When I grow up...

What do you want to be when you grow up? The dreaded question you face throughout your childhood. And of course, in my line of work, I’m guilty of putting 12 year-olds on the spot. Even my own daughters have faced my gauntlet: Jadyn wants to be a vet. Makenna wants to be a forensic anthropologist (she’s come a long way since she proudly announced at her kindergarten graduation that she wanted to be a princess when she grows up).

So what did I want to be when I grew up? At 6, I was “Mr. D. Almost”, ornithologist extraordinaire. Somewhere around 14, I wanted to be a photo-journalist. I proclaimed when I was 15, that I was going to be a police officer. When I was 16, I was headed to the PacNW for Navy ROTC and a triple major in political science, international relations and history…I know…specific (I think, looking back, that goal was modeled after Jack Ryan…at least until I blew my knee). During those teenage years I used to get asked: “You going to be a teacher when you grow up?” After all it is the family curse: mom and dad both. I proudly replied, “Nope, I don’t want to have to deal with kids like me.” And of course…what do I do now? I deal with kids like me on a daily basis…I still joke that I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

But when I truly reflect on what I wanted to do (past tense) and want to do (future tense) and where I am now (present tense)…I wouldn’t be who I am now without one childhood dream: Indiana Jones is my hero (right after my dad of course) and I wouldn’t be me without his influence.

I couldn’t tell you how old I was when I first watched an Indiana Jones movie…although I know I covered my eyes at several points (same points I made my daughters close theirs). I remember reading Young Indiana Jones books. I remember desperately wanting Indy’s hat…and getting one close enough to work. I remember making a bull-whip out of landscaping twine…and I remember snapping myself behind my own ear with it. Indiana Jones shaped my childhood and my future more than any other fictional character…

I can’t blame Indy for my passion for history. As a struggling writer, even as early as second grade, I was slogging through an historical fiction manuscript set during the Spanish-American War (NERD ALERT!!!). Side note: Guess what my senior thesis was about? YEP—Spanish-American War. My love of history was innate, even though I think my dad secretly hoped it would be science related. What Indiana Jones offered me was a romanticized picture of what history could be. I wanted to search for treasure and travel to exotic locations.

As my passion for history increased, so did my knowledge base and exposure. When we got cable, my time was split evenly between basketball on ESPN and the History Channel. I admittedly got annoyed when mom and dad would get home and immediately change the channel from my documentary back to Sportscenter…I had already seen today’s highlights. I knew that history was more than a hobby, somehow it was going to be a larger part of who I was to become.

Some point after I blew my knee out and I knew I wasn’t going to join the Navy, I remember refocusing my goals. I was accepted at NNU, and what was my major? History Education. I had my sights set on grad school with the ultimate goal of following Indy into the ranks of collegiate professorship. I’ll never forget the day the Army recruiter called my grandmother’s number instead of mine. She didn’t tell him that I couldn’t join for medical reasons; she proudly announced to him on the phone that I was headed to college in the fall and stated, “we’re going to have a history professor in the family.”

Of course my life has changed…my goals shifted…I am not a history professor. I am proudly an educator; marked with the family curse. But I still hold hope that I will somehow realize my childhood dream of being like Indiana Jones. After all…I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up…and I have a lot of time left before I do…

Lost Lake...

Every year my daughters look forward to our traditional camping trip in June. Prior to the divorce my girls had limited exposure to the great outdoors. And now...each summer we load up the car and head for the hills. I can't imagine a summer without a week on the shores of Lost Valley Reservoir.

I remember little precise details of my own childhood here. Unlike today when my family pulls in RVs and trailers I remember a veritable tent village. Late night campfires with grandma's only rule: no flinging flaming marshmallows. And the occasional ride in Uncle Gary's canoe.

But, of every memory, the one that has never faded is of my cousins and me speeding toward the lake on our bicycles and riding as far into the lake as we could go. Somewhere there are pictures of our daring feats. Probably the ironic thing for me now...is to look at the lake and laugh at how ridiculously simple our fun was.

In my mind, as with many other memories I'm sure, I had created this grandiose image of us flying through the air off of a dock or jump, crashing into water too deep to walk in, saving our bicycles from certain eternal sleep at the bottom of the lake with heroic flare and strength. And all I can do now is shake my head and laugh.

My daughters can touch out to about 20 yards. The floor is so muddy and mucky that my youngest lost a flip flop last year. There is no way that my romantic memories of the great bike adventures can be true. In fact I'm sure the challenge was to see how far into the muck we could peddle before the mud swallowed the tires and completely stopped our momentum.

