Alcoholic Ninja

Since the time of the "incident" I find myself wracked with guilt. It's not constant, it just comes and goes whenever I see a child in a karate outfit or a brown beer bottle. I was too young at the time to really know what to do or say, so I just didn't say anything...(my eyes cloud over as I remember the particulars of that night).

I was about 12 years old, I thought I knew everything but I was mistaken. I've always been the type of person to ignore an uncomfortable situation, I figure if I don't acknowledge it then it doesn't exist.
A lady at my church had some friends who were looking for a baby-sitter for their two kids. They were looking for someone they could trust to be a permanent sitter. I was the one for the job. "Trust" was my middle name; even though after that night, my fleeting employers probably suspected that my middle name was really "Lush."

I arrived and met the two cute little kids I would be sitting. A boy about 7 who we will call Bucky and a 4 year old girl that we'll call Wilma. Bucky was dressed in a karate outfit and spent a lot of the night showing off karate moves that would render an enemy unconscious. You can imagine the effectiveness of a 7 year old teaching a skinny 12 year old karate.

It was a very enjoyable sitting job. We all had fun playing games and pretending we were ninjas out to save the world. After we had won our battle and released all the prisoners from their cages we decided we were thirsty.
Bucky grabbed a brown bottle from the pantry and asked if he could drink it. He said that his dad and mom let them drink it sometimes. Keep in mind that my folks don't drink. I didn't know what alcohol looked like, smelled and apparently I didn't know how to spell alcohol, I figured "Dick's Pale Ale" was probably a wonderful new root beer that I'd never heard of before. I excitedly grabbed myself a bottle then proceeded to pour the kids a glass of Dick's famous root beer.
We toasted our recent victory and I threw my head back, closed my eyes and let the root beer fill my mouth. Immediately my eyes popped open, something wasn't right. I didn't know what it was this tasted like no root beer I'd had before (and I considered myself a connoisseur of root beer, even at the young age of 12). I spit out Dick's Pale Ale all over the kitchen and startled faces of my charges. "Don't drink the root beer, the root beer has gone bad!" I yelled. I quickly grabbed the cups of nastiness away from the innocent children (before they had taken a drink) and poured it all down the sink. I then threw the two empty beer bottles in the kitchen trash.

When the parents came home I didn't say a word about the incident. I was too embarrassed at my lack of alcoholic knowledge to admit that I almost started their kids drinking at the ages of 7 and 4.

I was never asked to baby-sit again. I can only assume that they found the two empty beer bottles in the trash and couldn't trust their children with a 12 year old ninja alcoholic. What kills me is that I never said anything, I never explained what had happened. Had I said something I probably would be a multi-millionaire still baby-sitting for them.

The moral of the story is to never drink Dick's Pale Ale while you're baby-sitting...oh, and being a ninja is awesome.

I broke my bum once...

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The Sisterhood of the Traveling Orange Spandex Dress

My mind wanders back to a time in my young life to about the age of 15. My best friend was JD and we were like two crazy peas in a pod. We would drive to school in her green station wagon (with one white door) blasting Backstreet Boys and "Lady in Red."
JD had more fashion sense that I did so I frequently borrow clothes from her to add to my "unique" wardrobe. For some reason (which I didn't think about until years later), JD never really borrowed anything of mine.
The one item in my wardrobe that JD thought was a brilliant purchase on my part was a bright orange spandex dress. I probably bought it at Wal-Mart or Target (I was a big spender). This dress hung to every nonexistent curve and hiney-dimple. One day I would wear the dress with my orange jelly shoes, the next day JD would strut her stuff as a vision in orange spandex. Being spandex it was a magical dress that made each wearer feel like the pumpkin of the ball.

The "Orange Spandex Dress Episode" as it is affectionately called was bound to happen. We're talking about spandex, spandex as a dress and two very silly friends, it was impossible to avoid; that's all I'm saying.
It was a lovely Sunday. We were at church. Our Sunday School class had finished early so we were waiting for my mom to get out of Relief Society. JD had won the dress that day during a coin toss. I wouldn't say what I did to her was because I was bitter that I'd lost.
As we stood by the doorway waiting for all the ladies in church to get out of their meeting, I enviously (I mean, happily) looked at JD in the orange spandex dress. My mind was momentarily possessed by a naughty little devil as I reach out, grabbed hold of the bottom of the dress and stretched it down the JD's ankles. The dress was made of such high quality spandex that it easily stretched from her knees to her ankles. We both laughed... but then, we were startled as the door to Relief Society opened and waves of women came rushing out of the door. In my surprise, I quickly straightened up and let go of the spandex dress. Like all good spandex is suppose to do, in a flash of lightening, the dress defied gravity and in a millisecond, it left JD's ankles bare. But it didn't stop at her knees where it started. Before JD could even scream or smack me, the orange spandex dress ended it's journey at her arm pits, leaving everything below fully exposed to the rush of church going women. We both froze for a second in awe at the miracle, a gravity defying dress. There was a collective gasp from the peanut gallery of Christian women envied the smooth skin of JD's youthful tummy, legs and booty. I turned to flee from my best friend as she clumsily pulled the orange fabric over her near-naked body. I believe I made it out to the parking lot before JD tackled me, an admirable distant for myself considering the amount of rage she had in her which had given her un-human like speed.

The moral of this story: Always wear shorts underneath your orange spandex dress or don't wear a orange spandex dress around me.

There was no peacock on my dress, pity.

Hi my name is Haley (Hi Haley), I'm a...I'm a Trekkie

Nate and I have always be pretty open about our past. I use to have a bowl haircut, he use to fold his man-panties perfectly in his drawer. I spent most of my high school career grounded, he was arrested for accepting stolen goods (a huge 7 ft Ronald McDonald statue). He was flashed by a girl for the first time when he was 15, my favorite outfit when I was 15 included a pair of bright maroon/pink sweatpants. He was a engaged to a cute blond, I was a Star Trek fan aka a Trekkie.

So you see, we both have a past that we don't go into much detail with. Enough details so we're not hiding anything from each other but not too much to bring up unwanted questions. It works for us, we're happy that way. We have a system...the other day I endangered the system.
Our way of life, our happy little world was shaken and it's all my fault.

The other evening we were watching a movie, I don't remember what it was. Nate and I were comfortably snuggled in one of our huge beanbag chairs, enjoying junk food and the warmth of a corn bag. The Christmas tree lights were twinkling in the background, the snow was falling so the world around us was clean and white. It was so peaceful.
As we watched the T.V. I mentioned to Nate that one of the actors reminded me of Worf from Star Trek: The Next Generation.
"That guy reminds me of Worf, you know, Michael Dorn."
Nate looked at 'me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.' He knew that I was a recovering Trekkie but he didn't know the real extent of my problem until that moment.
I realized I had made a fatal error in divulging my knowledge to Nate of the real name of the actor that played Worf. For over three years I had been able to hide the amplitude of my Trekkie past but all the untold secrets revealed themselves in true color as I tried to change the subject.
"Hey babe, want to get pizza?"
The diversion worked, but Nate is too clever to forget such a inexpiable secret.

