Childhood

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It really doesn't seem like it was all that long ago, does it?

It's funny how time slips steadily onward.

How we grow a little bit each day.

Suddenly, before we know it,

we're adults.

But still children still at heart...

 I heart Faces

Hot Lava Morning

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Do you remember back to the days when you would leap from the pieces of furniture in your house to avoid the floor, which was made completely out of ‘hot lava’? It seems that everyone knows what you’re talking about when you say ‘hot lava,’ don’t they? We never played ‘cold lava,’ either; it always had to be hot. Of course, if it were ‘cold lava’ we'd simply call it rock jumping…or parkour.

I woke this morning to the strangest feeling—like back in the days when I’d played that game as a kid. It was hastened even further when my friend’s kids began to play ‘lava monster’ throughout their house. As their screams and laughter filled the air I was taken back.

I guess every boy (and probably girl) has played this game at one time; sometimes, I miss the days when you could play like this and not worry about breaking the furniture.

Images from toothpastefordinner.com & stories.mountainworkshops.org/

In Regard to Goats

Pin It We used to own goats.

No, really, we did.

Usually when I tell people that my family used to be the proud owner of goats they do the double take; they draw in a breath and to shoot me a strange look. This is usually coupled with a statement something along the lines of, “You’re not serious, are you? Nobody owns goats…”

Nope, I’m serious, just like a chemistry final. This is just one of the many curses of living on a farm while growing up in the rural expanses of the Great Northwest.

To answer your question, we had 7 of them.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking…why in the world did you have goats? Well, aside of trying to ride them and getting yelled at by my mom on a regular basis? My mom had decided that we needed them for their milk. Yep, you heard me correctly; we drank their milk.

Now, before I get any further, just let me explain what goat milk tastes like for those of you who have no idea. Take a box of powdered milk which has been in food storage for an undetermined amount of time, make up a batch with water that has a slightly sulfuric taste, let this ripen a bit and you’ve got yourself goat milk.

Teachinfourth, why in the name of all that is holy would you drink this pungent liquid? To answer that you’d need to better understand my mom. She was a firm believer in natural foods and remedies. As a result meals were often served with Adam’s Peanut Butter, rice cakes, sugarless bottled juice, split pea and lentil soups, corn beef and cabbage, and puffed rice and wheat cereal for breakfast with honey.

Yeah, my siblings and I were the resident freaks during lunchtimes at school.

I could go on and tell you what a terrible childhood I endured, but I’m not trying to play the sympathy card here. Luckily, I had a friend at school who’d trade me her Hostess fruit pie at lunch for my apple. See, I was a survivor who could adapt when called upon…also, I had learned that Ketchup could make just about anything taste better.

Back to goats.

Each and every morning before school, church, or Saturday morning cartoons I’d head outside into the darkness to fulfill the twice-daily ritual of milking. Often it was cold, and each morning at dark-thirty it was pitch black. Undeterred, I would head out to the barn situated by the inky blotch of forest—inside of which anything could have been hiding, just waiting to slither out and get me. I was more often than not completely petrified, just waiting for that creature slinking through the darkness…what other thoughts would you expect to come to mind of a prepubescent boy outside all alone with the wind howling and dark shadows dancing along the hay bales and up in the rafters?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

I remember kneeling in the milking stall and stealing glances over my shoulder to make sure that nobody else was in there with me—nobody but the goats. I often wondered if there might have been an escaped convict—a killer—hiding up in the rafters or just in the woods outside, biding his time as he waited for that stupid kid to come wandering outside at five or six in the morning—easy prey and no witnesses.

As you might have guessed, I was never murdered while milking goats—much to the dismay of my older sister, but I would often frighten myself and could be found sprinting the distance back to the house with a two-gallon pail of milk sloshing all over the place.

When you milked your own goats, and lived on a farm, homogenization consisted of straining the milk through a ‘leading brand’ paper towel and then putting the milk in the fridge; this was mostly to get the larger ‘chunks’ out of the stuff and to make you believe that you’d really done something to clean it.

The funny thing about goat milk is that eventually, you become accustomed to it. Like a smoker who coughs and wheezes, their eyes water and lungs burn at first, with time and practice, they become an experienced smoker, drawing in clouds of smoke without the least bit of discomfort.

I hear it’s the same with country music.

My point is, after drinking this stuff for so long, I became used to it. On the rare occasion that a friend would come over and be served goat milk, I always found it fun to watch their face as they took the first drink. They would take a large gulp, confident that it was regular cow’s milk. It would take a moment or their taste buds to register just what they’d really just put into their mouth. Then their face would sour and pull a look akin to when someone smells something quite nasty. It was at this point that they’d request a glass of water and the rest of the milk was left untouched.

It was always entertaining to watch but could cost dearly in the trust department in the future.

For many years we milked our goats, but then one day it happened. My mom finally decided that she’d had enough with goats and we sold them all. While Mimi and Sasha, our first two, were now gone, I couldn’t help but miss them. They had been more than simply dairy providers, they’d been pets—and trusty steeds. However, the idea of no more early-morning milkings was delicious No more fears of murderers in the dark. No more sharp and biting milk. All of these things outweighed the sadness of losing our four-footed friends.

It wasn’t that long ago that I was in the local supermarket. As I passed by the dairy department, I noticed a quart-sized container of goat’s milk in one of the refrigerators. I paused, and even lifted the carton from the shelf, looking at it with memories tumbling around my mind.

At that point, I put it back on the shelf and grabbed a gallon of the regular stuff. After all, priced at over $3 a quart, goat’s milk just isn’t worth the memories.

Besides, I’ve heard that it’s terrible, just like country music.

Wintersong

Pin It As I went outside yesterday afternoon to an overcast sky which hinted at snow, but it offered up nothing; I ventured out into the frigid air to run errands, as well as pick up odds and ends from the store. I traveled from one place to another, and still the skies were silent. I began to feel a bit of lackluster at the grey afternoon when, while conversing with a friend I happened upon in the parking lot of the local market, a few flakes began to fall from what had previously been a silent sky. My friend and I both looked at each other and grinned.

As I drove home, a few flakes settled on my windshield as I waited at the light; the perfect, little six-pointed creation began to melt upon striking the windshield and, gathering strength from others who’d met the same fate, streaked down the glass. It wasn’t long before a small flurry gathered strength—the first flakes had brought their fellows with them, and in their steady stream they floated down from the heavens.

I arrived home and pushed open the front door, greeted with the condition of warmth I’d left it in earlier, and the hint of fresh cider lingering on the air. I ignited the lights on the tree and into the playlist went Amy Grant and David Archuleta.

The warm, fiery glow of Christmas burst to life, even though the snow soon ceased. I found myself amazed how simple little things like sights, smells, and sounds can combine to create a feast for memory—a smorgasbord of the senses; whether in remembering those things from the past, or storing new memories for days of future perusal.

I braved the cold again to check the mail at the end of the street, it was there that I found a package awaiting me—laying amongst the offers for insurance discounts and utility bills.

It was from a fellow blogger.


Ah, Christmas was even more so alive and well, as I feasted on Christmas delights which (as claimed) contained no rat poison or arsenic.

I basked in the simple pleasures which were mine, and made my way to a restful night’s slumber. You can imagine my surprise when I awoke this morning to discover inches of cotton-fluff blanketing the world in an array of spotless white.

I felt myself becoming excited—the first real snowfall always tends to make me think of newness, of new beginnings, of sledding down deadly hills at breakneck speeds on silver runners which—really—have no existent way to steer or to stop. It brings to light the memories of yesteryear when the snow was never a burden, but instead something to take pleasure in—opening up limitless possibilities to build and create, to eat, and to pelt others with when they ventured out.

Outside, the snow still falls. Memories remain. Blogging can wait.

I need to enjoy the wonders of this glorious phenomena while it is mine.

