, I cooked scrambled eggs and made OJ for breakfast. I fed, bathed and clothed the baby, loaded the dishwasher, did a load of laundry, picked up and vacuumed the living room, took Bub to the bathroom twice, got the kids dressed, and discovered that I now have to keep the garbage can on a chair because Squizzle has decided that dumpster diving is his new favorite pastime. Oh yeah, I broke up the fights and played bouncer for the upstairs toy room.
Does the Boss get to see me anxiously engaged in any of these activities? No, she walks in the second after Squizzles wakes up screaming, the kids spread Dora the Explorer Memory game cards all over the floor, and I, having just a moment before sensed a second for myself, sat down to play a few hands of play poker on the Internet (don't get all wrinkled up, its PLAY poker. As if I could even afford penny poker!). But Vicconian Chaos is erupting around me while I get caught red handed playing a video game.
How's that for bad Karma?
To her ever blessed credit, the Boss refrained from making several wise acre remarks that based on the evidence before her would have been well justified. She handed me the drink, teased me about not having had a heart attack to explain not picking up the phone, and left for her meeting without a word about the train wreck before her eyes. Patience has always been her strong suit, much to my eternal gratitude.
Well, enough for now. Peff just spilled his OJ, Reaggers is jumping off the back of the couch, Bub needs to go Potty, and Squizzles is making a run at the trash can again.
And my three aces just got popped by a flush on the river.
I told you my Karma sucks.
I left my phone down on the dresser to charge this morning and didn't hear the Boss calling to see how we were. She has a meeting downtown this afternoon so she decided to drop off a coke (how does she know exactly when I need one?) and see if the kids had tied me to a chair and that's why I wasn't answering the phone.
Bad timing for me.
Now so far this morning, I cooked scrambled eggs and made OJ for breakfast. I fed, bathed and clothed the baby, loaded the dishwasher, did a load of laundry, picked up and vacuumed the living room, took Bub to the bathroom twice, got the kids dressed, and discovered that I now have to keep the garbage can on a chair because Squizzle has decided that dumpster diving is his new favorite pastime. Oh yeah, I broke up the fights and played bouncer for the upstairs toy room.
Does the Boss get to see me anxiously engaged in any of these activities? No, she walks in the second after Squizzles wakes up screaming, the kids spread Dora the Explorer Memory game cards all over the floor, and I, having just a moment before sensed a second for myself, sat down to play a few hands of play poker on the Internet (don't get all wrinkled up, its PLAY poker. As if I could even afford penny poker!). But Vicconian Chaos is erupting around me while I get caught red handed playing a video game.
How's that for bad Karma?
To her ever blessed credit, the Boss refrained from making several wise acre remarks that based on the evidence before her would have been well justified. She handed me the drink, teased me about not having had a heart attack to explain not picking up the phone, and left for her meeting without a word about the train wreck before her eyes. Patience has always been her strong suit, much to my eternal gratitude.
Well, enough for now. Peff just spilled his OJ, Reaggers is jumping off the back of the couch, Bub needs to go Potty, and Squizzles is making a run at the trash can again.
And my three aces just got popped by a flush on the river.
I told you my Karma sucks.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Leftovers
A few random thoughts that weren't enough to get their own post but amused me nonetheless...
If participation is any indicator, I seem to have found good poll questions. I kept the obvious choices out to spark competition and made the best of the best poll for the titans to duke it out. It doesn't surprise me that "The Grinch" is holding its own against "It's a Wonderful Life", because I once made the argument in a senior level lit class that Dr. Seuss is a better poet than Shakespeare. I think that it is because only the literati enjoy Shakespeare as it was meant to be; but moms, dads, and little kids can all appreciate "Hop on Pop".
Dr. Seuss has a much broader audience, his messages are more universal, and he filled his works with every bit as much complexity and just as many literary devices. All while keeping rhyme, meter and word selection that could be followed by the average kindergartner. And before you claim that Dr. Seuss used words that he made up, you should know that Shakespeare did the same thing. Take that all you free-verse loving, Walt Whitman wannabe, "beat" "poets". Write one piece as influential on the whole of American culture as "Green Eggs and Ham" or "Star Bellied Sneetches" and I'll listen to your snobby complaints that poetry does not need rhyme and meter. Until then....you can reflect on the irony that the best Christmas book in the last hundred years was written by a Jewish man (now THAT is funny).
***Editor's note:
That might be the first thing I have written on literature since I graduated in June. I didn't even want to throw up this time. The numbing of my brain cells must be wearing off. Of course as much as I love James Joyce, a solid year of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake will cause even the most die hard lit Professor to read nothing but comic books for a month or two. But while I'm on the subject of lit, can you tell how I feel about most modern "poetry"? Frost said poetry without rhyme was "like playing tennis with the net down". Amen, says I. Then he wrote in free verse anyway. Hypocrite.
On a related poll note, I had wanted to be funny with the "Best Christmas Action Movie" category. I was going to ask the question and then have four answer boxes that all said Die Hard, but the stupid Techno-crap feature wouldn't let me use duplicate answers. So I went with just the one line but it wasn't as funny visually.