Tradition was officially passed down from generation to generation this year. I’m sad that I missed it…wish I could say I wasn’t there…I was…sleeping off my cold. I got to see the videos of my daughters and my nephews riding through the camp—straight into the lake. My heart was warmed…

I can’t wait until next year…I just have to remember to load my bike…

Blackberry Smiles...

For two glorious years of my childhood I lived on the Oregon coast. I still love the rain…it calms me…though rarely do we get rain like that in Idaho. The smell of the ocean…the stench of the lumber processors…the feel of the sand on my feet…and the taste of fresh, ripe blackberries…just a few of the sensory emotions I will never forget from those days.

I think the house was green…I was in kindergarten. We hadn’t lived in the area long and would eventually live in three houses in two years. Dad had gotten his first teaching job at a small Christian school and we uprooted from the only house I’d ever known and ventured a million miles away…at least it felt that way. Whatever emotions I had about leaving my old home didn’t stand a chance one I tasted my first fresh blackberry…and I was lost in a trance staring at a wall of fresh berries guarded ever so carefully by their own thorns…

It wasn’t unusual for me in the height of blackberry season to be found at the blackberry patch in the back yard. Even before school, I would wander out to sample the deep black berries that were bigger than my thumbs. I can’t remember why this particular morning was any different…don’t remember if I just disappeared out back or if mom sent me out to pick berries to go in the cereal (it wasn’t unusual for the bowl to only be half as full as my little belly).

Regardless of the reasons…I found myself standing at the edge of the berry patch…looking at the three-step stairs that led down toward the middle where the best berries could be found. But…being the season…and the fact that this wasn’t my first trip out back…most of the berries were gone in that area. Soon I was mesmerized by the untouched treasures that sat just out of reach…I ate my way into the middle of the patch…off the steps…and at least five more feet into the thickest brambles and thorns to be found. The bucket of berries was only half full…my stomach was nice and full…and I’m sure there was purple juice on my face from ear to ear…

When I had my fill I turned around…ready to go back into the house. Though I wouldn’t see the movie for years…looking back my memory equates that moment with the scene in Honey I Shrunk the Kids where they look back at the house and it is miles away. There I was…five years old…and stuck in the middle of a blackberry patch…blocked from getting home by the thorny branches I let close in behind me on the way in. I’m pretty sure I started yelling for help…I vaguely remember my dad asking, “what in the world are you doing all the way in there”…and soon I was safely back in the house eating my breakfast…with more berries of course.

Where I failed as a five year-old…I wasn’t aware of my surroundings…I had no exit strategy. Saved by the love of my dad, I have no recollection of any negative emotions…though I am sure there was an element of fear. What I remember to this day, is the succulent taste of fresh Oregon blackberries…

At times I have challenged myself…sometimes, I’m learning, at my own expense…to always identify an exit strategy to any situation I enter…to exercise caution and prudence. But to some degree for the rest of my life I have run head-first into the brambles and thorns without an exit strategy and found myself trapped. Granted I have survived many situations in my life based on my awareness…physically and emotionally…of the dangers that surrounded me. But I will be the first to admit that there have been many times I was no different than that five year-old boy…yelling for help. And sometimes…it isn’t the fear that I remember…it is the sweet flavor that stains my smile…

My dad killed Jesus…

Easter brings back some fond memories…I’m sure I’ll write about some of my other experiences behind the scenes of the local Easter pageant at some point. I took the girls last year and was surprised how much it had changed…but how much of it was just the same as I remembered it…Somewhere I think I could probably find the video spot…maybe…but I couldn’t help laughing today, Easter Sunday, as I thought about some of my memories of those days.

As a kid, Easter season was a family event…though honestly I really don’t remember my little sister being around much. When I was little, I remember going up Golgotha with my mom for the crucifixion of Christ…I was awed by the power of the Roman soldiers …I’m sure I should have been scared…I mean it isn’t every day you see Satan walking down the back hall, just out of makeup.

Honestly I loved being a part of that program…I was proud of all of my family for our participation…and I took great pride in advertising our involvement. Looking back I find it humorous…Mom was in the choir…I was in the children’s choir…my aunt sang a solo…and my dad killed Jesus…

Over the years of my childhood, Dad had several different parts he played…he helped me off the roof to be healed by Jesus…he ran spotlights…he helped one of the crucified criminals with the dry-ice machines…but the part I will never forget was the time my father was an executioner. It was severely ironic to see my father…one of the meekest men I know…pushing Jesus and the criminals through the crowds up Golgotha…and the dramatic silence of the first time the hammer struck the nail…

I admit…that it was a little shocking the first time I saw my dad crucify Christ. I knew that the crucifixion was fake…I watched it in practice year after year. I knew how the crosses were raised on hinges…but I didn’t know how the executioners made the nail-pounding sound so real. I got the chance at some point to see the block they used to simulate the nail strike that cued the crowd into silence (mostly).