I blame my Trekkie disorder on my dad. Some kids see their dad drinking so the kid ends up an alcoholic. Some kids see their dad's playboys laying around and the kid ends up addicted to porn. My dad was a faithful evening watcher of Star Trek. My early years found me playing around the living room, not really paying attention to the evenings episode of life threatening alien attack, but knowing full well that the high pitched "beep-beep" with the flashing red lights, meant "all hands on deck." Captain Kirk and Spock were skilled men, capable of getting out of any compromising situation.
My real problem began with Star Trek: The Next Generation. How I loved the accent of Captain Jean-Luc Picard , Commander Ryker had eyes that melted my heart, I was going to be a doctor just like Dr. Crusher. In fact, like giving an alcoholic keys to a liquor store, one of my elementary school field trips was to a space museum where they had a star ship Voyager. All the kids in my class got to pull positions out of a hat. There was a captain, 1st commander ect...those who didn't pull main positions were to be the little ensigns destined to be the first killed when the aliens attacked. Guess who pulled the job of doctor...yes, it was me. My fate was sealed before I had been born and Star Trek had been created.
My real love in the Next Generation was a dark skinned, wrinkled forehead, Bat'leth toting Klingon named Worf. My affection was so strong for Worf that along with the postcards I collected of him and his Klingon enemies (in case I ever encountered them, I would need to destroy them), along with the delta shield pendant that was worn by every Star Fleet officer, along with the Star Trek: The Next Generation collectors plate, I also had a well used Klingon dictionary and audio dictionary to learn the proper pronunciation of the Klingon language. My goal was to be fluent in Klingon before I joined the Star Fleet Academy (this would beef up my resume quite a bit, plus, I could proclaim my affections to Worf in his native tongue).

As you can see, this obsession was not as healthy as a parent would hope for. Other children my age were playing dress up and barbies. I ran back an forth from one spot to another pretending I had been 'energized' and was off to fight another intergalactic battle. "Hljol" (that means 'beam me up' in Klingon).

What saved me from a life of Trekkieness? It might have been all the reruns, oh wait, those weren't reruns, they were "new episodes" with a different alien and a different ensign dying each time. It might of been the night my folks told me there was no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy and then to pour a little lemon juice on my broken heart, they showed me the hour long documentary of the making of Star Trek. My precious star ship Voyager was nothing but a plastic 10 inch toy that a string held up in front of a black star sprinkled background. Commander Ryker was an arrogant jackass and I'm pretty sure he wore contacts, his eyes had lost the melting power they once had. My precious Worf, oh Worf, I saw the process of applying his make-up.
My world was shattered, I didn't know what was real or fake anymore. I was just waiting for my folks to say "Oh, and by the way, you're adopted."
So is the life of a child who is forced to grow up too fast.

Hi my name is Haley (hi Haley), I'm a recovering Trekkie (sounds of surprise because Haley seems like a normal person). I wake up every morning and just take one day at a time (nods of agreement, that's all you can do). I try not to dwell on the past but at times when I'm alone, my mind wanders to what might have been (that's natural for everyone). I noticed when I walked in to this meeting that across the hall is a Star Trek convention (gasps, what will she do), it's ok, I walked by and ignored the sign asking for volunteer Klingon interpreters...it's time to say good-bye forever.

Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam!
(It is a good day to die)

Memior-Physics

This picture is pretty close to what we had including the half naked kid. Ours was quite a bit higher though...

My siblings and I had a tree house that my dad had helped us build in a big aspen tree. It wasn’t really a tree house, it was more of a platform that you had to carefully climb onto and hug to the tree so you didn’t fall over the side as there were no rails. To give you a perspective of the size of our “tree house,” all four of us kids couldn’t fit on it unless we sat on each other’s lap. But the point of the tree house was not to have club meetings or camp out, the point was to climb up 15 feet to the platform grab onto the handle/pulley contraption and ride down the zip-line. Dad had hooked a thick cable to the tree and stretched it taunt to the hitch of our old jeep. With this ingenious idea, we kids had endless hours of trying to find cool ways of not falling from the platform or the zip-line. The potential risks of this toy were forgotten as soon as our hands grasped onto the handles of the pulley and we felt the breeze blowing in our hair.

My knowledge of physics came from the zip-line. For example, I learned that if you hold on to the pulley and jump right off the platform (remember 15 feet above the ground) your arms and hands aren’t ready for the weight of the rest of your body. The law of gravity was thus introduced to us as we rubbed our sore rear-ends and tried to walk off our bruised tailbones. The law of gravity was one lesson that each of us only needed to learn once, from then on, we learned to lean out a little way over the platform so that our arms could adjust to the weight before we pushed off the platform.

I also learned about the law of motion. If you are zipping down a zip-line and you pass by your siblings who are running as fast as they but still can’t keep up with your speed, chances are that your own legs won’t be able to catch up to the speed of the pulley so that you can stop yourself and land on your feet as the ride ends. No, that doesn’t happen, the law of motion requires that you end your ride on your bum (which is still sore from learning about the law of gravity). There was a nice airstrip carved out of the ground at the end of the zip-line in the shape of two little butt cheeks due to the number of booty-landings that were successfully completed.

The physics law that I remember most is the law of Captain. Something I failed to mention about the zip-line was that once (if) you survived the “jumping off point” you then had to hold on so you didn’t drop into the ditch filled with vile, stinky, stale, duck poop water. Immediately following the ditch was a mess of blackberry bushes that often reached up with sharp painful thorns to grab any legs that hung too low. If you made it past the blackberry bushes one more burst of energy was required to lift your legs and booty as high as you could to avoid the grove of pointed reeds that stretched up and tried to violate any bum that didn’t have enough height. The law of Captain has been scientifically proven time again that if my brother, Captain, played on the zip-line he would without fail fall off. It didn’t matter if it was into the ditch of despair, the thorns from hell or the rape-o-the reeds; at one point in our play Captain would start down the zip-line and in seconds the pulley would come sliding to a peaceful stop at the end of the ride, alone. Captain’s favorite place to fall off was over the blackberry bushes, he could then roll off into the ditch water thus hitting two birds with one stone.

No serious damage was ever done, just some scratches, bruises and a fractured arm or two. Nothing that wouldn’t mend in a few short weeks and then experimentation continued with the search to answer the question “What is the scientific explanation behind the Law of Captain?”