The most unexpected response in the history of the universe came when my MOTHER, of all people, asked me why I didn't have Die Hard 2 listed. Didn't see that one coming. I would have changed it for her but someone had already voted and once that happens, you can't edit the poll anymore.
One last poll note; I did indeed go "Brother Brigham" with the beard. I've had a mustache since the Eldest was born, so even with the chin beard, the lack of appropriate facial hair was disturbing. At church it turned more than one head. I explained that no, I hadn't lost a bet (My team WON this year); but I was putting earnest money down, so to speak, on a future career. And if by some miracle of miracles I wind up teaching seminary (don't hold your breath), it'll be true. But if not, I did it for the blog readers and with any luck at all we can turn this into a paying gig (which should happen right after I retire from seminary). The Boss has not commented other than to say that she's "getting used to it". I think she gave up on me being presentable years ago.
Here's a piece of worthless trivia that you never knew you were interested in until you find yourself researching it on Google:
Where in the world does one find gerbils in the wild?
I know, I have way the he!! too much spare time, but I did wonder not long ago where I might go to see the vast plains of plastic tubes and wire wheels that serve as homes to the last great herds of wild gerbils. Seriously, how trippy would it be to wake up in a tent somewhere and find your campsite has been devastated by throngs of gerbils intent on defending their territory?
Has anyone ever come across a gerbil (not a pot-gut, an actual gerbil) in the place Mother Nature planted them? I truly had no clue as to where I might find the home turf of gerbils and the lack of even an educated guess bugged me to no end. I know, I know...aren't there dishes to wash, kids to potty train, blogs to write, blah, blah, blah?
But now that I've brought it up, you want to know, don't you? Admit it, you're curious, huh? Alright I'll save you the trip to the search engine.
Gerbils are natives of the Gobi Desert on the borders of China and Mongolia. So I'll bet none of us have ever seen one in the wild. And according to Wikipedia they really are destructive little beasts. The Chinese government has been using eagles to combat the damage the critters have done to 11 MILLION acres of grass land. Their destructive capacity and rapid reproduction make them illegal to own in California (sorry Aunt T).
And y'all thought Global Warming was from man made greenhouse gasses? These horrendous beasts are turning rich grass land into more Gobi desert (just what the world needs), but we're busy self-righteously trying to stop people from lighting their fireplaces?
Electric cars? Really? Isn't it cheaper to just extinguish the gerbil? Until Al Gore calls for the immediate annihilation of the thundering Mongolian gerbil herds, I'm not listening. Here's my new motto: "Global Warming...it's all the fault of those damn gerbils."
Ahh, the satisfying scratch of useless knowledge. You feel better now, don't you? Bet you go to Wikipedia anyways. It's not my fault it's interesting.
Now, for the last bit of random uselessness.
I've been wondering what is easier to keep clean: a child who is mostly potty trained but still has occasional accidents; or the infant who has a constantly snotty nose and refuses to sit still?
Bub still has enough accidents that I have to be ever vigilant, but I don't have to clean him up very often anymore. Squizzle on the other hand has been fighting a nasty cold for about a week now and the kid is a fountain of boogers. Every time he sneezes he looks like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters.
And while Bub's messes are usually bigger, at least he is cooperative with me(there is a pun there for you Mandarin speakers. Instead of going 1 or 2, kids have to go "little" or "big". C'mon! That was funny! Multi-lingual punning? What is this, Finnegans Wake? I mean really! Where else you gonna get this kind of quality entertainment?).
Squizzles, on the other hand, is a disaster. It's easier to hold the tissue still and let him squirm his face over it instead. The kid hates having his nose wiped. Don't ask me why. You'd think he'd want that stuff off his face, but what do I know? He has reached that wonderful developmental plateau where all he wants to do is move wherever you don't want him to.
You should try to change his diaper. No cooperation, whatsoever. Special Forces POW's don't resist this hard. Not even "name, rank, or serial number". The boy squirms, rolls, twists, and flexes himself into angles that are impossible to clean and re-diaper. I wish to heck that my wrestlers fought this hard to stay off of their backs. The child refuses to lay flat.
Oh, yeah, he's also learned to go up stairs. Not down them though, because that might be useful to me. Instead, he goes up them and then cries till someone brings him back down so he can start the rapid ascent once again.
I weep for the days when my little buddy lay where I set him, would quietly sit on my lap to watch football, and didn't mind getting his diaper changed. He's never liked getting his nose wiped though, so I guess the good old days weren't always the good old days.
Well, the big kids have grown weary of the XBOX, so I guess it's time to go fix lunch.
Merry Christmas all!!
If participation is any indicator, I seem to have found good poll questions. I kept the obvious choices out to spark competition and made the best of the best poll for the titans to duke it out. It doesn't surprise me that "The Grinch" is holding its own against "It's a Wonderful Life", because I once made the argument in a senior level lit class that Dr. Seuss is a better poet than Shakespeare. I think that it is because only the literati enjoy Shakespeare as it was meant to be; but moms, dads, and little kids can all appreciate "Hop on Pop".