I awoke to an orchestra

Pin It The flash of light ignited against the other side of my closed eyelids; that’s probably what awoke me from a restful slumber. The low, guttural tones of thunder followed only moments behind it, chased by the rain. The glorious downpour smattered down upon rooftop in cascades of monsoon. It layered the sidewalks in shimmery wet, inviting worms to surface for schoolchildren to step on as they make their way to my classroom later this morning in this watery-shimmered world.

I moved through the house with lights off, attentive to the wondrous orchestra playing all around me—reverberating through the four walls and ceiling—and even permeating through the very earth below me.

Light flashed, bringing to life the images hanging on the walls of my home for a brief moment of time.

Exhilaration.

Windows were thrust open, and the sounds were fully welcomed into my world—or I into theirs. Above, the lights of the city reflected off of the dark, twisting clouds as a train whistle pierced the darkness from someplace off in the distance; a melancholy souvenir of places far away, and stages of summer I loathed, yet hunger to live again.

But for now, the rain continues to fall in its eternal drizzle from the skies above me, and the August rushing of wind hits the trees in my Olympic-sized backyard, adding to the ensemble which continues to acquire its musicians.

Like before, I am prepared to meet with a smile whatever challenge is here to greet me today,

Welcome, rain.

Repost: Brothers & Sisters - A Blessing or a Curse?

Pin It Originally posted on January 2, 2008

In reading back on old posts, this one really stood out; this was the moment in time when I really started to gain a relationship with my younger brother. Up to this point in time, I saw him as nothing more than the bane of my existence...but with a few magical little words, our relationship changed forever.

When I was in sixth or seventh grade, perhaps even a little older, I had a little brother that I absolutely detested. He constantly whined, got into my things without permission, ruined my library books, and generally made a nuisance of himself.

In other words, I loathed the little blighter.

I remember the frustration I felt on the day we moved and my parents informed me that my little brother and I would be sharing a bedroom together.

Just great.

I felt that my parents were intentionally ruining my life and trying to make me miserable. As a result, I blamed my little brother and thought about how much I hated him, this in turn made me feel all the more miserable and sorry for myself.

After some time of sharing a room with Yancy, something changed our relationship forever. It all started on one night when I was getting ready for bed and Yancy, somewhat apprehensively, asked from the top bunk, “Would you read me a story tonight?”

Like most older brothers, I didn’t want anything to do with him, but he had asked nicely. I thought perhaps that I would read to him, this way I could avoid having to listen to his endless chatter, something he was well known for at bedtime.

That night I chose to read to him from “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe” by C.S. Lewis. I thought for sure that he would quickly become bored with the story, lose interest, and not ask for me to read to him again. You can imagine my surprise when he thanked me at the conclusion of several chapters. When he dropped off to sleep, I thought about how good it felt to read to him. The next night the same thing happened, and even though I had homework, I put it off so I could read a few chapters to Yancy. He in turn expressed just as much gratitude as the night before. After a few days of this, reading became our nightly ritual before bed, whether I had finished my homework or not. I would read until his eyes would become so heavy he couldn’t possibly keep them open any longer. Some nights when I stopped reading he would wake up, still groggy-eyed and beg, “Please read just a little bit longer.”

We soon finished all of “The Chronicles of Narnia” and moved on to other books that I loved, such as “James and the Giant Peach,” “The Great Brain,” and even a few stories I had written myself. It was from this small beginning that not only a love for literature was born, but a love between my brother and me.

The years have fled since those days, but the relationship that I share with my brother has only become stronger. He has been the greatest friend I’ve ever had, and we are closer today than at any other time in our lives. As I look back at the origins of our relationship, I realize that when I read to him each night I was putting his needs before mine. It was by performing this service to my little brother, I came to appreciate him more as well. I am so grateful and thank my lucky stars that I had a little brother, who so many years ago uttered the words, “Would you read me a story tonight?”

Times are tough on everyone

Pin It I was returning home from my southern adventure; I decided to venture off of the freeway and travel through a horde of modest little towns and see what they had to offer in the scope of photo-ops.

Needless to say, I was sorely disappointed.

Amidst trash-strewn yards, buildings in a state of general disrepair, and hordes of motorcycle gangs hanging about the local gas stations, there wasn’t a whole lot to be offered. At least not without getting your trash kicked by a group of biker-mamas and papas.

I was readying to depart from one particular little town I suspected was called “Nowhereville,” when I noticed three boys selling something up the street. I’d seen them earlier hauling their cardboard boxes and unknown items to the local gas station marquee sign and set up shop—they then sat down and started yelling, “Get your (insert indiscernible words) here!”

Wondering just what it was they were selling, I decided to make a purchase of whatever it was—after all, remember how I said I supported free enterprise?

I did a quick inventory of my cash status—after all—they probably wouldn’t be able to take a debit card.

I had one dollar.

It was perfect. I’d buy whatever they had for the quarter or fifty cents they were charging, and give the rest as a nice, fat, little tip, right?

Wrong.

I drove up to the small cluster of boys and asked, “So, what are you guys selling today?”

“Juice,” came the reply, with a half-smile.

“Sounds great, how much does a cup run a person?”

“For a whole cup or a half?” he promptly responded.

“Uh…half?”

“Ninety-nine cents.”

I guess that made it sound cheaper than charging a whole dollar. Still, my mind was reeling. A dollar? For a cup of juice—correction—half a cup of juice? Whatever happened to the days of asking for a quarter or fifty cents? I started to think, one more dollar and I could almost bought a gallon of gas. That would be 25 miles closer to home. Did I really still want to support childhood business endeavors at this rate? I’d already bought several items from students this year which I’d never use.

The boy brought me the half-filled cup—which was the equivalent to a ¾ measuring container—of pinkish liquid. I handed over the cash.

“Thanks, have a great day!” he responded.

I thanked the young man and drove off, taking a sip. The juice was good. A dollar good though? Probably not…however, like I said, times are tough on everyone. And really, what’s a dollar when one is supporting a moment of childhood?

I have a memory

Pin It Isn’t it odd just how often our memories can be triggered by a song, smell, or a taste of something from that time we’d left so many years before?

That’s so often how memories are for me.

I was walking through the halls of my elementary school a few years ago, and from somewhere I caught the scent of something I’d not smelled since my own elementary days. It was the smell of bamboo air freshener.

I was instantly transported back to Freeman Elementary School, in the first grade hallway walking to Mrs. Woodbury’s classroom. A moment later I’d returned to the present. However, the experience was so real, so vivid, and fantastic that for a moment I thought that I’d stepped through a conduit of time and space.

This also happens time to time when I hear a song, or eat something associated with a distant memory. It is this which brings me to my present post.

A dear friend and I were chatting not too long ago, and I mentioned these Hostess donuts my parents used to buy when I was a kid. I’m sure you’ve seen of them…they’re those nasty raspberry powdered kind.

As a kid I loved them.

My friend thought it would be fitting to bring me a box of these sugary delights. I opened the carton and a whiff of powdered sugar filled my senses as I reached in and lifted one from the container.

As I sank my teeth into this powdered delicacy, I was transported to the Columbia River…


The car was loaded with towels, an ice chest with lunch, and our swim gear.

Walking to the cold water over the scorching sand.


Catching minnows in a plastic cup.

Swimming to the floating dock.


Looking into the river depths and seeing shadowed reflections.

Floating on inner tubes and the smell of pine trees.


The asphalt parking lot strewn with pine needles.

Walking the logs and feeling brave, even though I never made it past the first one.

Campfires and the roasting marshmallows and hot dogs.

Riding in the canoe and smelling the sweet odor of the outdoors.


Warm summer breezes, and the sound of the pines rustling songs without words.


A moment later I was back in the present time, in my classroom. My students were at lab and would need to be picked up in a few minutes. I stood, as I did I looked into the box where now only two donuts gazed up at me.


Thanks, good friend, and thanks Hostess for a trip back to innocence.

Free to Be, You and Me

Pin It “Ladies first!”

Have you ever heard anyone say that before? To me, it was something I was raised with as a common rule. Girls were supposed to be first when going into a building, getting a meal, or choosing a seat at a party or theater.