And now ends our lesson on the law of physics, there will be a test next week…

Memior- My Mom's Potty Mouth

There was only one time in my childhood that I remember my mom saying a naughty word. We grew up with dad saying the usual “damn” and “hell” (please don’t judge my dad; he had to put up with us kids and all our antics), but mom was always had a different way with words. Her vocabulary included but was not limited to: grounded, chores, and the ultimate “are you bored?” Those were very dangerous words to us. We weren’t allowed to swear and if we did and were dumb enough to get caught we usually had to write 100 times “I will not swear” or the favorite, soap in the mouth.

One day we (Mom, my brothers, sister, my best pal, JD, and I) were out feeding the animals and getting them ready for the night. Part of the nightly routine included checking the ever present electric fence (aka: Fence-o-Satan) to make sure it was working which involved turning off the electric wire. It was pouring down rain but that didn’t matter much to the animals, they were hungry. We all had our black muck boots on, sloshing through the mud and rain as fast as a body could slosh. We had just about finished when mom told JD and I to turn the electric fence back on; we ran to the side of the house, excited to be finished with the chores and get on with our sleep over.

Apparently my mom didn’t expect us to run as fast as we did. As I hit the switch to turn the fence back on, I heard a horrible banshee shriek “Daaammmnnn iittt!” JD and I looked at each other with wide eyes as we ran back around to where my mom was. We were met with a wild woman with a face that not even her daughter could love. I’m not clear if my mom was actually holding the wire or if she slipped a little in the mud as she was stepping over the wire and fell into it, but that was the moment I chose to turn the fence back on. The shock itself wouldn’t have been quite so bad if she hadn’t been standing knee deep in a puddle of water. Not only did the shock just about knock her down, she also peed her pants (don’t be embarrassed, Mom, you’ve had four kids your bladder was weak anyway). JD and I read each others minds which may have saved our lives. In less than a blink of an eye, JD and I turned and ran as fast as our legs could go, which was pretty fast considering that we had big heavy mud boots on. I had never heard my mother swear before, I was terrified, now that she was swearing like a sailor, there was just no knowing what she would do next.

Like a coward I left my young, helpless siblings behind to face the wrath of the mamma. JD and I hid in the tree house until we felt it was safe to return home.
The one thing that puzzles me, and I could be wrong (my science knowledge is limited at best), is that I thought the rubber mud boots would have grounded the shock of the fence. Maybe we just witnessed a miracle of nature…

Memior- Rodeo Clowns

Though none of my siblings or I have rode a bull, we have experienced the thrill of jumping on an animal four times our weight and holding on for dear life, hoping to survive the ride and be crowned the rodeo king or queen.
Growing up we had four big sows’ (pigs) that peacefully resided in a muddy bog where they rolled and slept lazily all day. Talk about a life worth envying. My poor siblings and I would be slaving away at our chores, glaring at the pigs as the squished down a little deeper into the mud, oinking contently, their little eyes looking up at us mockingly and laughingly. They truly lived a life of ease and one day we decided that there carefree life was about to end…
On the morning that we had been pushed to the breaking point, we had finished our chores and had the whole day to play. The sun was shining that day but it had rained the days before so the ground was soggy but that didn’t matter, the more mud, the more fun. That was our motto.
As we decided what to play, one of us (I don’t remember who, it might have been Captain or Marshall) thought it would be fun to play rodeo…with the pigs. There were four kids and four pigs, the rules were simple: We each picked a pig, on the count of three we jump on the said pig; whoever stays on the longest (or survives) wins the rodeo title. Like the brilliant kids that we were, we weighed the consequences of our actions:
Good-There was soft mud to land on if we fell off
Bad- We were jumping on the backs of 400 lb pigs
Good- The pigs had it too easy, they needed a taste of real life
Bad- 400 lb pigs’ vs. less than 100 lb dumb kids
Good- It would be a good game, our old games were getting boring. We needed a new adventure.

The good won out and so like true rodeo cowboys we each pulled a pig’s name out of a hat. I pulled Miss Minnie who contrary to her name was the largest of the pigs. That’s ok; I was the eldest after all.
We quietly snuck around the electric fence surrounding the pigs, when we were all in position; I raised my hand and counted down to rodeo time. Three, two, one…We vaulted onto the backs of the sleeping pigs and grabbed onto what ever we could to stay on. There were a few things working against us that we hadn’t thrown into the pig rodeo equation.

1. The pigs were muddy which made them slippery and impossible to hang onto.
2. The pigs weren’t going to lay still enough for us to get a good seat, riding a bull would have been easier.
3. The pigs were fat and if they hadn’t been muddy we still wouldn’t have been able to hang on because our arms weren’t long enough to go around them.
4. That damn electric fence.
Need I say more?

The seconds between the countdown and the unseating of the four cowboys are still a blur to me. I remember landing on Miss Minnie, sliding to her side, trying to pull myself back up and then sliding back to her side. The moment we landed on the pigs all hell broke loose as they jumped up and began slipping and stumbling around the pig pen. I remember as I was holding on with all my might, my eye became level with Miss Minnie’s squinty, angry eye and I could see her little brain thinking of the worst way to make me suffer for interrupting her morning mud nap. Have you ever heard a pig squeal? It’s a high pitched, piercing, shriek; I have never heard anything to compare to the squeal of a pig until that day. The squeal of a pig will disturb you but the squeal of a kid landing on an electric fence will haunt you for the rest of your life. For on that day Miss Minnie decided that revenge wouldn’t be complete without the help of the electric fence. In a language that only pigs can understand, she told the two other pigs to head for the electric fence. Logan had already fallen off by this time, had rolled out of the way of the stampede and was trying to wipe the pig muck out of her nose and mouth. In a smooth motion that isn’t common in pigs, Miss Minnie sharply turned to the left and with a yelp; I landed hard on the ground and sunk into the deep mud. The air was knocked out of me as I lay on my back try to gulp in mouthfuls of oxygen and thanking my lucky stars that I was still alive. My moment of thankfulness was short lived as I felt a jolt of pain hit my back and run through my body. Unknowingly, I had been bucked off onto the electric fence with my feet lying in a puddle of mud and water; I had the perfect conductor for an out of body electrocution. Captain and Marshalls screams mingled with mine in an eerie harmony of pain. They too were trying to get off of the electric fence before another pulse of power, meant to shock a horse or cow, coursed through they're bodies. The mud was so thick and deep, it took two or three pulses before we were able to pull ourselves out of the suction from the mud. Our little bodies, quivery from the effects of being shocked, were so tired from having to fight so hard for our lives. We laid on the outside of the pig pen covered in goo (a combination of mud and pig crap) for about 20 minutes as the pigs rolled in the mud and relaxed in the shade, their eyes once again looking at us, laughing and daring us to try again. We never did. There was no rodeo winner that day, only four broken cowboys.