Dr. Seuss has a much broader audience, his messages are more universal, and he filled his works with every bit as much complexity and just as many literary devices. All while keeping rhyme, meter and word selection that could be followed by the average kindergartner. And before you claim that Dr. Seuss used words that he made up, you should know that Shakespeare did the same thing. Take that all you free-verse loving, Walt Whitman wannabe, "beat" "poets". Write one piece as influential on the whole of American culture as "Green Eggs and Ham" or "Star Bellied Sneetches" and I'll listen to your snobby complaints that poetry does not need rhyme and meter. Until then....you can reflect on the irony that the best Christmas book in the last hundred years was written by a Jewish man (now THAT is funny).
***Editor's note:
That might be the first thing I have written on literature since I graduated in June. I didn't even want to throw up this time. The numbing of my brain cells must be wearing off. Of course as much as I love James Joyce, a solid year of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake will cause even the most die hard lit Professor to read nothing but comic books for a month or two. But while I'm on the subject of lit, can you tell how I feel about most modern "poetry"? Frost said poetry without rhyme was "like playing tennis with the net down". Amen, says I. Then he wrote in free verse anyway. Hypocrite.
On a related poll note, I had wanted to be funny with the "Best Christmas Action Movie" category. I was going to ask the question and then have four answer boxes that all said Die Hard, but the stupid Techno-crap feature wouldn't let me use duplicate answers. So I went with just the one line but it wasn't as funny visually.
The most unexpected response in the history of the universe came when my MOTHER, of all people, asked me why I didn't have Die Hard 2 listed. Didn't see that one coming. I would have changed it for her but someone had already voted and once that happens, you can't edit the poll anymore.
One last poll note; I did indeed go "Brother Brigham" with the beard. I've had a mustache since the Eldest was born, so even with the chin beard, the lack of appropriate facial hair was disturbing. At church it turned more than one head. I explained that no, I hadn't lost a bet (My team WON this year); but I was putting earnest money down, so to speak, on a future career. And if by some miracle of miracles I wind up teaching seminary (don't hold your breath), it'll be true. But if not, I did it for the blog readers and with any luck at all we can turn this into a paying gig (which should happen right after I retire from seminary). The Boss has not commented other than to say that she's "getting used to it". I think she gave up on me being presentable years ago.
Here's a piece of worthless trivia that you never knew you were interested in until you find yourself researching it on Google:
Where in the world does one find gerbils in the wild?
I know, I have way the he!! too much spare time, but I did wonder not long ago where I might go to see the vast plains of plastic tubes and wire wheels that serve as homes to the last great herds of wild gerbils. Seriously, how trippy would it be to wake up in a tent somewhere and find your campsite has been devastated by throngs of gerbils intent on defending their territory?
Has anyone ever come across a gerbil (not a pot-gut, an actual gerbil) in the place Mother Nature planted them? I truly had no clue as to where I might find the home turf of gerbils and the lack of even an educated guess bugged me to no end. I know, I know...aren't there dishes to wash, kids to potty train, blogs to write, blah, blah, blah?
But now that I've brought it up, you want to know, don't you? Admit it, you're curious, huh? Alright I'll save you the trip to the search engine.
Gerbils are natives of the Gobi Desert on the borders of China and Mongolia. So I'll bet none of us have ever seen one in the wild. And according to Wikipedia they really are destructive little beasts. The Chinese government has been using eagles to combat the damage the critters have done to 11 MILLION acres of grass land. Their destructive capacity and rapid reproduction make them illegal to own in California (sorry Aunt T).
And y'all thought Global Warming was from man made greenhouse gasses? These horrendous beasts are turning rich grass land into more Gobi desert (just what the world needs), but we're busy self-righteously trying to stop people from lighting their fireplaces?
Electric cars? Really? Isn't it cheaper to just extinguish the gerbil? Until Al Gore calls for the immediate annihilation of the thundering Mongolian gerbil herds, I'm not listening. Here's my new motto: "Global Warming...it's all the fault of those damn gerbils."
Ahh, the satisfying scratch of useless knowledge. You feel better now, don't you? Bet you go to Wikipedia anyways. It's not my fault it's interesting.
Now, for the last bit of random uselessness.
I've been wondering what is easier to keep clean: a child who is mostly potty trained but still has occasional accidents; or the infant who has a constantly snotty nose and refuses to sit still?
Bub still has enough accidents that I have to be ever vigilant, but I don't have to clean him up very often anymore. Squizzle on the other hand has been fighting a nasty cold for about a week now and the kid is a fountain of boogers. Every time he sneezes he looks like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters.
And while Bub's messes are usually bigger, at least he is cooperative with me(there is a pun there for you Mandarin speakers. Instead of going 1 or 2, kids have to go "little" or "big". C'mon! That was funny! Multi-lingual punning? What is this, Finnegans Wake? I mean really! Where else you gonna get this kind of quality entertainment?).
Squizzles, on the other hand, is a disaster. It's easier to hold the tissue still and let him squirm his face over it instead. The kid hates having his nose wiped. Don't ask me why. You'd think he'd want that stuff off his face, but what do I know? He has reached that wonderful developmental plateau where all he wants to do is move wherever you don't want him to.