I was struck by the symbolism of the event…that Christ died to cover our sins in his blood. But I couldn’t get over the irony that my dad was one of the guys that killed him. My dad is one of the most sensitive guys I know…and I love him for that (another article soon on that subject)…never could I ever have imagined Dad even playing that part.

Later in life I found the humor in it and loved the shock value when I'd say my dad played an executioner…and even now it makes me laugh. I was confused when Dad gave up that role in order to join the spotlighting team. But looking back I completely understand…how can you expect to be considered a good Christian and go to heaven when you make a habit out of killing Christ every year? I can only imagine the thought at the resurrection…”now I have to kill him again tomorrow…”

He is risen; He is risen indeed…in spite of my father…

Burnt Peanut Butter...

It’s funny how when you live somewhere you don’t realize how much it stinks…well…that is if the smell means something to you. I lived for years out past the potato processing plant…when it was French fry day…it was glorious…when it wasn’t…UGHHH!!! I’ve lived on feedlots…where the smell of manure still smells like home (in moderation of course)… I lived near a meat processing plant…where in addition to watching the entrails fall off the conveyer belt, the smell on a hot July day was enough to make you gag… I lived near the cheese factory…and even when I worked there years later I still had problems not losing my lunch on certain days… But I never gave much thought to the sugar beet factory as a source of negative odors…that is until I went to college and everyone complained about it: “It smells like burnt peanut butter.” I have to admit, that after they said that…I closed my eyes in the midst of the next campaign…and I could indeed envision (or is the right word “ensmell”) burnt peanut butter…and it was refreshing and full of memories.

My granddad worked at the sugar beet factory in some fashion or another for over forty years. The smell of campaign…that offended so many delicate olfactory senses…was and still is one of the best remembered smells from my childhood. Granddad was…to a little boy…a towering man…his hands were huge…and his feet even bigger. I remember hiding from him more often than not when I was young…usually because my cousins and I had done something wrong. It’s funny to look back on now…because Granddad wasn’t the one we were most afraid of…I’ll have to tell you about Grandma sometime…

Even though he dropped out of high school to raise a family, he is one of the most knowledgeable people I know. Granddad always had the Discovery Channel on the television…and was a subscriber to every Time-Life book series available…and he had a state-of-the-art wood shop (at least it was to me) where he taught us how to build book cases and rubber-band guns… I learned so much from working alongside Granddad…and have forgotten more than I’d care to admit.

When I was eleven, I skipped school…at least to my recollection…and got to go with Granddad to work at the sugar beet factory. The task at hand that day: band the baby Peregrine Falcons nested at the top of the towers at the factory. I know that the Fish & Game was there…and I think one of the news stations too…but all I remember was Granddad. I was too afraid to admit to him that I was afraid of heights and that the elevator ride to the top of the towers about made me hyperventilate.

My job that day was to video-tape the event…not professionally, but just for posterity sake. I had a monster VHS recorder that was bigger than I could manage easily. So there I was…standing higher than I had EVER been in my life from the ground…literally shaking. I zoomed in on the nesting box as they banded the young falcons. I had a great camera angle…one of the Fish & Game guys pointed to the sky and I followed his hand…the camera still zoomed in. I still don’t know how I was able to find what he was pointing at…let alone at full zoom, but soon enough the camera caught an adult Peregrine Falcon in full dive mode…

Being the nerd I was…and having great ornithology field training from my dad, I knew that a Peregrine Falcon in dive was the fastest animal on the planet…at over 200 mph. To say I panicked would be an understatement…I’m eleven…standing atop the highest structure around…of course I forgot to pee before we came up…and through the viewfinder of a VHS recorder I see Mama Falcon coming straight for me and break away at the last second… I’m not really sure how, but the next thing I know my back hit the floor…the video camera still pointed up… My eyes broke away for my first plain-sight view of the magnificent creature…she was at least 10x farther away than I thought…well out of dive-bombing range… I remember Granddad looking at me and laughing (in only the way he could) and saying, “What are you doing on your back?” I gathered myself up and restarted the video-taping…though at that point they were essentially done.

I have rarely felt as much relief as when my feet touched solid ground that day…and soon got excited to relive the moment of my near-death experience. I checked the camera…and was disappointed beyond all description. The only footage on the tape was about 15 minutes…after the babies had been banded and my dive-bombing episode. I realized that the entire time prior to me hitting the deck and falling on my back, I hadn’t pushed REC. I was embarrassed…ashamed…I’d missed my chance to document the day. I didn’t really talk about my disappointment, but I’m sure Granddad could read it. To his credit he never said a word about the video. I never knew if that was because it meant more to me than to him…or if he was just sparing my emotions…but the one thing he made clear was that he was glad to have me along for the adventure.