However, is the idea of girls always being first really a good idea?

When I was in elementary school, my teacher brought in a movie one afternoon which had come out back in the seventies. To be honest, movies were a rare thing when I was a kid, and I was excited to see what it would be.

She told us that it was called, “Free to Be, You and Me.”



I remember watching this film with my friends and laughing, wishing that the magical carousel horses would spring to life and come to find me…they never did, but the segments of this show were entertaining—especially to a group of elementary-aged kids.

It was about a decade ago that my sister found a copy of this on VHS and presented it to me on my birthday. I couldn’t believe she’d found it…I remember watching it shortly after it was given to me and it still made me laugh.

One of my favorite segments is about a little girl who is convinced that she should always be the first…she’s a little bit stuck on herself, and thinks she’s greater than she really is.

I could tell you all about it, or simply let you watch.

I choose to let you discover all on your own.

Why cookie dough doesn't taste the same

Pin It I remember when I was a little kid.

Whenever my mom would bake chocolate-chip cookies I’d always be anxious to get at that bowl of dough. I would dream of a day when I’d be able to make an entire batch of cookie dough and then eat it all.

I wouldn’t even share it.

However, when I was a kid and Mom would make cookies, she’d always use this ancient mixer with two beaters to get the dough ready. When it was sufficiently mixed, she’d push that little button and the beaters would shoot off of the mixer like a pop gun. She’d then use the scraper to get nearly all of the dough off—but not quite.

Mom would then hand these beaters out to us kids. And when mom gave you a beater to lick, it was like licking the dew of the gates of heaven.

It always amazed me just how much dough was really on each of those beaters. Especially when a little trained tongue was covering every square centimeter in the desperate attempt to get as much off of them as humanly possible.

There was really something magical about cookie dough enjoyed this way.

When I got older and had moved out, I decided that I would make a triple batch of cookie dough and my roommate and I would eat it all while watching one of the Back to the Future movies….It wasn’t as wonderful as I thought it would be. Visions of pure unadulterated bliss faded away, and a sensation of nausea took its place instead.

It was not what I had expected.

Even after this sickening experience, over the years I’ve made hundreds of batches of dough…the most popular is that of the notorious “Chunk-A-Poo” cookie which is...how do I describe it?

Wonder?
Bliss?
A party in your mouth?

No matter how you say it…the stuff is good. I decided to make a batch of this dough and as I was cleaning off the one solitary beater, I looked at all those little chunks of dough clinging to it.


As I did, a thought occurred to me. The reason that cookie dough does not taste the same to me is that when I was a kid, it was a limited commodity. There was scarcity. Hence, I enjoyed what I had a lot more. Being able to make it when I’m an adult, and can eat as much as I want makes it lose some of its magic.

As this thought come to mind I decided I’d only eat what was on the beater.


You know what? It still tastes like those pearly gates

Choose Your Own Adventure…but please choose wisely.

Pin It Every month on my class website, I have what I call the thought of the month. I usually try to write this for my students and have it relate to something they can understand and with which they are familiar.

My class currently has discovered the love I once shared for a series of books which gave me the power to decide what would happen. I share the 'thought of the month' with you now...

When I was in sixth grade I discovered a set of fantastic books…in fact, I can still remember standing at the school library trying to get my hands on one, any one. Often, there were very few copies available because they were so much fun to read. You probably know what books I’m talking about…it’s the “Choose Your Own Adventure books.” Many of those from my generation have fond memories of these wonderful stories that didn’t simply take you on a journey of a character, but allowed you to be a part of the story and make many choices along the way.

I recall a short note in the beginning of each book that said something like this: “Warning, do not read this book straight through from beginning to end, when you are offered a choice, choose which one you would like to make….the outcome of the story depends a lot on the choices you make.”

Some of those choices were presented like this: “If you choose to travel up the stairs, turn to page 20. If you would rather walk down the hallway, turn to page 63.” I remember that every now and then when I made a choice I was led to a page where there would be an illustration that helped me to predict what was going to happen before I even read the text …you know, that I died or that I didn’t find the treasure in the old house. I had friends during this time which would sometimes offer me advice, since many of these kids had read the book before me, they could tell me the good choices to make in the story. Often, when I would follow their advice, I did much better in the story and would usually avoid breaking my leg or dying.

As I’ve gotten older, I have come to realize that our lives are an awful lot like those books I loved growing up…like these stories, it is the choices we make each day that bring about the consequences of our actions; additionally it is our choices which help to decide just what choices will be offered to us in the future as well. The really scary thing is that the “Choose Your Own Adventure book,” the one you are currently “living,” even as you sit here reading these words, doesn’t have only one choice every few pages, but several choices—hundreds of choices each day and these choices determine where our lives—where our story will lead. We decide the ending by the decisions we make…not only this, but it is each of us who determine just who and what we will become by these choices.

Sound a little scary thinking of life this way? Well, it shouldn’t be because life has friends, just like the ones I’d had when I was growing up. These friends have already read a little farther in the stories and know what many of the outcomes are…do you know who these people are? Yep, you got it…the adults in your life like your parents and teachers. “Whoa there!” I can almost hear you say, “You mean to tell me that the adults around me know something?” This may be hard to believe, but they really do!

Though you may not believe it now, your parents have experienced many of the same things that you have and are a little farther along in their Choose Your Own Adventure book; they have a lot of good advice to give you and are there to help you make those choices but only if you listen. However, how often do you choose to listen to the adults in your life? I mean really listen? Often, it all goes in one ear and out the other…sounding an awful lot like all the adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons…”Wah wah wa wah wah wah waaaahhhh.”

A few years ago I came across a really big choice in my own Choose Your Own Adventure story, one which I wasn’t sure what choice to make. This was a time that I turned to my dad. I asked him what I should do and I then listened to the advice he gave. Now, I don’t know what would have happened had I not followed his advice, but I do know what happened because I did. I am glad that I chose to listen to the wisdom of someone who has lived a little longer than me, who cares about what happens in my life, and is doing everything he can to ensure that my “story” is a little bit easier than his was.

One of the saddest things I encounter as a teacher is when I have a student who is making choices which are inevitably going to lead them into a harder life, I try to help these students understand this and many times they still don’t listen. It is frustrating to sit on the sidelines and try to coach a player who won’t try to run any of the plays but insists on standing out on the field doing nothing while the rest of the team moves all around him.

Now, what options have been opened up before you in your own story? What choices are offered to you each day? Do they include choosing to use kind or mean words to a family member? Is it between finishing your homework and playing video games? Perhaps it is between finishing your chores and running outside to play with your friends. The point is, we all are faced with a many choices each day, and things competing for our time and attention.

I do wish to point out though, that as you choose your adventures, remember that we are all works in progress, we’re all in different chapters of development and none of us is perfect. I have a feeling that some of us look at ourselves and see nothing but hard slabs of stone. We think we’re worthless perhaps because of a few poor choices we’ve made or letting others’ words affect how we see ourselves. When these thoughts come to you remember this story about Michelangelo: One day he was asked how he was able to sculpt and create such beautiful pieces of art with only blank slab of marble. To this question he replied, “I saw an angel in the stone and carved to set it free.”

Never forget, you are taking part in a story where you are the star with many possible endings, make the choices that will make you a better person as you turn the pages. Choose the options that will open up a limitless amount of new choices, not those which only lead to dead-ends. As the Choose Your Own Adventure books often say, “These pages contain many different adventures that may befall you…as you read along, you will be able to make choices, and the adventures you will have will be the results of those choices. Think carefully before you make a choice…”

Waiting for Snow

Pin It I awoke this morning, and when I looked out the window I found myself barraged with feelings of nostalgia; I gazed out into a world arrayed in spotless white.

I remembered the first snowfalls from when I was just a boy...