You should try to change his diaper. No cooperation, whatsoever. Special Forces POW's don't resist this hard. Not even "name, rank, or serial number". The boy squirms, rolls, twists, and flexes himself into angles that are impossible to clean and re-diaper. I wish to heck that my wrestlers fought this hard to stay off of their backs. The child refuses to lay flat.
Oh, yeah, he's also learned to go up stairs. Not down them though, because that might be useful to me. Instead, he goes up them and then cries till someone brings him back down so he can start the rapid ascent once again.
I weep for the days when my little buddy lay where I set him, would quietly sit on my lap to watch football, and didn't mind getting his diaper changed. He's never liked getting his nose wiped though, so I guess the good old days weren't always the good old days.
Well, the big kids have grown weary of the XBOX, so I guess it's time to go fix lunch.
Merry Christmas all!!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Prayers Requested
Beak found out last night that Uncle C's Grandpa is declining rapidly and he will probably not make it to Christmas. Please take a moment and offer up a little prayer for their family. I'm sure it would be appreciated.
I know how hard it is to lose a Granddad. When mine died I remember thinking that if I were twice the man I am, I wouldn't be half the man he was.
We'll pray for ya.
*******************************************************************
Update:
Beak called earlier tonight and told me that Uncle C's Grandpa passed away this evening. It is always difficult to lose someone we love for a time, no matter the length of the life that was lived. Beak has always had a sensitive spirit and she and her family are feeling the pain sharply now. The problem with this kind of pain is that there is no acclimation to it. No matter how often you experience the death of a loved one, it's always a fresh experience.
That is why I am grateful for the wisdom found in the Savior's plan. When we keep an "eternal" view, it is easier to recognize the need for emotions like pain, grief, and separation. I think that I will try to find some way to post a story I wrote shortly after my little brother (Motor's Daddy) was killed. Having the experience of writing that really helped me to realize that time moves so quickly. We think that 60, 70, or even 80 years of separation through death is such a very long time but it isn't. It moves at a blink.
When R died, the hurt was hardly bearable and it didn't seem like it would ever end. And even though I think about him every day (and more so on Wednesdays) I have a hard time believing it has been three years already. The days drag by, the years blink past. And I know that the harsh shock of losing a grandfather will give way to thoughts of good days and better memories; as well as a continued commitment to living worthy to see him again, and have his blessing and admiration for continuing as he would have you live.
Not long after my Grandpa died (Geez, that was nearly a decade ago. WOW!) I found a poem by one of my favorite Irish Poets, Yeats (If the Irish are good for anything it's good funerals and better poems). I love this one, because I loved the "pilgrim soul" in my Grandfather, and I like to think of him watching over me from the stars.
When You Are Old
William Butler Yeats
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.
Love ya, Beak. You need me, You call.
I know how hard it is to lose a Granddad. When mine died I remember thinking that if I were twice the man I am, I wouldn't be half the man he was.
We'll pray for ya.
*******************************************************************
Update:
Beak called earlier tonight and told me that Uncle C's Grandpa passed away this evening. It is always difficult to lose someone we love for a time, no matter the length of the life that was lived. Beak has always had a sensitive spirit and she and her family are feeling the pain sharply now. The problem with this kind of pain is that there is no acclimation to it. No matter how often you experience the death of a loved one, it's always a fresh experience.
That is why I am grateful for the wisdom found in the Savior's plan. When we keep an "eternal" view, it is easier to recognize the need for emotions like pain, grief, and separation. I think that I will try to find some way to post a story I wrote shortly after my little brother (Motor's Daddy) was killed. Having the experience of writing that really helped me to realize that time moves so quickly. We think that 60, 70, or even 80 years of separation through death is such a very long time but it isn't. It moves at a blink.
When R died, the hurt was hardly bearable and it didn't seem like it would ever end. And even though I think about him every day (and more so on Wednesdays) I have a hard time believing it has been three years already. The days drag by, the years blink past. And I know that the harsh shock of losing a grandfather will give way to thoughts of good days and better memories; as well as a continued commitment to living worthy to see him again, and have his blessing and admiration for continuing as he would have you live.
Not long after my Grandpa died (Geez, that was nearly a decade ago. WOW!) I found a poem by one of my favorite Irish Poets, Yeats (If the Irish are good for anything it's good funerals and better poems). I love this one, because I loved the "pilgrim soul" in my Grandfather, and I like to think of him watching over me from the stars.
When You Are Old
William Butler Yeats
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.
Love ya, Beak. You need me, You call.
One of Them Kind O' Days
As you can see, I got a little time on my hands this morning, and did some exploring around the old Blogger customization machine. First I Christmased up the page with some color changes and switched to the most "whimsical" font they offer. I've always been a "Times New Roman" kind of guy, so this is actually a big step in artistic merit for me. It's still pretty sad.