Memior- The Secret’s in the Penicillin

I come from a long family line of cooks and bakers. It’s in my blood, so naturally, I have a gift in the kitchen (though my husband has his own opinions)… One of my most shining moments was when I was about 14 or 15. We were going to have a BBQ and invite a few family friends over to enjoy the beautiful day. The berries around the place were perfect for the picking. Blackberries, raspberries, wild strawberries, and salmon berries were plump and sweet. And so my dad and I decided that we would make a few homemade pies. He would make the filling with the delicious berries and I would make a flaky crust. Never have I seen more beautiful pies that the wild berry pies that we made that day. We were the best pie makers in the land. Not only were the pies beautiful, but they were so good that one of our guests had four pieces. We brought empty pie tins back to the house and congratulated our own genius and began to make plans for opening our own bakery. That’s how good the pies were. Now, I’m sure you’re on the edge of your seat for the recipe and secret to making the best pie ever but I’m afraid I won’t be sharing that with you. I’m truly sorry.
Several weeks later I was in need of butter and so I went to the freezer to get some. Now keep in mind at that time, we made our own butter. We had an old fashion butter churn which kept us busy for hours churning away, waiting for that cream to turn to butter. After the butter was ready we would form it into thin flat pancake like shapes, wrap it in plastic and put it in the freezer for future use. As I grabbed the butter out of the freezer, my dad looked up from the kitchen table and asked me what I was doing. “I need butter” I said. “That’s not butter” my dad informed me. “Yes it is” I told him “that’s what I used in the pie crusts I made.” The room fell silent as my best friend, JD, my brothers, sister and mom all took a moment to ponder this turn of events. The flat butter like pancake that I was holding in my hand and had used to make my winning pie crust was none other than the Crisco, powdered sugar, and penicillin bee patties that my mom had made to medicate her honey bees. All of a sudden many mysteries were solved. The guy who ate four pieces of pie had been fighting a cold for weeks; it cleared right up after the BBQ. None of the rest of us who had eaten the pie had gotten sick since the time of the pie. I wondered why my crust was so flavorful and flaky; now I knew the secret…it’s all in the penicillin.
I gave up dreams of pie crusts and opening my own bakery after that. I would never live down the story of the best pie ever and to this day, I start to tremble when I think of making a pie crust.

Memior- My Dad, The Chicken Whisperer

The summer I turned 16, I went with my church on a trek. A trek is when you dress up like a pioneer and push a handcart; you spend the entire time learning to live like a pioneer. We cooked over a fire, slept on the ground in sleeping bags, used outhouses, we even had to slaughter our own chickens for dinner (I guess I’ve always been a pioneer, none of this was new to me).
My dad works for a natural gas pipeline and the area we where camping on turned out to be on his right of way, which means he needed to check on the area occasionally. On the evening that we were slaughtering chickens for dinner, my dad came to see how we were all doing. He drove up in his big yellow work truck, I saw kids from the trek running up to him like little street urchins. I learned that he had some old chips and candy that he was handing out. Mind you we weren’t allowed to bring anything to eat, so we had been surviving on potatoes, onions and if we were lucky, a roll. Dad parked his truck and walked around to see how things were going. He said hi to me (I’m his favorite kid), snuck me some candy, and sauntered farther down the camp to see what else was going on. The events that followed have scarred the individuals present to the extent that to this day, they still wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat.
My dad had wandered to the area where the chickens were being butchered. He watched with shock as the adults in charge of directing the correct procedure to butcher chickens, instructed one girl to hold the head of the chicken onto a wood stump, another girl to hold onto the body, and a boy to swing a very sharp axe and try to cut off the head of the chicken. I know that the only reason no one had lost a finger was because the Lord was watching. My dad is a seasoned chicken killer so in good conscious he couldn’t stand there and watch a chicken butchered in such an obviously wrong way.
I wasn’t there, all I know is that from the side of camp where they were butchering the chickens, I heard a man scream. I turned, expecting to see a bear attacking the camp. I saw men, women, girls and boys running and screaming in all directions. They’re faces were white and some leaned behind trees to throw-up. I looked for my dad, worried, and saw him standing by himself holding a chicken head in his hand.
The story goes that he was showing the easiest way to butcher a chicken. It was quick, humane, and not so messy since it’s a well known fact that a chicken will flop around after its head has been cut off, plus it didn’t require a virgin to sacrifice her fingers. I’ve seen this method done; we’ve butchered many a chicken at home with this way. Dad took the head of the chicken in his hand, flicked his wrist quickly and with that broke the neck of the chicken, killing it instantly. End of story, easy as pie (please don’t comment if you’ve read my pie story). Unfortunately, this pie didn’t end up so sweet. Dad flicked his wrist but maybe working around so many people made him a little nervous, he flicked his wrist a little too hard. Not only did he break the neck of the chicken he pulled the head right off of the delicious bird with a big “Pop, Plop.” And with that extra flick, the chicken began to flip, flop and run around while blood squirted 5 feet in the air in all directions. It was at this point the chaos began, and there was my dad, standing alone with a chicken head in his hand and blood dripping from the leaves of the trees overhead.

The leaders asked my dad to leave; they said it wasn’t because of the chicken. They said it was because he was handing out candy. I think it was because of the chicken, I think they were lying.

The Birds and the Bees

I was at that difficult age in life where you think you know everything but in reality, you’re just too dumb to know that you don’t know a darn thing. I remember on several occasions when my mom tried to tell me about the “facts of life” I just wasn’t interested in listening (plus it was a little weird when she pulled out a cartoon book about where babies come from) and so I went to about the age of 12 not knowing or caring. My world came crashing down around me one day when I was handed a piece of paper from my health teacher. The paper was a permission slip for me to take sex ed. I didn’t want to take sex ed, it was embarrassing and it made me blush, a lot. But if I didn’t go, I would be humiliated in front of my classmates. The permission slip needed my parent’s signature for me to take the class. I was in a pickle because if I didn’t show it to my folks and have them sign it, I would be an outcast and have to sit in another class while everyone else and their dog learned about the miracle of life. On the other hand, if I did show it to my mom (the usual signer of school permission slips) then there was a very probable chance that she would read what she was signing and we’d have to talk about “it.” Which of my options would be the least humiliating?
I decided that since I was so grown I should just face the music and ask my mom to sign the permission slip. I remember the little details so clearly, I remember that we were driving home. Mom and I were alone and we were driving along the winding Skagit highway with the river to our left and the green forest of Washington to our right. I remember the exact location where this particular incident happened. I took a deep breathe and pulled the devil’s permission slip out of my backpack. “Mom,” I said “I need you to sign this permission slip.” “What’s it for?” she heartlessly asked. Darn, I thought, why did I have to have a mother that cared so much? “Well it’s for permission to take a class in school.” She nodded her head and I thought I’d slipped past her. “What’s the class?” Crap! “Oh, just for health class, we’re starting a new chapter and for some reason they want our parents to say it’s ok for us to be in the class.” I tried not to rush it but I was starting to get panicky. “What’s the chapter about?” Dang, woman, you just don’t know when to stop do you? I decided to switch tactics; I would bare the humiliation of not watching a live birth with my friends. I didn’t really need the class; my mom and I could just go back to the way things were, when sex didn’t exist. I chuckled “Oh, it’s silly, they chapter is on sex and all of that stuff.” My mom nodded (I think she knew the whole time) “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with you learning about sex in school.” She said. I could tell she was torn, if I didn’t learn it in school, where else would I learn it? She had unsuccessfully tried to talk to me but it made her as uncomfortable as it made me. I decided to ease her decision. “Mom, don’t worry about it. I don’t need to take the class.” That’s it don’t over do it. “I already know about all that stuff anyway.” She quickly turned her head to glance at me then she called my bluff “You already know about what stuff?” I knew I had her; I had manipulated her into deciding I didn’t need to take the class. I could tell the kids at school my mom wouldn’t let me take the class. I decided to seal the deal “I know that girls have periods and boys don’t have anything to worry about.” Yep, I was on a roll “It’s so unfair that we have to deal with that stuff and boys have it so easy.” My mom once again looked at me and asked “That’s what you know about sex?” I smiled and nodded, it was good to be me. “Let me see that permission slip.” She ordered. I happily handed it to her fully expecting her to dramatically tear it up and throw it out the window into the river below. Good-bye sex, forever! I watched her with anticipation and then horror as she placed the paper on the steering wheel, while still driving, and signed the permission slip saying that the school had permission to teach her naive daughter that boys really don’t have it as easy as previously believed.
I don’t remember my sexual education class; I think I blacked it out. It was a little too traumatic for me, but I am now a well educated adult. I know the facts about where babies come from, how they get here and that it has nothing to do with birds or bees, but I still stand by my original belief that boys have it easier than girls…