Bundling up in a warm marshmallow coat, with scarf and mittens; anxious to rush out and capture the first flakes upon my tongue. After all, you had to catch it from the sky or you might pick up a handful with snow spiders already in it. Ah, the glistening whiteness which made the entire world new, and the familiar become less than so.

The first snowfall—there’s something truly magical about it, isn’t there?

As I tore my eyes from the window, I fumbled for my camera to capture the moment. But alas, the moment was not to be captured with a photograph, but instead with a snapshot of memory.

So, I share this memory with you with the words and music of John McCutcheon, and his beautifully-written image, Waiting for Snow:




The nights are so long
They shorten the day
Over the mountains
The sky’s turning gray
The geese all fly southward
As homeward they go
I’m sitting here waiting
And waiting for snow

Waiting for snow
The first of the year
I just can’t believe
That it almost is here
Like cousins and Christmas
And places to go
Nothing takes longer
Than waiting for snow

Waiting for sledding
Waiting for fun
Piled high around me
Bright mountains of sun
Waiting for snowballs
For shouting and laughter
For sliding down hillsides
With hot chocolate after

Waiting for snow
The first of the year
I just can’t believe
That it almost is here
Like cousins and Christmas
And places to go
Nothing takes longer
Than waiting for snow

The longer I’m waiting
The longer it takes
`Til I stick out my tongue
To catch the first flakes
Wash your face in the snow
You’ll be pretty all year
Look out the window
It’s finally here

Waiting for snow
Waiting for you
To bundle me up
Like you always do
Your glove in my mitten
Together we’ll go
To make footprints and angels
In our brand new snow

Waiting for snow
The first of the year
I just can’t believe
That it almost is here
Like cousins and Christmas
And places to go
Nothing takes longer
Than waiting for snow

The nights are so long
They shorten the day
Over the mountains
The sky’s turning gray
The geese all fly southward
As homeward they go
I’m sitting here waiting
And waiting
And waiting
And waiting

The Decision - Lemonade Stands

Pin It It was about ten years ago when I was living in Spokane, Washington that I made a decision to stop every time I came across a lemonade stand. This decision came about one day when I was driving and saw three boys staked out next to the street in front of their home. They had set up a makeshift table of boxes and an old board across them on which they’d placed a pitcher of red Kool-Aid and a stack of Styrofoam cups.

I felt the need to stop. Not because I was thirsty, but for an entirely different reason. You see, I’d always wanted to sell lemonade when I was a kid and earn pocketfuls of money from doing so, however, being raised on a back country road for most of one’s childhood limits the number of customers a stand like that would actually acquire. Couple that with a paranoid mom and you can imagine the result…

No-can-do.

As I came closer I noticed the message the boys had written on their makeshift sign; it proudly proclaimed, World’s Best Kool-Aid…25¢ a glass.

All three boys straightened up as I pulled over to the curb, obviously trying to impress a potential customer.

“World’s best Kool-Aid?” I asked.

The three nodded their heads vigorously.

“It sure is, sir, we made it ourselves!” one of the boys proclaimed proudly. “With sugar and everything.”

“Really? Well, in that case, I think I need to buy a glass.”

At once the boys set into action, one getting the little white cup ready while another carefully lifted the pitcher and began to carefully pour that red, sticky liquid into it all the way up to the brim. The last boy took the cup and carried it carefully to my car, followed by the other two.

As I carefully took the overfilled-cup I said, “One quarter for the three of you? That’s going to be hard to split. I’ll tell you what; if you give me a couple of smiles to go along with this, I think that would be worth an extra 50¢”

All three boys broke into the widest grins I’d ever seen. For a moment I thought that the boy in the middle’s face was going to split right open.

Luckily, it didn’t.

“Now that was worth the extra 50¢!” I handed over the three shiny coins.

As I drove away, balancing the cup precariously in my non-steering hand, I watched the three boys through my rear-view mirror give each other high-fives and celebrate over their tripled profits, slapping each other on the back.

Photo from: http://flickr.com/photos/lorenzodom/33805540/

I smiled as I maneuvered my car through the heavy traffic for several blocks. When I was out of sight of the boys, I pulled over to the side of the road and dumped the Kool-Aid onto the grass.

After all, I didn’t stop for Kool-Aid; I’d stopped to support childhood.

It was the best 75¢ I’ve ever spent.

Vacation - Monday: Rain and goodbyes

Pin It As I sat on the porch swing, it started to rain. Not merely a sprinkle or drizzle...it was hard. The rain was coming down in sheets, and there were occasional flashes of lighting which ignited the darkened skies, like flashbulbs of a vintage camera. I sat there, enjoying it all when suddenly, the entire Monk family rushed outside to take pleasure in the downpour along with me.

As we were sitting there watching, the smell of moisture washed over us all like the aroma of freshly-baked cookies on a cold, wintery day. Splays of water would blow over the deck, showering us all with a fine, refreshing mist.

I noticed my friend’s grandson (I’ll call him Raymond); he was looking out longingly at the rain for quite some time. Suddenly, he stood and announced, “I’m going to go put on my swimsuit and play.”

Within minutes, Raymond was outside in the peltering storm, and enjoying all of the glories it afforded. As this little boy ran back and forth through the large puddles in the driveway (or small lakes) I noticed adults on the street who quickly made their way back to their homes, trying to avoid getting wet during their afternoon walks. They cowered under umbrellas, or ran quickly down the street taking shelter under trees; none of them strolled along, enjoying this magnificent gift from heaven.

As I watched Raymond frolic about as he scampered I took out my camera and began to shoot. There is nothing more innocent and inspiring to me as watching the simple pleasures of life around us…these free little moments in time we are given each day. The wealthiest king and the lowliest of peasants can enjoy these glorious moments in time. To us all they cost the same…nothing.

We, as adults, need to relearn some of the simple joys in life…things like playing in the rain; blowing dandelion seeds to the winds; walking barefoot on thick carpets of gnarled grass.

We once knew all of these simple joys in life, why is it that we have allowed ourselves to forget them? Why do we ground ourselves for so long?

To help myself re-remember these more simple of joys, I have decided to start a fast of sorts from technology. I have decided that, at least for a few days, I will not use the computer, Internet, or cell phone.

I have somebody I need to find.

I know what you’re thinking… “Hey, what about your camera?” No, the camera is good, after all, there is somebody I’m looking for...

See you in a few days.

What's cooler than being cool?

Pin It I saw a student at my school who was sitting up against the wall, crying.

“What’s the matter, Joey?” I asked.

“Some kids made fun of me on the playground.”

“Now why would they do that?”

The tears started to flow. “They told me I shouldn’t be wearing sunglasses. They said, ‘Why are you wearing sunglasses? Are you trying to be cool? Because you’re not!’”

Face was buried in hands once more, and crying commenced. “I told them that everybody in the world is trying to be something they’re not, so it’s okay for me too…they just laughed at me and said I’d never be cool.”

I sat down next to Joey.

“So what gives these three other kids the power to decide who is and who isn’t cool?” I asked. “Why do you believe that they can choose who or what you are?

“I don’t know…”

“Well, I think you’re pretty cool…and whose opinion is more important to you? Mine, or theirs?”

“Well, yours, Mr. Z.”

“You know what it is that really makes a person ‘uncool’, Joey?”

Shrug.

“Somebody who makes fun of others, hoping that their fellow loser friends will think they’re cool…now that is waaaayyyy uncool in my eyes.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” I smiled.

“These glasses are pretty cool, you know.”

“Yep, but not as cool as the kid wearing them.”

Summit Memoir 4: Superheroes & Learning to Fly

Pin It I have always been intrigued by superheroes. It has been in awe that I have watched reruns of Wonder Woman, the Bionic Man, and Batman & Robin. Before we’d moved to Summit Valley we had had much better T.V. reception in our hometown of Rockford, Washington. We were fortunate enough to watch all of these shows, plus many others.