I wanted to center the title and add wreaths on either side, but I couldn't figure out how; so I did what I could. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I hate Techno-crap. My favorite change is that I found out that the response boxes (which is how I tell if anyone is looking at this nonsense) don't have to stay default. "Funny" was alright but "cool" and "interesting"? I have a degree in English with minors in sarcasm and wise a..cre. I am obligated to do a little better that "cool". If there is a response you want me to add (I almost used "There's Ten Minutes of My Life I'll Never Get Back) please tell me, and I can add it now. But I still hate Techno-crap. Told you I'd say it again.
Yesterday was one of those days when plenty happened, but the only recurring theme seemed to be the constant reminders that I'm a pathetic bum. First off, the kids went upstairs to "Play Music" again. I quickly downed some Advil and sat down to watch "Sportscenter" with Squizzle (Sign #1 I'm a bum: Watching a 9:00 AM sports center in sweatpants and a dirty t-shirt).
Against all odds, Squizzle fell asleep almost instantly. Morning Nap two days in a row? I thought my birthday was in July!
So after making sure the toy room still had a roof, I decided to pull out the old XBOX and try to accomplish my latest goal (Sign #2: My goals include XBOX achievements).
I popped in Rock Band, fired up solo guitar tour and proceeded to beat my head against the brick wall that is "Green Grass and High Tides" on expert. For about a month now I've been dying in the 90 something percent completed area. Not yesterday. I warmed up with a few songs, then started GGHT. Dang me if I didn't finally beat that sucker. 187,505 points and 4 stars. 82 % of notes hit. I snapped a picture with my cell phone and sent a text to Beak and the Boss.
"Who Rocks? I ROCK!!!"
And I did. Until I noticed Signs #3,4,and 5 that I'm a worthless bum. #3 is that I have played enough Rockband to beat GGHT on Expert. Talk about time you can never get back.....
Sign #4? I actually thought that winning Rockband was pretty cool (until I thought about #3).
And #5, I took a picture and sent someone a text BRAGGING about this colossal waste of my life. It was about thirty seconds after I hit send that I discovered signs 3 and 4. So all that time isn't the only thing I'll never get back. My dignity is gone for good as well. (I wonder how the Man Academy feels about this? I smell a future poll question...)
For a bonus I now give you Sign #6. I recorded the whole thing for posterity on a blog.
Later, I took Bub down for his every other hour mandatory potty break (he's getting really good about no accidents). I sat down on the edge of the tub, put the seat down for him and watched him wet his pants before I could help him with his drawers. U N B E L I E V A B L E! He couldn't hold it for five more seconds? REALLY?
Beak and the Boss both got here about the same time, and they made fun of me for a while before the Boss and I got ready to take the kids to Thanksgiving Point to do the drive through lights. They were nice, but considering that I can see (metaphorically speaking) a lot more lights at Temple Square for free, 8 bucks a carload seemed like a nifty little cash grab on the Point's part.
Well, enough for now. Squizzle is taking another nap, the kids are back on their instruments, and Rockband 2 is calling my name.
Merry Christmas!!
I wanted to center the title and add wreaths on either side, but I couldn't figure out how; so I did what I could. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I hate Techno-crap. My favorite change is that I found out that the response boxes (which is how I tell if anyone is looking at this nonsense) don't have to stay default. "Funny" was alright but "cool" and "interesting"? I have a degree in English with minors in sarcasm and wise a..cre. I am obligated to do a little better that "cool". If there is a response you want me to add (I almost used "There's Ten Minutes of My Life I'll Never Get Back) please tell me, and I can add it now. But I still hate Techno-crap. Told you I'd say it again.
Yesterday was one of those days when plenty happened, but the only recurring theme seemed to be the constant reminders that I'm a pathetic bum. First off, the kids went upstairs to "Play Music" again. I quickly downed some Advil and sat down to watch "Sportscenter" with Squizzle (Sign #1 I'm a bum: Watching a 9:00 AM sports center in sweatpants and a dirty t-shirt).
Against all odds, Squizzle fell asleep almost instantly. Morning Nap two days in a row? I thought my birthday was in July!
So after making sure the toy room still had a roof, I decided to pull out the old XBOX and try to accomplish my latest goal (Sign #2: My goals include XBOX achievements).
I popped in Rock Band, fired up solo guitar tour and proceeded to beat my head against the brick wall that is "Green Grass and High Tides" on expert. For about a month now I've been dying in the 90 something percent completed area. Not yesterday. I warmed up with a few songs, then started GGHT. Dang me if I didn't finally beat that sucker. 187,505 points and 4 stars. 82 % of notes hit. I snapped a picture with my cell phone and sent a text to Beak and the Boss.
"Who Rocks? I ROCK!!!"
And I did. Until I noticed Signs #3,4,and 5 that I'm a worthless bum. #3 is that I have played enough Rockband to beat GGHT on Expert. Talk about time you can never get back.....
Sign #4? I actually thought that winning Rockband was pretty cool (until I thought about #3).
And #5, I took a picture and sent someone a text BRAGGING about this colossal waste of my life. It was about thirty seconds after I hit send that I discovered signs 3 and 4. So all that time isn't the only thing I'll never get back. My dignity is gone for good as well. (I wonder how the Man Academy feels about this? I smell a future poll question...)