'Ol Red- Part 3, The Final Adventure

It was the summer I turned 15, life was good. I had just returned home from working on a ranch for the first time. I remember arriving home feeling very grown-up and much more mature. I decided that a ride around the pasture on ‘Ol Red would be a great way to welcome myself home and so I jumped on my noble steed and with the cursed electric fence behind me, I rode with ease towards the edge of the pasture. I had made a few relaxing rounds up, down and around the pasture when I saw my little sister, who had missed me like crazy, come running out into the pasture for a ride. Now this was before the “pond incident” and so Logan didn’t know how to drive herself, plus, she just missed me. I decided this would be great sister to sister time. She jumped on behind me and with a couple revves of the engine we were off. I zigged and zagged, I swerved left and right, I couldn’t believe how great I was at driving that scooter. Honestly, I should be driving professionally, I was that good. As I began to day dream about being a professional scooter driver I put my brain on auto-pilot and imagined the fame and money to be made. The horses, cows, chickens and llamas became crowds of people watching me in wonder as I drove through the green grass. The geese, ducks and pigs cheered as I drove towards the huge 7 foot high pile of chicken manure that I would jump…wait...I don’t jump stuff…I just swerve left and right…I only know how to zig and zag…and what the heck is that pile of poop doing there…the cheering turned to a scream in my ear as Logan saw the pile-o-doom looming over us. I didn’t even have time to swerve as we hit the manure pile and flew head first in to chicken poop. You’ve heard the expression “Up to their armpits…” well few have actually lived to tell. As I lay on my side, stunned for a moment with a fractured left arm, I wondered at how chicken manure could have produced such a hard and painful landing. There was absolutely no cushioning despite the 7 feet of sun-bleached poop. I looked to see if Logan was still alive and if she had faired better than me, she had. She was settled in an upright position as if she was reclining on a lazy boy, her hair was a bit messy and there were chunks of…well, you know, but she was alive and that’s what really counted.

We limped back to the house, ‘Ol Red was injured too and wouldn’t start so we had to push it back through the pasture to the barn.
For those city folks out there who are wondering why there were 7 foot tall piles of chicken manure in our field and what kind of chicken would leave 7 foot tall piles of chicken manure, I will now enlighten you. Poultry manure (once it’s set for awhile so the acid has time to be released) is amazing for your lawn. We had the nicest crop of hay that year; it was so tender and green. And we lived near a chicken farm so they brought the droppings from hundreds of thousands of chickens in big trucks, so the pile-o-doom was not the work of one mutant chicken.

Memior- My (Not) First Date After my Mission

I had come home, I had served a successful 18 month mission and I was ready to continue my life where I had left it, which revolved around the two D’s, dating and more importantly, dancing. My first week back in the singles ward found me introduced to a cute blonde guy with amazing blue eyes and a beautiful white smile. He was a couple years younger than me which I was a little concerned about but when he looked at me with those baby-blues, I forgot my own name. We talked for awhile and by a twist of fate he mentioned that he was going to go dancing at a new club, Club Overdrive. I said that I loved dancing and asked him what day he would be going and I’d meet him there. He offered to pick me up since it was difficult to find the place (It wasn’t that difficult to find). I accepted and excitedly looked forward to getting my dance on.
The night finally arrived; I was dressed and ready to go. I was wearing my favorite cowboy boots, a tight pair of jeans and a belt buckle you could play frisbee with. Baby-Blue picked me up in his yellow pick-up truck and we were off. We pulled into an empty parking lot and found out that the club was closed for the week for repairs. I was disappointed because I had dressed up for nothing and I wasn’t going to be able to dance. He muttered “Man, this date isn’t going very well.” I didn’t say anything but I was thinking “What date? This isn’t a date, you gave me a ride.” All of a sudden he perked up and said “I’ve got an idea.” How I would come to dread those words in the following four hours…He drove his truck around to the back of the club and said we could just dance back there. Umm, ok. He tried to find a radio station but for some unearthly reason that I’ll never know, we couldn’t get one good station. So he told me I could pick some music from his CD collection. I had such a hard time deciding if Mozart or Rage Against the Machine would be better for line-dancing. After about 20 minutes of uncomfortable two stepping to Mozart’s 31st symphony, Baby-Blue said “I’ve got an idea.” (I was hoping his idea was to take me home)
We jumped in his truck and he took off the wrong way on a one way street. He refused to tell me where we were going and at that point I wasn’t going to complain as long as we were going the same direction that the rest of the traffic.
As we drove to downtown Salt Lake City, the lights of the Salt Lake Temple mocked me; they seemed to know what the evening would bring. As Baby-Blue pulled up to the temple, I saw the silhouettes of lovers walking, sitting, holding hands, and even a few kissing around the grounds of the temple. I was dressed in a pair of very tight jeans and my cowboy boots with a guy I hardly knew who thought we were on a date. Not the best recipe for going to the temple. We walked on the grounds and found ourselves a spot to sit and talk. I must admit that I enjoyed the time we spent talking. We talked about our missions, horses, camping, and other unmemorable things. After about 45 minutes of talking, our conversation slowed and Baby-Blue looked up to the temple and said “I can’t wait to go in there and get married”