I always admired Wonder Woman. Not only did I think she was beautiful, but I often wondered what it would be like to have her bracelets which could deflect bullets, her headband that could be used as a boomerang, and her invisible jet that was…well—invisible. However, there was something about that invisible jet that really bothered me. I just couldn’t understand how was it that she could still be seen, while her jet was invisible. After all, she must have looked simply ridiculous to people standing on the ground who saw her flying around in a sitting position. I also wondered…if her jet were really invisible, just how did she find it again after she got out?

Despite this shortcoming, it didn’t stop my siblings and me from making our own superhero utilities and weapons; yet no matter how vigilantly I cut the paper, colored the stars on the bracelets, or how carefully I taped them to my wrists, they simply wouldn’t deflect the Legos and tinker toys my sister threw at me.

One of my other favorite shows was the reruns of the Bionic Man. The show as about this normal guy, just like anyone else, until the day he was in a horrible accident. He was going to die. The government decided that the only way he could be saved was to mechanically rebuild him using parts of machines. After his surgeries, Lee Majors could run amazingly fast, see for miles with a bionic eye, and even bend solid steel bars! I remember trying to run with bionics, but just couldn’t seem to go fast enough…or slow enough rather. Whenever he ran in slow motion, he always got to places quickly, whenever I tried to run in slow motion, it took me a lot longer to get to wherever it was I was going. I remember at one point that I had thought about getting myself into an accident so that the government would outfit me with bionic limbs, but when I thought about getting my arms or legs torn off, I decided that this wasn’t really wasn’t worth it...no matter how cool bionics were.

While most of the heroes I admired as a young boy had shortcomings and weaknesses, there was one which had none of these. This hero needed no machine parts attached to his body to make him strong, no bracelets were required to deflect bullets, and he needed no special toys or gadgets to make him the hero he was. You got it, I’m talking about Superman.

Superman was, by far, the greatest hero that I had ever heard of, and I wanted to be just like him. Now, it wasn’t his ability at catching bullets in the palms of his hands, the way he could pick cars up over his head, or even his x-ray vision which made me want to be like him. It was something altogether much more amazing…it was his ability to fly. Superman was the only hero who was able to become airborne without balloons, helicopters, or airplanes. It was this power which made me so envious of him. Superman, with his blue tights, red cape, and curl of black hair down his forehead was the ultimate hero.

When I was seven years old, I imagined myself having Superman’s powers. I got myself completely wound up as I thought about flying over the trees and fields of Summit Valley, looping all the way up to the clouds. Oh, I could just see the looks of jealousy on the faces of my second-grade friends. Even the big fifth and sixth graders would have been impressed as I leapt super-high to make an out during our recess kickball games. I would be a hero myself, protector of little kids (when I wasn’t flying around having fun that is), and I would incinerate any bully who tried to push me around with lasers from my eyes. It would be soooo cool.

Since my mom would never let my siblings or I have any candy, getting it was a rare treat. I thought of how I could fly to Blue Creek, the nearest town, and get all the candy I could possibly eat….it would be fantastic. Best of all, I could fly back home again and my mom would never even realize that I’d gone.

However, imagining that one can fly is not nearly as amazing as actually doing it, or so I’d convinced myself, and I decided that learning to fly is what I needed to do. Now, I started out simply enough with my flying lessons…my first few attempts consisted of running across the lawn as quickly as I could, and then leaping into the air with all my might. Unfortunately, I usually only ended up knocking the wind out of myself, and getting a lot of grass stains on my clothes.

I realized that the problem must have been velocity. I was sure of it. I wasn’t traveling nearly fast enough. I looked around the yard until I spotted what I’d been looking for. The tire swing! I walked over to the weeping willow, and swung the tire swing out as hard as I could. I watched it as it arced out, nearly two feet over my head. It was perfect!

I was at once ready to try my first flight, but then I thought wiser of it…I realized that I should probably head to the kitchen first, and get a snack for my journey. After all, maybe I’d feel like flying around all day. I thought of how nice it would be to have something which I could eat on the trip. Mom was busy someplace, and nobody else was in sight; so I helped myself to three or four plums from the kitchen counter. I carefully put them into my pockets so that they wouldn’t fall out, and set out again for the weeping willow.

Now, I was ready! I climbed aboard the tire, and began to sway my body back and forth, back and forth. It didn’t take long before I’d built up quite a bit of momentum; I moved from side to side like pendulum of a clock. Soon I was traveling pretty quickly, the air rushing in my face. As I watched the ground racing by, I began to feel just the teensiest bit nervous. Okay, I was petrified. However, I blew out a deep breath, closed my eyes, and on the next arc of the tire, flung myself out into space.

I left the tire swing like a rock from a slingshot. I felt myself flying through the air, I’d really done it! I was flying. However, as suddenly as I felt this incredible feeling of air travel, I felt myself being drawn to the earth like a sack of rocks someone had thought were pretty once, but then decided to get rid of. I hit the ground, pretty hard, and felt something wet shoot all over my legs.

When I opened my eyes I was winded, after all, it had hurt. Had I been in any sort of condition to speak, I probably would have used a few of those words I’d used when Doug had been over several weeks before. However, bad words were the last thing on my mind. When I looked down at my legs, I saw that they were covered with a reddish liquid and this pulpy stuff was hanging in chunks out of my pockets.

I had exploded! Some of my insides were now on my outside! I think I screamed, but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t know if any part of the pulp was part of my lungs! In fact, I couldn’t breathe…it must have been my lungs.

I was going to die!

I must have sat there for a minute, too scared to move, afraid that I would squash some of my insides, and then they wouldn’t work anymore. I carefully felt my sides and stomach, I didn’t feel any gaping holes or any areas that had been torn wide open. Upon careful inspection, I realized that the pulpy stuff was actually the plums I’d stuffed into my pockets. I stood carefully, not totally convinced that the fleshy tissue hadn’t actually come from me. However, a moment later I breathed out a sigh of relief. None of it was from me after all.

That night when I went to bed I was depressed, I was no closer to flying than I had been at the beginning. As I lay in bed staring up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, I put my bright little mind to work on why Superman could fly and I could not. As I dropped off to sleep nothing came to me.

I remember at some time in my life somebody had told me that if you ever have a problem, and couldn’t figure out what to do, you should think about the problem just before you went to sleep, and when you woke up in the morning, your brain would have it all figured out. Had I known this when I was younger, I would have been doing this all the time. However, this little bit of advice worked like a charm, even though I had yet to hear about it….when I awoke in the morning the answer was in my brain, just like magic.

The answer was so simple, and I don’t know why I hadn’t been able to figure it out before. Superman would always fly as Superman and never as Clark Kent. Of course! How could I have been so stupid? All I needed in order to fly was a cape. It was only with this vital accessory that flight could finally be achieved. I immediately set out to find the perfect cape because, after all, it had to be really special for it to really work. One of Mom’s bath towels wouldn’t work properly, and neither would the sheet from my bed...it had to be a special piece of fabric; one that was certain to be magical.

It was after much deliberation that I finally decided to use my favorite blanket as my cape. I had had it for as long as I could remember. For all I knew, it had been left to me by a genii or wizard one night as a cape with miraculous powers, and I had never realized it. There it had sat on by bed for years and years without me ever knowing its ultimate potential.

I used a safety pin to attach the two corners of the blanket securely under my chin. I poked my fingers a few times, but finally at last attached my cape. I walked to the bathroom and studied myself in the mirror…definitely super-heroish. As looked in the mirror, I still felt that I was lacking something. Superman had a really cool costume and even though I didn’t think I needed one to fly, I still wanted to look as much like him as I possibly could. From what I could remember, most of his costume was blue…that is, with the exception of the red underwear he wore outside his tights.

I began to dig through all my clothes, and finally decided to wear my favorite shirt—the one with red and blue stripes. It had been my favorite shirt, and one I was sure would undoubtedly help me to soar among the heavens. After all, I probably wore this shirt five days a week. It was with me whenever I went exploring or hiking; it only seemed fitting that it should accompany me on my grandest achievement of all.