For a bonus I now give you Sign #6. I recorded the whole thing for posterity on a blog.
Later, I took Bub down for his every other hour mandatory potty break (he's getting really good about no accidents). I sat down on the edge of the tub, put the seat down for him and watched him wet his pants before I could help him with his drawers. U N B E L I E V A B L E! He couldn't hold it for five more seconds? REALLY?
Beak and the Boss both got here about the same time, and they made fun of me for a while before the Boss and I got ready to take the kids to Thanksgiving Point to do the drive through lights. They were nice, but considering that I can see (metaphorically speaking) a lot more lights at Temple Square for free, 8 bucks a carload seemed like a nifty little cash grab on the Point's part.
Well, enough for now. Squizzle is taking another nap, the kids are back on their instruments, and Rockband 2 is calling my name.
Merry Christmas!!
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Be Vewy,Vewy Qwiet, I'm Hunt'n Wudolph
Beak told me a fantastic story the other day, and I'm begging her to get the picture so I can scan it in.
Reagger's Daddy, Uncle C is a dedicated and ferocious hunter. Remember Gaston from Beauty and the Beast? The Dude that uses antlers in all of his decorating? That's Uncle C (If he was built a little more like me). Walk into his house and the first thing you see is a big ol' Honkin' bison head on the wall. Right now, it is festively attired with a large Santa hat. 'Tis the Season, after all.
In my vast experience with 4 year olds, I find that when they are not unintentionally destroying your sanity, they are trying desperately to please you.
*****We interrupt this regularly scheduled anecdote to bring you the following spontaneous migraine headache.....
Beak just walked in with Reaggers and Bub. She says to me "Reaggers asked on the way over if I thought they'd get to play music again today. Thought you'd like that." Then she left. Quickly. I don't blame her. It's her birthday today.
Reaggers Bub and Peff are now upstairs "playing" improvisational, Post-Modern jazz with baseball stadium and hockey rink influences.
At 8:30 in the A.M. Full blast.
Critically magnificent. Disturbing to the audience. Where the #$&! is that Tylenol?....Oh, yeah. Happy Birthday Beak. You are OLD!!!!!OLD, OLD, OLD!!!!!
We now return you to our regularly scheduled posting*****
As I was saying, the typical 4 year old is desperate to please their parents.
When the mood suits them.
Now Reaggers, like many children her age is something of an art prodigy. Her proclivities for modern cave-wall art are familiar to regular readers of this forum and do not need to be rediscussed here. And as the Holiday season approaches, her thoughts and inspirations seem to have turned to Christmas themes.
With this in mind, the tyke presented her mother with an Opus Magnum depiction of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.
"Check out all the points on him, mom! I gave him an extra big rack!"
Beak assures me that she's talking about antlers. I, for one, am disappointed. But Uncle C, hunter that he is, should be smiling proudly. You gotta love a kid who loves what you do. If I get a lithograph print of the original, I'll copy it for all to enjoy.
Time to go. It's baking day and we are making sugar "plum" cookies. More later.
Reagger's Daddy, Uncle C is a dedicated and ferocious hunter. Remember Gaston from Beauty and the Beast? The Dude that uses antlers in all of his decorating? That's Uncle C (If he was built a little more like me). Walk into his house and the first thing you see is a big ol' Honkin' bison head on the wall. Right now, it is festively attired with a large Santa hat. 'Tis the Season, after all.
In my vast experience with 4 year olds, I find that when they are not unintentionally destroying your sanity, they are trying desperately to please you.
*****We interrupt this regularly scheduled anecdote to bring you the following spontaneous migraine headache.....
Beak just walked in with Reaggers and Bub. She says to me "Reaggers asked on the way over if I thought they'd get to play music again today. Thought you'd like that." Then she left. Quickly. I don't blame her. It's her birthday today.
Reaggers Bub and Peff are now upstairs "playing" improvisational, Post-Modern jazz with baseball stadium and hockey rink influences.
At 8:30 in the A.M. Full blast.
Critically magnificent. Disturbing to the audience. Where the #$&! is that Tylenol?....Oh, yeah. Happy Birthday Beak. You are OLD!!!!!OLD, OLD, OLD!!!!!
We now return you to our regularly scheduled posting*****
As I was saying, the typical 4 year old is desperate to please their parents.
When the mood suits them.
Now Reaggers, like many children her age is something of an art prodigy. Her proclivities for modern cave-wall art are familiar to regular readers of this forum and do not need to be rediscussed here. And as the Holiday season approaches, her thoughts and inspirations seem to have turned to Christmas themes.
With this in mind, the tyke presented her mother with an Opus Magnum depiction of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.
"Check out all the points on him, mom! I gave him an extra big rack!"
Beak assures me that she's talking about antlers. I, for one, am disappointed. But Uncle C, hunter that he is, should be smiling proudly. You gotta love a kid who loves what you do. If I get a lithograph print of the original, I'll copy it for all to enjoy.
Time to go. It's baking day and we are making sugar "plum" cookies. More later.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Pretty Good Trade, Huh?