AAAUUGGHHH!!!!Warning lights went off in my brain as my anti-commitment sensor told me that once again my charms had seduced another boy and it was time to cut off all contact. But he was not going to go down without a fight…We walked towards his truck, dodging engaged couples dancing along the paths of the temple grounds. As we arrived at the truck he looked at me and smiled “I’ve got an idea” he said to me as he slowly reached into the glove box of his truck. My heart skipped as my mind convinced me that he was reaching for the engagement ring he keeps in his truck in case of emergencies. I looked at him warily as he pulled out a huge ziplock bag full of pennies. “Have you ever played the 100-wishing game?” he asked. I had never even heard of this strange game before, I figured it was a Utah-Mormon thing. Kind of like coming to the temple on a first date, that wasn’t even a first date. He guided me back to the temple grounds “Pick a fountain” he said “any fountain you want.” I hesitantly pointed to the closest fountain to the exit. He excitedly told me the rules of the 100-wishing game. “You take a penny from the bag; make a wish out loud and throw the penny in the fountain. Then the other person gets a turn, we get to do this until all the pennies are gone.” My eyes widened with horror as I estimated the number of pennies bulging out of the largest ziplock bag I’d ever seen in my life. “I’ll start” said Baby-Blue. He looked into my eyes, grabbed a penny and said “I wish that I could get married soon.” Plop, went the penny as it hit the water. “I wish that I can marry a return missionary” Plop! “I wish that I can have lots of kids” Plop! My mind raced as I began to prepare my “I’m not looking for a relationship” speech that I was sure I would have to give as soon as he proposed to me.“You’re turn” he said as he offered me a penny. He looked at me expectantly as I took the penny from his fingers. “I wish that I could have gone dancing tonight” Plop! Baby-Blue took another penny for himself “I wish that I can get married in the temple, soon.” Plop! My turn, I panic and say “I wish that my dog was here” Plop! My survival extinct kicked as I began to grab pennies out to the bag by the handful. “I wish I had a truck” Plop, plop, plop, plop!!! I don’t believe in wishing anymore because every time I threw a penny in I was thinking “I wish this ‘date’ is really a nightmare and I was home in bed.” No, I was still there. “I wish that my wife and I will have a very happy marriage.” Plop! Those baby-blue eyes no longer had the same effect on me; they were now my greatest fear. What seemed like an eternity passed until at last the bag of pennies was gone. I told Crazy Baby-Blue that it was late and I needed to get home. I walked slightly ahead of him to his truck. I was in my seat and buckled up before he even arrived at the truck. As we drove towards my house we passed parts of downtown Salt Lake, I didn’t say a word. There were no more words to say, I thought. We passed some empty buildings Crazy Baby-Blue looked at them and turned to me “I’ve got and idea!” “No” I said “I really need to get home.” “Oh, ok.” He seemed a little disappointed. As he pulled up to my house he asked me if I wanted to go out again. “No, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea.” I said as I turned and walked into the house.

Memior- ‘Ol Red Part 2

The third cause of our disasters was the throttle which controlled the gas hence controlling the speed of the scooter-o-Satan. You just twisted the handle of the scooter and off you went, it would be convenient if a persons’ first reflex when faced with a compromising situation is to let go of the handle; instead of squeeze it as hard as you can.
One beautiful day I was riding Ol’ Red around our circular drive way, it had rained recently and so it wasn’t possible to ride in the pasture. I was enjoying myself when Logan came out to see if I would give her a ride. Her throat was healing nicely and to this day there is barely a scar. Like the kind big sister that I was, I drove her around the circle a few times. Deciding that I’d take my kindness to the next level, I asked Logan if she wanted to learn how to drive the scooter. I figured it would be just like teaching her to ride a regular bike. Every kid needs to know how to ride a bike and drive a scooter… I sat behind her and told her the scooter basics: gas, brake, blinker (we always used the blinker, the horses needed to know which way we were going to turn), horn, key, the horn again. We were ready to go, as we started our halted stop and go ride around the driveway, Logan started to get the hang of things as I sat behind her encouragingly. I was congratulating myself on being the “World’s # 1 Scooter Teacher and Big Sister” when Logan started to speed up. As I look back at the following events, I admire my level-headedness as our lives passed before my eyes. In slow motion, I told Logan to slow down, but for some reason (maybe a flashback of her being clothes-lined) she was paralyzed except for her hand which squeezed the throttle. I yelled at Logan to let off the gas, again this only resulted in her twisting the handle even more. As I tried to take control of the scooter I realized that we were going to crash and we had three options to choose from as to what we were going to crash into...
To our left was mom’s flower garden, to the right was dad’s big yellow work truck, I surmised that if we survived this crash, we would probably not survive the punishment bestowed on us if we ruined mom’s flowers or put two head dents in dad’s truck. I made a millisecond decision and pulled the handle of the scooter towards option three, the pond.
I don’t know which one of our screams brought my folks running from the house but I’m sure they weren’t expecting to see three rear ends sticking out of the frog pond. The scooter’s back wheel was spinning since Logan still hadn’t let up on the throttle. I had been thrown over Logan’s head and landed in the very center of the pond where I was trying to cough up the pollywogs I had eaten as my gaping, screaming mouth hit the water. After that, Logan has entered the ranks with Captain; I don’t drive with her anymore. As a side note, dad said it would have been ok for us to hit his truck, to this day I wonder if I made the right choice…

Memior-‘Ol Red-Part 1

I don’t think it ever crossed my folks minds to buy a four wheeler, at least they never mentioned it to us kids. It was probably one of the smartest things they ever didn’t do. And so instead of the four of us killing ourselves on a four-wheeler, we made every attempt of unintentional suicide on a little motor-scooter not unlike a moped without pedals. I don’t know where the little red scooter came from, it just was, kind of like there was always toilet paper in the bathroom; none of us kids knew where it came from, it just was. There are too many stories of crashes, clothes-lining and emergency room visits to tell about in a single story. Just know that short of riding ‘Ol Red off our mud jumping cliff (we couldn’t get it back there or we probably would have tried), every other conceivable stunt was attempted even if we didn’t mean to. We probably wouldn’t have had so many disasters if it weren’t for three things, Captain and the thin, wire electric fence surrounding the horse pasture were the first two. If there were just one or the other, it would have been safe even for Paris Hilton, but the combination of the two equaled disaster and usually an innocent sibling waking up laying flat on their back. Marshall and I were smart enough never to ride with Captain (to this day I do all I can not to be apart of anything he’s driving) but Logan was young and so trusting of her big brother. We frequently rode ‘Ol Red out in the pasture, a person could ride with the wind and there were very few dangers aside from their own stupidity and monstrous piles of chicken manure. But between the sweet freedom of scooting along at 10 mph and the pasture; was the electric fence for the horses and cows. The problem with the fence was that you had to grab it, lift it up and throw it behind you before the pulsing shock ran through your body resulting in soiled drawers; and all of this while riding the scooter. Of course we could have turned the fence off but then we’d have to turn it back on and that just took too much time and so we all became apt at the grab, lift and throw method. Because Captain spent as much time fixing ‘Ol Red as he spent crashing it, he drove it the most, which led to this particular incident of him driving towards the pasture and Logan sitting unconcerned behind him with her arms loosely around his waist. As Captain pulled up to the electric fence he quickly and expertly lifted the little wire, threw it behind him and laid on the gas. He was free. Unfortunately for Logan, Captain forgot that she was behind him and in his hurry to be done with the worry of death by electrocution he dropped the wire right between the two of them. As he hit the gas, the wire caught Logan at the throat not only shocking her but clothes-lining her and knocking her into a backwards summersault where she landed with a heavy thud. As she lay on her back gasping for breathe from the combination of being clothes-lined, shocked and having the air knocked out of her, Captain scooted on, oblivious to his little sister with her head resting on a pile of manure. I think it knocked something loose in her brain; she’s never been the same.