I carefully removed my cape and changed my shirt; it felt better, so much more special and magical with all its familiar smells and memories. I don’t know why I loved this shirt the way I did, but I did. I would have never taken it off had my mother not forced me to do so…to me it was more than simply a piece of clothing; I felt that it was almost a part of me, an extension of myself. I would have worn it to church on Sundays had my mother let me.

I checked myself out again in the bathroom mirror and I had to admit that I looked pretty good; the stripes of the shirt went perfectly with the blues of the blanket which flowed behind me like a river of pure silk. Never had I experienced such a feeling of overwhelming power! I decided that my jeans were good enough for the flight as they were blue. I contemplated wearing my underwear on the outside of my jeans, but decided against it, they were white…not red like Superman’s. Besides, this would be much too embarrassing.

I strode out of the house with all the confidence of a kid who knew a terrific secret. All I needed now was the perfect place to make my flight. Where could it be? I thought of my episode with the tire swing the day before and decided against it. What I needed was a new place—a place without any previous attempts, after all, there was no sense in jinxing my real flight with memories of past failures. Maybe I could leap from a tree? It sounded like a good idea, but there were few in the open I could readily climb. The trees in the woods would have been a poor choice because the branches of the other nearby trees would have gotten in my way. Though I had to admit that it would have been fun to weave in and out of the branches when I was flying, I decided against it. I needed a clear spot of airspace for my first flight.


As I was contemplating where I should take to the sky, my eyes were drawn to the old barn which was situated behind our house. I hurried to the backyard and began to study the tall wooden fence around the pasture, as well as the barn itself. I saw that it was possible for me to climb to the top of the fence, and leap from there. However, after a minute, I decided that it wouldn’t be that wise after all, what if my cape caught on a nail or one of the wooden posts?

I considered using the cattle run, which was an elevated ramp, with side rails so horses or cows could be loaded into the back of trucks to be moved someplace else. I walked to the top of the ramp…it was a good three feet off the ground. I was sure that I could run up the ramp, and leap into the air from there.

I walked to the bottom of the ramp and looked around me, the air was suddenly still, the sound of birdsong was notably absent, and even the very wind (which usually blew through the branches of the nearby trees and grass) was motionless. The entire world was strangely silent, in anticipation of my flight. I blew out a deep breath, and began to run to the end of the ramp. Closer and closer it came, I put on more speed and when I reached the end of the ramp I leapt into the air with my arms in front of me. For a second it felt like it were going to work, but I felt the draw of gravity as I was pulled towards the ground and landed—somewhat clumsily—on my feet.

I stared in disbelief. What was wrong? I was wearing my lucky shirt, I had a cape, and was even wearing clean underwear under my jeans to ensure a perfect flight, yet here I was, unable to take to the air.

I sat down on the grass and thought. Something was wrong…what was it? As I looked around, my eyes fell on the old barn—more specifically, to the small window on the east side which was seven or eight feet off the ground. That was it! I wasn’t jumping from a distance that was high enough! I was sure of it! I felt elated at my new discovery and pulled open the huge swinging barn door. The barn was dirty and murky-looking inside, not having housed animals for many years.

I moved cautiously through the barn to the window on the east side. Sunlight was shining in, illuminating the dust in the air. I had often watched the dust particles floating in the sunbeams lancing through our house, and I’d often wondered if the dust was only in the sunbeams, or whether the dust was always in the air and we were always breathing it in. If that were really so, did we have huge balls of dust forming in our lungs? The thought was pretty cool.

I moved to the window and climbed on the workbench someone had built into the wall years before. I stood carefully, and walked the open window. As I looked out I was spellbound. I had never seen the woods and creek beyond the barnyard from this height before…it was beautiful. However, this was no time to admire the view, I had come to fly and fly was what I was going to do.

As I looked down at the ground below I suddenly felt a wave of pure and simple fear. The distance from outside the barn looking up to the window looked pretty high, but from up here looking down the distance seemed to be miles. I may as well have jumped off the roof!

I was thinking that maybe I didn’t want to fly quite so badly when I saw my dad coming out to the barn. This could be it, I decided. My big moment, and my dad would be there to see it…I knew that he hadn’t been impressed with the fight with Doug because Shawna had had to save my life. In the next few seconds, I made one of the biggest decisions in my life.

“Dad!” I yelled. “Look at me!”

Those were famous last words, I have come to decide. I wish that the blanket I was wearing had come with a warning labeled on it saying something like, “Wearing this blanket as a cape does not guarantee the ability to fly. If you try to fly with this, you are a complete idiot.” But the blanket didn’t come with such a warning, and I jumped. I wish I could tell you that I took off over the trees, and explored new vistas with my dad smiling proudly on saying, “That’s my boy!”

I didn’t.

Instead being caught by the wind and flying up, I went plummeting to the ground, which seemed to come rushing towards me at an alarming rate. I think I screamed, after all, it’s hard to be sure when you are watching your death come to greet you and your entire life is flashing in front of your eyes. That’s a lot for a seven year-old to process all at once.

In what was probably the shortest flight in the history of the world, I crash-landed in a clump of tall grass below the window. I felt like I had just been in another fight with Doug, and wanted nothing more than to lie there and die. How could I have been so stupid? There was no way that I could ever fly, I started to cry. Partly from feeling hurt, and partially from the embarrassment of it all. I felt strong hands lifting me up from the ground and my dad asking if I were okay. I wiped at my tear-streaked eyes and felt angry. How could I have though that I could fly? I had been so dumb. As I made to tear the cape off and stomp on it, my dad said, “Wow, you looked just like Superman.”

I stopped crying and looked at my dad. He was smiling down at me; I wiped away the tears.

“Really?”

Dad nodded and said, “Really, I thought you were going to fly away for a minute there.”

I had done it, I had actually been flying! The possibilities were endless. With a little practice I would soon be able to fly anywhere. I just needed more practice!

As if seeing the cogs turning this over in my brain, and wanting to stop me before I’d actually succeeded in killing myself, my dad said, “Jason, you know, I’d really miss you if you flew away and couldn’t get back.” He paused and considered his next words, “Promise me that you won’t ever fly again.”

What? Never fly again? He couldn’t possibly be serious, could he? As I looked up at my dad, I had a sudden realization. That realization was how Mom would feel if I had flown away and couldn’t get back home. I knew how much I'd miss her, and probably how much she'd miss me too. It was then that I made one of the toughest decisions of my life. I promised him that I would never fly again.

To this day, I have kept that promise.

Summit Memoir 2 - Checkers and Beatings

Pin It I thought that the fight would’ve stopped Doug’s bullying and cheating, but it didn’t, he only seemed to get worse. Even if Doug didn’t physically push me around, he still bragged about how much better he was than me at everything and made it a point to make me feel about as low as pond scum when it came to do anything that required size or strength.

I tried my best to avoid him but it never worked—mostly this was for two reasons. First, there are only so many places to go when you’re seven years old and still haven’t learned how to ride a bike, and second, there was basically nothing out here in the country that would keep Doug distracted. He couldn’t watch TV because ours only received three-and-a-half stations (the half station only worked when the sky was overcast). Not that it would’ve helped anyway because the only things on during the daytime were soap operas and I couldn’t imagine Doug ever watching those.

Mom had a pretty nice stereo but this was no help either, we weren’t allowed to mess with it to play any tapes and most of the radio stations were full of static—not that it would have mattered, I don’t think Mom would have let him listen to his stations even if they weren’t. The only thing that seemed to take his mind off of how bored he was and give him any pleasure was to continually torment me.


I made it a point to start taking long hikes up the creek for hours on end and exploring the woods with my dog, Grizzly, a half German Shepard-St. Bernard mix that got his name because he was nearly as large as a bear himself. I recalled the time, when we had lived in Rockford, Washington just a year before when a boy who lived up the street named Robert had been throwing his shoes at Grizzly for fun. Robert would laugh and laugh as he watched my dog move away and find someplace else to lie down.