I got Squizzle to take a rare morning nap, and after a sick day at home for Reaggers and Bub, they have joined forces with Peff to get up to their usual tricks.
Last week, we did our annual pre-Christmas purge, going through the toy room with a snow shovel (I'm not kidding). It was an overdue chore that makes the house feel a thousand times better now that it is done. Since I have no access to a pickup truck, I had the city deliver one of their neighborhood clean up dumpsters to the drive way. They are free and you can schedule them twice a year. We opened the end of the dumpster, lined the kids up and gave them things to take out, one a time.
They thought the dumpster was the neatest thing since sliced bread. They should have found it the neatest thing since gamma-globulin shots, because I'm fairly certain that they all have tetanus, hepatitis, and possibly cholera for their efforts. But now that it is clean, the kids are up there playing. Peff is pounding on the organ, Reaggers is puffing on a recorder and Bub is hitting a bucket like a drum and playing a harmonica.
In the paraphrased words of Clark Griswold, "Hallelujah! Holy Crap! Where's the Tylenol?"
On a sad note, during the purge, I found yet another box in the storage room that had been destroyed by the great flood of '08. If you haven't heard the story, last summer, our 20 year old hot water heater sprung a leak. Since it is in a closet in the garage, it took who knows how long to discover it. The water dripped down a pipe access hole in the wooden floor of the closet and into the storage area in the basement. We didn't find out about it until the carpet in our bedroom got wet. About half the stuff we had in storage got ruined, including the Christmas decorations. It put a sour note on an otherwise very nice Christmas last year. The kids letters to and from Santa, all their school made ornaments, and some sentimental knickknacks were all destroyed (including my Simpson's Christmas village that we had spent years and more money than I care to think about collecting).
Fortunately the tree and Mom's knitted Christmas socks were in a box that miraculously did not get wet. Now I bring this up for two reasons. First, I found that other box during the purge (and I will get back to that, I promise). Second, just last week, the Boss and I were at the store looking at decorations. The subject of the lost ornaments came up; in particular one little Pillsbury Dough Boy riding a spatula that the Eldest picked when she was not quite one for her first Christmas ornament. It broke the Boss's heart that it was gone, and I tried, rather lamely, to convince her that what counts with those things is the memories they represent. The times from early in our family when the Eldest was small, the kids first Christmas's and the like. "It's gone," I said "and there's nothing we can do about it. We just have to keep the memories and forget about the things." The Boss agreed and we dropped it.
Until the next day when we pulled out the decorations box. While the kids were hanging ornaments, I found a little knickknack box in the bottom. It was hidden by some Christmas table cloths. Guess what was in that box?
I'm all in. Whatever you want, Lord. No one can tell me that Father in Heaven does not answer the prayers of a mother's heart. Moses didn't part the red sea, no one walked on water or healed the blind (yet), but you can not convince me that the silly little Dough Boy ornament was not a miracle on par with any of those. It was quite the thing to experience, and I'm grateful for it because it steeled me for the rest of the week.
Which brings me back to the box of destroyed stuff I found. When I cleaned up the storage closet after the flood, I wound up tossing about half of what was in there. I checked everything else and put it back into storage. I must have missed this box, because it was pretty well destroyed. And it contained the bulk of my mission stuff. Two or three photo albums, my Chinese scriptures, my discussions, my language cards, and of course, my journal. I'm still not sure how I feel about that. On the one hand, I have to (and want to) keep the advice I gave the Boss last week. It's the memories that are important, not the physical representation of them. On the other hand, a journal is recorded memories.
For years, I have said that I am grateful for my mission, but if I never see any of those I served with again, I'll be ok. I don't miss them. I learned what I needed to learn, and I moved on. It has not escaped me that none of them has tried to hunt me down, either. More importantly, I'm not that guy anymore. If someone were to read those pages (and trust me... no one could read them now if they wanted to), the man writing this post and the kid writing that journal would have no clue as to who the other really was or has become. So while I may have lost a memory of what I was, I have lost nothing of what it made me.
And this leads me to two conclusions. First, I prefer a blog to a journal. Now if the house burns down, a flood rises up, my computer crashes, the apes take over or whatever; I can't lose the next chapters of my life the way I lost the first (Even Nephi lost a few pages off the front of his record, that's not bad company, is it?).
And second?
I'd trade every picture, letter, journal and souvenir of Taiwan in order to see the Boss light up again like she did when that Dough Boy fell out of the box. It was a fair trade I'd take any day of my life. Thanks again, Lord.
Merry Christmas!!
Monday, December 7, 2009
Soap Poisoning
Ahh, I love Christmas. That time of year when we celebrate the birth of our Lord. I love most everything about the Holidays, from Marshmallow Popcorn to spending time with family. From giving gifts to acts of service. But my favorite thing about Christmas has to be Christmas movies. I love 'em. All of 'em.
I think this has a great deal to do with the fact that I have lived a good deal of them. Every Christmas for the last four years, every wise-acre who knows me suddenly becomes a board-certified eye surgeon who is convinced to their inner most core that Kerataconus is a fancy Latin term for soap poisoning. And I suppose that may be it. Though I was never allowed a BB gun (Even with good eyes, would you want a somewhat less mature version of me with a semi-lethal firearm?), I did want one.