Memoir: My First Kiss *this story is not for the weak!!

Even the most serious of people smile when they hear the romantic story of my first kiss. I suppose it takes them back to their own youth when life was full of adventure and romance. I know that’s how I was; for me, it began and ended with a kiss…

I didn’t receive my first kiss until I was 18. I had moved in with my grandparents. I loved it; I worked, hung out with friends and of course, dated. I was free from all restraint. My story begins at a singles dance where I met him, he was tall and blonde with beautiful teeth and he drove a convertible, he was like a Ken doll. He and his cousin (who I also ended up dating) invited me to go bowling with them since the dance was less than impressive. Flattered to be in the company of two cute guys, I accepted and had an enjoyable evening. After I beat them both bowling, in a graceful, ladylike manner, Ken-doll asked me to go out with him the following evening. I coolly said yes even though my insides were going crazy, oh yeah, I was a dating maniac.

The next day I began to prep for my date: shower, sing in the shower, dry off, sing in front of the mirror, and on... I don’t remember what I wore or what we even did that evening; nothing was worth remembering after The Kiss. My memory begins with us walking into the atmosphere comparable to Texas Roadhouse or Outback Steakhouse. I don’t know exactly. Being a lady I didn’t order the raw steak and rack of ribs that would have been sooo good, so I settle for a salad (with extra dressing!) and a bottle of good ‘ol root beer. Ken-doll ordered a plate of chili-cheese fries which he offered to share with me but my salad was “more” than enough for me. I don’t have any bad memories of the date so it must have been nice enough. He paid for his chili-cheese fries and my rabbit food and since it was late, he drove me home.

As he walked me to my doorstep, it was about 11:30 pm, I began to dwell on my present VL (virgin lips) condition. I made a decision, it had to stop here. I was 18, it was the perfect night with the moon and clouds casting shadows around us, Ken-doll was as good a guy as anyone. It was time. Maybe it was his first kiss too or maybe he just thought I was easy, anyway, we moved in at the same time. I was on a mission and he was my innocent victim. There was no awkwardness as our lips touched. Fireworks, magic, I could defiantly see why people enjoyed kissing. It’s wasn’t half bad. To make things even more romantic, Ken-doll walked me down to the pond where my grandparents had a little deck with white twinkle lights lit and glowing. We continued our mouth to tongue exploration while the pond reflected the lights and stars. I was enjoying the continuation of my first kiss when I felt Ken-doll’s chest rise. “How romantic” I thought “he’s sighing with pleasure.” No sooner had that thought passed through my mind than his “sigh of pleasure” turned in to a mouth to mouth burp of chili-cheese fries. No, Ken-doll did not pull away, he simply burped into my mouth, hoping I wouldn’t notice, and tried to continue with where he had left off. Oh, hell no, he did not just do that. I pulled away, shocked at what I had just experienced. Was this guy for real?
All of a sudden I realized that he really wasn’t that tall and his hair was starting to show where his blonde roots were growing out, his teeth didn’t look so beautiful when I remembered how they looked with chunks of chili, cheese, and fries stuck in them. And his convertible, well it wasn’t even his, it was his folks.

As calmly as I could I told him it was late and I needed to go to bed. I walked him to his car, he tried to pull me close but I stuck out my right hand and told him not to call me again, I wasn’t looking for a relationship.
The next weekend, I went out with his cousin. He was a good kisser, but nothing did or ever will compare to The Chili-Cheese Fry Kiss-o-Pleasure.

Memoir: Bad Men and Booby-Traps

By the time my little sister was old enough to understand, my brothers and I had educated her on the dangers of bad men and the importance of being prepared. My brothers and I considered ourselves authorities on the subject; having never missed a week of “America’s Most Wanted.” Many a Friday night would find all of us having a “sleep-over” in one of our bedrooms brought on by that evenings viewing of AMW.
One particularly terrifying episode of AMW had the four of us gathered together in my bedroom discussing the dangers of growing up with ax murderers and pedophiles (whatever those were…). We came to the conclusion that we weren’t going to survive to adulthood if we didn’t take matters into our own hands and so we agreed on a “each man for themselves” course of action in which each of us would be responsible for booby-trapping our own rooms. I, being the eldest, took on the burden of not only setting a trap in my own room but also setting up an early warning system in the hallway outside of our rooms for the bad men that were sure to break down our doors at any moment. We didn’t even want to consider the horrors we would endure if the warning system in the hallways and booby-traps in our rooms failed, the bad men would get us.
We each had our own ideas of how to protect ourselves. Captain was fairly competent with pulleys and levers. He set up an elaborate trap that involved the door opening which activated a pulley resulting in a hammer swinging towards the bad man’s head. Marshall, Logan and I were a little more primitive; our traps ranged from a trip wire to throwing a “My Little Pony” at the intruder. Thanks to my genius with the warning system that I had set up in the hallway, we had no need for the plan B booby-traps.
Everything went exactly as we suspected it would... The bad man silently crept down the stairs, he was barefooted of course so that each of his steps were undetected, he could hear the breathing of the innocent children, sleeping peacefully, dreaming of the lovely summer days ahead to them. Only a dark hallway separated him from his victims. His mind turns as he decides which room he’ll go into first. One step into the hallway followed by another, he pauses a moment listening for any sign of movement, his third step proved his undoing as his soft bare foot stepped down on one of the hundreds of nails I had set up down the hallway.
A cry of pain and a curse of surprise filled our ears as we jumped out of our beds, they had come, the bad men were here. We had heard that voice before; our minds raced as we tried remember which one of the bad men on AMW had a voice like that…

The genius of our booby-traps don’t need to be bragged about, we just did what any educated child would do. I’ll tell you what I later told my mom, if Dad would have been the bad man, he wouldn’t have gotten very far in his evil plans.
And we weren’t allowed to watch America’s Most Wanted anymore.