“Leave him alone,” I warned. “You’re gonna make him mad.”

Robert had laughed and picked up his shoe again. “That old worthless dog wouldn’t do anything!” He threw the shoe that hit my dog on the shoulder.

“Knock it off, Robert.” I said again.

Robert ignored me and took off his shirt next and threw that at Grizzly as well. Grizzly started to walk away, still trying to ignore this annoying kid. Robert seemed to think that the way Grizzly kept moving away from him was the funniest thing he had ever seen and he was practically rolling with laughter. He then started taking off his socks to throw them at my dog as well. I was beginning to wonder if he would be wearing any clothes by the time he was done, at the rate he was taking them off and throwing them at Grizzly I figured he had about another 30 seconds. Grizzly moved away from Robert again, but this time he gave a warning growl which I think was his way of saying, Listen here you stupid kid, if you take off any more of your clothes and throw them at me, I’m gonna have to bite you.

“Robert,” I said. “I’m serious, he’s getting mad.”

Robert stuck his tongue out at me. “Mind your own business!”

I stood and walked to the porch with a shrug. If Robert wanted me to mind my own business, then I would. Robert ignored me and ran over to Grizzly to rub his stinky sock in the dog’s face. I wondered why Robert always liked to torture animals, I figured that maybe it was because he had older brothers who treated him like dirt, but I couldn’t be sure.

Grizzly gave another low growl as Robert approached but Robert didn’t notice it. Maybe he just wasn’t listening, or maybe he was just really stupid…I’ll never know for sure which it was but as Robert tossed his sock in Grizzly’s face, my dog decided that he’d had enough.

Grizzly let go with a bark and jumped up from the ground, whisking out of Robert’s way and then he bit him on the back. It took Robert about two or three seconds to realize just what had happened. Then he began to scream, a high-pitched scream that echoed and reechoed through the neighborhood—it sounded like somebody was torturing a cat. Robert leapt to his feet, still screaming and gripping the part of his back where Grizzly had bitten him. Grizzly hadn’t actually been trying to hurt Robert but was just letting him know that he was tired of the way he was acting and meant business. Robert leapt around the yard, still screaming bloody murder. This in turn got Grizzly excited, thinking that it was now part of a game. My dog leapt around Robert, barking and nipping at him that made Robert scream even more and run around the yard, trying to get away from the dog.

After a few moments, a man burst into our yard. It was Robert’s dad who had been out in his yard planting trees or weeding. “What’s are you doing!” He demanded as he snatched up his son who was shirtless, shoeless and sock less holding the back of his neck where there wasn’t even a mark, but the way Robert was carrying on, you’d have thought my dog had bitten his head clean off.

“I’m just minding my own business.” I said. Which is exactly what his son had told me to do. Robert’s dad seemed plenty mad and stormed out of our yard like the devil himself was on his heels.

I slid off the porch railing and put my arms around Grizzly’s neck. “Good boy.” I said. “You didn’t bite him until you had to.”

As I thought of this memory, I couldn’t help but smile. I wondered, could I sic Grizzly on Doug just once? It seemed like a great idea at first but then I thought better of it, Grizzly only bit Robert because Robert was bothering him…was there a way I could trick Doug into being mean to Grizzly? No, I told myself, I wouldn’t let else be mean to my dog…I would bite Doug myself first.

I did find that best way to avoid Doug was to never be at home but breeze in only long enough to catch a quick sandwich at lunchtime. Good old peanut butter and honey. I’d have preferred just a plain slice of bread with nothing on it, but Mom wouldn’t hear of it.

“You’d eat nothing but bread for breakfast, lunch and dinner if I let you.” Mom had said one day. I couldn’t argue with her either because she was right, to me a slice of plain bread was the best meal any kid could ever ask for.

But as I was saying, I had found a way in which I could avoid Doug for nearly the whole day. Nighttime was something totally different though. Doug had taken over my bed and forced me to sleep on the floor and sometimes wrestled me to the ground, “all for fun.” He would say whenever Mom or Dad had come in to check on us. I loathed going to bed and would always try to stay up as late as I could.

It was late in the afternoon about three or four days later when Doug and I had another serious run in. I had just eaten lunch and was preparing to head out again on another hike when I passed my sister’s bedroom. I noticed that Doug was sitting on Shawna’s bed, looking at the bedspread before him. He was looking at something but I couldn’t tell what because his back shielded it from view. Being somewhat curious, I stole quietly into the room and looked over his shoulder to see what he was looking at. He had my checkerboard sat before him and was staring at the pieces as if engrossed in an important game and was contemplating his next move.


I stood there for a minute before tiptoeing back to the doorway. I bumped something with my foot because it made a sound and Doug turned and saw me.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

I kept walking. “Nothing.”

As I left the room I heard him call out, “Wait just a minute, Jason!”

I paused for a moment then turned back. “What?” I asked cautiously

Doug motioned to the checkerboard. “Wanna play?”

I studied his expression carefully, I’d expected some slanderous remark, after all, Doug hadn’t had one nice thing to say to me since he’d been here and now here he was, acting like we were the best of friends. Why was he suddenly being so nice? The only thing I could figure was that he was bored out here with nobody to play with and this was softening him.

I stepped uncertainly into the room.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun.” He persisted with a friendly smile.

I couldn’t believe that he was smiling. I also couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I was stepping into the lair of a dangerous animal. Still, if he were will willing to offer and play, shouldn’t I? I sat down on the bed across from him, the checkerboard separating the distance between us. “Alright,” I said. “But I’m red.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to move one of the red checkers. Doug stopped me, grabbing my hand. Surprised, he let go with another smile that had all the sincerity of a crocodile’s. “What you think about making a little wager before we begin?”

“A wager?” I asked, unfamiliar with the word.

“A bet,” Doug clarified, grinning away like the Cheshire Cat.

“What sort of a bet?” I asked.

Doug pretended to be in deep thought. Finally his face lit up, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe something like, the winner gets the loser’s dessert tonight?”

I smelled deeply and noticed, for the first time, the thick sweet aroma of rhubarb crumble drifting in the air. It smelled wonderful. Yesterday, the girls and I had discovered a patch of wild rhubarb growing on the far side of the creek. Mom had told us that if we picked it, she would make the crumble.

Doug must have noticed Mom making the crumble earlier. I figured that he probably wanted to eat as much as he could because Mom had yet to give us any sweets since Doug and Tracy had come. I imagined that he was suffering from a sugar withdrawal. A bet like this didn’t really bother me; after all, I wasn’t such a bad checker player and was fairly confident that I would win.

Despite my flash of confidence, something inside was warning me no to take the bet. I opened my mouth to tell Doug that I had changed my mind but something stronger in me desperately wanted to show him up. Just the day before, Doug had proved to Dad that he could not only out-run me, but out push-up me as well. The way Dad was beaming over Doug you would have thought that he’d won a gold medal at the Olympics. “Did you see that?” Dad had said. “Why don’t you try to run like that, Jason?”

“Because I’m not an ape.” I whispered under my breath.

All night I was forced to listen to Doug’s bragging about just how amazing he really was. More than anything I really wanted to put him in his place and show him that he wasn’t as good at everything as he thought. Ignoring the nagging I felt pulsing through my body, I said, “Deal.”

Doug and I shook hands to seal the bet.

After we had shaken hands, Doug graciously let me make the first move. I slid my first checker to the left side of the board. Doug mirrored my move on his side. I moved another checker; once-again Doug copied my move exactly. This went on for the first few moves of the game until it became impossible to copy me without losing his own pieces. Several moves later Doug succeeded in making the first jump and winning one of my checkers. He smiled triumphantly, thinking he was really something. His smile faded on my next move when I double-jumped him.