And I admit that my language has been, shall we say, "J. Goldenesque" (If I wasn't home, I was in a locker room). But I sure knew better than to cuss in front of my mother. And on those occasions when I did mess up, nobody bothered with soap. I just got my teeth rattled. So no, fans of Ralphie; I don't have soap poisoning.
We did get a flat tire on the way to a Christmas party once and I was tempted to call the eldest out to help me change it, but thought better of it. And that same year we had a Grinch steal Christmas right out from the locked trunk of our car(The only person who knew there was anything in there was the mechanic who replaced the tire. Hmmm....). Whoever the Grinch was must not have heard our "Who singing" (Puzey does a fine Cindy Lou Who impersonation), because we never got anything back. Oh well.
And I know what it feels like to be both Cousin Eddie ("The gas money gave out in Gurney, we coasted into town on fumes") and George Bailey ("I wish I had a million dollars..."), as in recent years the Boss and I have been the undeserving objects of many of Santa's best honorary elves. I can't really explain what it feels like to be thirty five years old and find yourself re-evaluating your belief in the Head Elf.
A few years ago, it was like one of those cartoons when Elmer Fudd chases Buggs Bunny behind a door, and when he opens it there is nothing in the closet, then he opens it again and there is something, and he takes it and closes the door and when he opens it again, there are two somethings, and then four somethings, and then eight. Every time I opened the door we found that someone had been thinking about us at Christmas time. All of it was anonymous, and it was plainly the work of several people working independent of one another. They had to be causing a traffic jam in front of the house. It was (get the soap ready) the damnedest thing I have ever been blessed with. When the Lord says he will open the windows of heaven and pour out a blessing that you won't have room enough to receive it? I get that now. So I get George Bailey. I really do.
It occurs to me that some of you loyal readers probably had more than something to do with that, and if so, thank you. You'll be glad to know that this year, the Boss and I are square with Santy Claus, and things are a little more "White Christmas" around here. But I look forward to being an Elf again soon.
Merry Christmas!
I think this has a great deal to do with the fact that I have lived a good deal of them. Every Christmas for the last four years, every wise-acre who knows me suddenly becomes a board-certified eye surgeon who is convinced to their inner most core that Kerataconus is a fancy Latin term for soap poisoning. And I suppose that may be it. Though I was never allowed a BB gun (Even with good eyes, would you want a somewhat less mature version of me with a semi-lethal firearm?), I did want one.
And I admit that my language has been, shall we say, "J. Goldenesque" (If I wasn't home, I was in a locker room). But I sure knew better than to cuss in front of my mother. And on those occasions when I did mess up, nobody bothered with soap. I just got my teeth rattled. So no, fans of Ralphie; I don't have soap poisoning.
We did get a flat tire on the way to a Christmas party once and I was tempted to call the eldest out to help me change it, but thought better of it. And that same year we had a Grinch steal Christmas right out from the locked trunk of our car(The only person who knew there was anything in there was the mechanic who replaced the tire. Hmmm....). Whoever the Grinch was must not have heard our "Who singing" (Puzey does a fine Cindy Lou Who impersonation), because we never got anything back. Oh well.
And I know what it feels like to be both Cousin Eddie ("The gas money gave out in Gurney, we coasted into town on fumes") and George Bailey ("I wish I had a million dollars..."), as in recent years the Boss and I have been the undeserving objects of many of Santa's best honorary elves. I can't really explain what it feels like to be thirty five years old and find yourself re-evaluating your belief in the Head Elf.
A few years ago, it was like one of those cartoons when Elmer Fudd chases Buggs Bunny behind a door, and when he opens it there is nothing in the closet, then he opens it again and there is something, and he takes it and closes the door and when he opens it again, there are two somethings, and then four somethings, and then eight. Every time I opened the door we found that someone had been thinking about us at Christmas time. All of it was anonymous, and it was plainly the work of several people working independent of one another. They had to be causing a traffic jam in front of the house. It was (get the soap ready) the damnedest thing I have ever been blessed with. When the Lord says he will open the windows of heaven and pour out a blessing that you won't have room enough to receive it? I get that now. So I get George Bailey. I really do.
It occurs to me that some of you loyal readers probably had more than something to do with that, and if so, thank you. You'll be glad to know that this year, the Boss and I are square with Santy Claus, and things are a little more "White Christmas" around here. But I look forward to being an Elf again soon.
Merry Christmas!
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Snuggies
Peff was helping with the cookies when I hear him say, "I just gave Bub a Snuggie". Instantly suspicious, I turned and asked him what a "snuggie" was. "This", he said, wrapping Bub into a headlock and delivering what I had always heard called "Knuckle nuggies". I guess snuggie is close enough. For demonstration sake, Peff and Motor took turns. Bub just took it with good grace, he's the smallest.
Hey, Uncle Fatdaddy, Does He look like a present?
I guess they thought the blanket was pretty good wrapping paper.
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