Memoir: Captain’s Blood Pressure

After Captain and I made our journey to Utah, we moved in with our grandparents. I started my long career of dating and dancing while Captain diligently focused on preparing to serve a mission by going to the local family ward, where he wouldn’t be tempted by evil women and finding a good job and working long hard hours. My hours were long too…

As the time for Captain to turn in his papers neared, he needed to have a physical exam to make sure he was healthy for wherever the Lord was going to send him. I had had a late night and was sleeping in my room (it was about 7:30am) when Captain came barging in yelling at me that he was going to be late for his doctors appointment and I needed to find his insurance card. Needless to say, I was annoyed, no one likes to be awaken by a snotty, yelling brother so I told him I’d given him his card and I had no idea where it was. “You didn’t give me my card or I would have it.” Was his argument (the kids got a point). I knew I had given him his card because I had seen it on his dresser a few days before. “Captain, I don’t have your card. Did you look on your dresser?” He left in a huff, slamming my door behind him and 30 seconds later I heard the car start and he drove off. I drifted off to sleep again, with sweet dreams of dancing with my current heartthrob. I couldn’t have been dozing for more than ½ hour when for the second time Captain came bursting into my bedroom in a rage. His face was red and he could hardly breathe, he was mad. I was alarmed at first, did something bad happen to him? Was someone mean to him? I’d kick their trash. Who would make my little brother so upset? Apparently, it was me, but I didn’t know it yet. “What’s wrong?” I asked with genuine concern. I was wide awake and ready to be there for my sweet brother. “I went to the doctor’s office and failed my physical because my blood pressure was too high because you made me mad before I went there.” Oh,…. I see. Captain was never one to mince words, I can appreciate that at times, but this was not one of those times. I don’t remember the particulars of the conversation that followed but I believe is included a few four letter words (from me) and ended with “get the hell out of my room before I destroy your blood pressure completely.”

Captain’s blood pressure is still an issue; unfortunately, I don’t live anywhere near him so I can only speculate that his wife is the cause of the problem now.

Memoir: Why I served my mission in Phoenix, AZ

I’m not going to lie about how disappointed I was when I was called to serve a mission to Phoenix, AZ. I didn’t maturely smile, hug my family and say “The Lord must need me to help His children in Arizona” and then call my folks and tell them the good news. In truth, I started crying as my fantasy of serving in Australia, where the men speak in the sexiest accent ever, slowly shriveled up and died a thousand deaths. I believe the first thought that went through my mind was “oh sh*t.”

I didn’t figure out why I was called to Arizona (aka: Hell) until I only had three months left to serve. I was able to see the Grand Canyon with some other missionaries. I stood there in awe for 2 whole minutes until it started to snow. Not getting my fill of the splendor of one of the 7 natural wonder’s of the world (only 6 more to go) I decided to buy a couple postcards for myself and also to send to my family. As we were returning home, I was writing a letter on the back of one of the postcards to my brother, Captain, who was on a mission in Japan. It was in that moment that I realized that Captain was the reason I was there in the “dry” heat of Arizona. My mind began to go over the events that would eventually lead me to spend 18 months of my life in the most forsaken land I had ever beheld…

Two and a half years previously; Captain and I decided to move from Washington to Utah to go to school (me) and for Captain to prepare for his mission. We were going to make the 12 hour drive in my cute little red car. We would take turns driving so the other one could sleep or read, pick our nose. We started out our journey with me driving; thinking of the adventures and boys to come. After a few hours I started getting tired so I asked Captain if he was ready to drive. He had a look on his face that I had seen many times, guilt, so I asked him what was wrong. He told me everything was fine, I glared him down until he admitted that he’d had his feet up on the dash and his sock got caught on the little vent adjusters (you know, the ones that you move to direct the air flow) and he’d ripped his sock and the vent right off. I was a little mad because I took care of my car and my brother had started with the same habits he had always had of destroying cars. I expected him to roll down his window and reach over and break the antenna off my car as he had done to every other car my folks had owned. He said he was sorry, I forgave him, we switched seats and commenced our journey. I started drifting off to sleep as I looked at the long stretch of road ahead of us. A long distance away I noticed something right in the middle of the road, as we got closer it kept getting bigger. About 20 yards away I realized it was a huge rock about the size of a basketball but with sharp jagged edges just reaching out to grab the oil pan of any car that tried to pass over it. I grew increasingly nervous as the rock continued to grow and Captain showed no indication of moving into the other lane. 10 feet from the evil rock I yelled Captain’s name and grabbed the wheel, pulling the car to the right (and in retrospect, running a good chance of getting us in a horrible accident) we swerved and missed the rock and Captain got made at me. I asked him what the heck he was doing, hadn’t he seen the rock? Oh, he saw the rock; he was going to swerved when he got close enough. I made him pull over and I drove the other 8 ½ hours to Salt Lake City.

I’ve been telling you this while story so you know why I did what I did to my little brother. He had already rubbed me the wrong way and so revenge was in order, something I too would learn. As we were driving through southern Idaho we decided to stop at one of the towns to get gas and grab something to eat. To get to the town, you had to cross a big bridge built over a large canyon. My brother, innocent little guy, asked me if this was the Grand Canyon. Never one to miss an opportunity to play a prank, I told him it was. “Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked him. “It’s so big, no wonder it’s one of the 7 Natural Wonder’s of the World.” The whole time we were driving across the bridge, Captain had his nose stuck to the window marveling over opportunity of seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time in his life. Every once in a while he’d turn to me with a big smile and say “I can’t believe I’ve seen the Grand Canyon, I’m so happy.” You would think that at that point I would have said something, I didn’t, I was still mad about the “rock incident.” We ate and filled up the gas tank and made are way back across the bridge to find the freeway. Again, Captain was pressed up to the window admiring the size of the canyon and that a bridge had been built across it. Suddenly he turned to me and said “Can we stop? I really want a picture of me standing on the bridge over looking the Grand Canyon.” Now, is the reason I was sent to Arizona, I replied “Sorry, we’re on a time schedule, we don’t have time to stop for you to take a picture.” He nodded his head understandingly and turned around in his seat to see a last little glimpse of the Grand Canyon. The next hour was filled with his little murmurs of “I got to see the Grand Canyon” “That was so neat” “I can’t wait to tell everyone” It was at this point that my conscious kicked in. “Captain, that wasn’t the Grand Canyon. The Grand Canyon is in Arizona and it’s so big that there’s no bridge (that I knew of) that you can drive across.” I can’t describe the look of devastation; I don’t mean disappointment, not sadness, nor dejection. I had broken his little heart.

And there I was, frying in the hot sun during the summer in Phoenix and as an added kick in my naughty rear, freezing in Flagstaff during the winter, with a postcard of the Grand Canyon writing to my brother. I ended with “Here’s a postcard of the Grand Canyon, I’ll have to bring you here sometime; we’ll take a picture.”