Outside the room I could hear Shawna and Tracy taking about something but I ignored them, all my concentration was centered on the game with Doug. The game wasn’t just over dessert, it was for respect. If I lost, Doug would always know that he had the better of me, whether or not I had won the fight. But if I won, it would show him that I could beat him at something else as well and he wasn’t nearly as amazing as he believed he was. Doug jumped two more of my checkers but I didn’t care, in the process he had moved one of his checkers from the home row, opening it up for me to get a king. Not long after I had first been introduced to checkers I discovered that if I didn’t move any of my checkers from the row closest to me for as long as I could, it kept my opponent from getting crowned and then having to worry about a king who could move in any direction.

I smiled broadly as I was crowned first and then used that king to jump two more of Doug’s pieces.

Doug sat and studied the board as my king moved towards several open checkers of his. The king was out and about to show no mercy on the men before him! It was obvious that Doug was losing, but surprisingly he wasn’t the least bit upset about it. In fact, he was just sitting there with a blank expression. I began to wonder if he was sick. A sinister twinkle appeared in his eyes as I jumped another of his checkers and laid it in the pile I had accumulated.

“It sure is pretty outside today.” Doug said, eyes trailing to the window behind me. I turned and looked through the large picture window overlooking the driveway. The yard was empty except for a few birds sitting on the fence, in the gentle breeze, the tire swing hanging from the weeping willow swayed to and fro. It was a beautiful day outside. As I looked out at the beauty around me, I resolved that after the game I would bury the hatchet with Doug. Maybe I’d even ask if he wanted to build a fort together, after all, if he was going to be this nice maybe I’d like to be around him.

I drew my eyes from the window and back to the game as Doug was making his next move. He slid one of his black checkers into an open spot in my home row. “Crown me,” he said triumphantly.

I blinked. I could’ve sworn I hadn’t moved any checkers from my home row... maybe I’d moved it earlier when I wasn’t paying attention. I brushed it off as I crowned his checker. I reached to move my king and discovered that the square it had previously occupied was now empty.

After a quick scan of the board it was obvious—my king was missing.

“Where’s my king?” I asked.

“I jumped it on my last move.” Doug said offhandedly.

Could he have? No, I’d watched him make his last move and it wasn’t anywhere near my king—in fact, there was no way he could have captured it. It was then that I noticed several more of my pieces had vanished as well. Doug had moved the pieces when I’d looked out the window!

“You nasty little cheat!” I said, “You moved the pieces!”

“I did not,” he said. “You just have a bad memory.”

“You did!” My voice was beginning to reach a shout. “You switched them when my back was turned!”

Doug shrugged. “We didn’t make up any rules saying that you couldn’t switch the checkers.”

“That’s a rule everyone already knows.” I protested.

Doug shook his head. “Not where I’m from.”

I’d like to tell him where he was from! My voice was no longer beginning to reach a shout but was there full throttle and my temper was flaming. Doug had cheated and now had the gall to sit there and say that everything was fine! I’m not sure what I said next but it must have been pretty awful considering the shocked expressions on the faces of Shawna, Tracy, and Dad who had all materialized in the doorway.

“What’s going on here?” Dad demanded, it was evident that he didn’t appreciate the use of language like that in the house, after all, that was his job.

I opened my mouth to explain but Dad came to his own conclusion. Before I could utter a single word, Dad caught me by the arm and practically carried me out of the room. As I was whisked past Shawna and Tracy, Shawna shot me a sympathetic look. I was ushered past them down the hallway to my room where the door was forcibly shut behind us.

I fully expected Dad to come unglued—whenever Shawna or I got into trouble he usually didn’t waste idle time with explanations or listening to pleas of mercy. Dad’s theology with punishment was short and simple, make it hurt and make it quick.

I was pretty scared as we stood together in the room. Dad was towering over me like the giant willow tree outside. He didn’t appear angry though, it was more…tired. We stood there for several silent moments. I stared at the orange carpet on the floor, I wondered just why someone had picked orange…was it because it was on sale because it was so ugly or was it because—Dad’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“Here’s seven dollars,” he said as he reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet. He took out several one-dollar bills and tossed them onto my bed. “Why don’t you run away?”

I was really surprised as my dad said this and I looked from my dad to the money and then back to him again. I couldn’t believe he was saying this. Where would I go? Seven years old and living on the road? What would happen to me? Would I end up like those homeless guys I’d seen on television, scrounging meals from people’s garbage cans? Suddenly, Mom’s split-pea soup and lentils didn’t seem so bad after all.

I wasn’t sure what I could say so we just stood there. The silence as so loud that I could hear the sounds of my own heart beating in my ears. I wondered if Dad could hear it too. Finally I was able to squeak out, “I don’t want to go.” My voice was barely over a whisper.

Dad’s face softened and he suddenly looked tired. “Then why can’t you get along with your cousin?” he asked, stuffing the money back into his wallet.

“Doug started it,” I protested. “He cheated in the game because I was winning.”

For the first time since Doug and Tracy had been here Dad was actually listening to what I was saying. Taking the silence as a cue to go on, I continued. I told him everything Doug had done to me over the past few weeks, from the bragging to pushing me around.

When I finished, Dad stood up. “Well, then Doug needs to learn that I’m serious about punishment and won’t tolerate the way he’s acting.” He took off his belt and held it in one hand. I backed up and cowered against the wall, making sure my bottom was away from him. I couldn’t believe it, after everything I had told him about Doug I was still going to be spanked. Spanked for something that wasn’t my fault. I felt hot tears coming to my eyes, it just wasn’t fair! It should be Doug in here with my dad getting spanked, not me!

Dad stepped towards me, brandishing the belt like a horsewhip. His voice was calm as he spoke to me. “Now, do I really have to hit you, or can you make it sound like I am?”

A ray of hope illuminated that corner of the room where I stood. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat; “I can make it sound like you are.” I said quietly.

“Then you had better scream like I’m beating the tar out of you.”

With this, Dad turned towards my bed and swung the belt so savagely it scared me even though I was on the other side of the room. The leather cut through the air with a whooshing noise and cracked as it hit the mattress.

I screamed.

Dad hit the bed another four or five times and with each crack of the belt I would let out another blood-curdling scream, like Dad was beating the living daylights out of me. It was actually pretty fun, with each hit I would try to outdo my previous cry and make it sound like I was literally being tortured.

Dad stopped and began to re-loop his belt around his waist. He moved towards the door and looked at me with a smile hidden away beneath his unkempt beard. “When you come out of this room, you had better look like you sounded.”

With this he left the room. As he passed by my sister’s room, Doug, Tracy and Shawna were all pretending to be playing checkers—but they really weren’t. There was no way they could concentrate on anything after my little performance from the next room. Dad stopped in the doorway and looked at the three of them with silent eyes. His gaze paused when he reached Doug.

“Any more problems and I will take care of it, whoever it is…get it?”

Doug swallowed hard and nodded his head. “Yes, Uncle George.” He said.

Dad waited for another moment, allowing his words to sink in, then returned to reading his newspaper in the living room. While this was happening, I slipped from my bedroom into the bathroom. I crawled up on the sink and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I began to rub my eyes with my fists good and hard to make sure they were red and puffy, and then I dribbled some water from the faucet down my cheeks. I was amazed just how real it looked! If I hadn’t been in the bedroom myself, I would have thought Dad had really whipped the tar out of me. I practiced making my bottom lip quiver slightly and uttered a sob with a bunch of sniffling sounds, like when you’re really trying to hold in a cry. I practiced for nearly a minute before I opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway. The house was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking away in the living room.

As I passed my sister’s room, I glanced inside. Shawna winced when she saw me and Tracy was crying herself. Doug’s expression was the most shocking of all. His eyes were as round as fried-eggs and his face had gone completely white. He liked his lips nervously as I let out one of my well-practiced sobs and continued to the living room with a slow measured pace, like walking really hurt. When I reached the living room, Dad looked up from his newspaper long enough to shoot me a quick wink. I smiled and had to cup my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.

As I went outside I whistled for Grizzly and headed in the direction of the creek. I smelled the fresh air blowing into my face and watched the huge clouds billowing in the blueness above me. I had to smile; after all, I had the greatest Dad in the world.