My granddad was…and still is to some extent…a man of little words when it comes to emotions…a trait that he has passed on well through my father and me. But I am grateful for the fact that while he doesn’t say it all the time…you know, just by being near him, that he loves you…what he doesn’t share out loud, he wears on his sleeve.

Today I live just a couple miles from that sugar beet factory… when I drive by, I make sure that my girls are reminded that Granddad worked at the factory…even though they think it stinks. And every now and then, when the wind blows just right, I catch a sniff of that “burnt peanut butter” and think of Granddad…a smile crosses my face and I send a prayer his way.

Lessons from My Huffy...

I’m not sure any child can truly forget the first time they rode a bike…I can’t imagine my childhood without one. I have vague recollections of tricycles and big-wheels, but I’ll never forget my first bike. I thought it was huge…I think the wheels must have only been 12”…but to a four year-old little boy…just that day…it was freedom. I’ll have to see if I can dig out the picture of my dad running behind me as I peddled away. The funny thing is…I have absolutely no memories of falling down….that day at least.

Looking back now, I learned so much more from riding a bike than any kid would ever connect. Two major life lessons are directly related to my experiences with my Huffy. First…know when to bail. Second…get up, dust off, and get back on.

Once I perfected the art of racing as fast as I could, I was left to conquer gravity. I sought out any opportunity to defy the laws of nature…and take flight. Of course, I was much older than four by this point…I was at least eight…ancient in the ways of the dirt bike by this point. I know I took spills and tumbles off my bike prior, but one wreck stands out above the rest. Behind my house was a vacant lot, and on that lot was a rise off of the road, with a lip at the top…well I hit that lip, tried to ride my bike through the landing…and paid a hefty price.

I don’t know any man who when he was younger didn’t slide off the seat and get personal with the bike frame…I think there was some forethought there in our developmental on the creator’s part. All I remember is sliding off the seat…hitting the frame…folding over the handlebars…bouncing my lip off the forks at the front tire…and landing with the bike twisted on top of me.

As I lay there…in the dirt…I did a self-assessment. All of my extremities were still attached…there was no blood (I’m still not sure how that was possible)…and as soon as I cleared myself from the wreckage I noticed that the bike was unharmed. All that really existed as proof of my gnarly crash was an imprint in the dirt where I had been pinned under my bike.

I learned a valuable lesson that day…if it looks like you’re not going to land it…bail. Over the years I perfected that technique…at least when it came to bikes. The adrenaline rush of lift off slows down time just enough…it allows you to evaluate your surroundings. If the angle is wrong…bail…if there is something in the way (because of course we always checked our jumps before we went off them)…bail…if there is absolutely no chance of your survival…bail. And there is a wrong way to do it…if you’re not careful, you can get caught up and go down with the ship…or land too close and skid up on top of the bike. There is a point of recognition in a jump that makes for a perfect bail. Right at the pinnacle of your jump, pull up on the handlebars, use your foot closest to the seat to kick off the frame or seat to propel the bike away from you, and never forget to tuck and roll when you hit the ground.

Never…and I do mean never (that I can remember)…did I ever fail to walk away from a good bail unscathed. Dirty: check...bloody: occasionally (depending on the surface of the crash site)...broken: never. I simply picked my bike up…out of sage brush usually…dusted off my clothes…and rode away…looking for the next jump.

Life has thrown a variety of obstacles my way. I wish I could say I have walked away unscathed, but that would be untrue. Sometimes I bailed too early…not even attempting the jump…others too late. So, while I’m still working at mastering the technique of lesson number one, I am getting a lot of practice at lesson number two…when you crash: get up, dust off, and get back on.

Author's Note...

My memories are my own…mostly. Some of them have been shoved so deep beyond the recesses of my conscious thought, that I’ll never see them again…and I think I’m good with that. If they’re that repressed, I have no intention of unleashing the demons…

The following stories of my life are simply that…stories…told through my eyes…my perspectives. Looking back, I have nothing to complain about…mostly…but you may have been hard pressed to tell me that then. George Santayana once said, “Memory itself is an internal rumor.” It is important for you the reader to know that nothing in these pages is meant to be taken personal…there is no venom mixed with my ink. Quite the contrary actually…this memoir is written with love and a desire to be understood. What I could not communicate in the midst of childhood, I hope to enlighten now. I have never felt that I was difficult to understand, but I know now that I am the only one inside my head…the only one with the legend to read my thoughts.

These memories, I entrust to you as an offering of peace…and understanding. We all have moments in life that shape who we become. I am proud of who I am today and would not be me without the characters in these stories, for good or bad. To those that challenged me, thank you…to those that loved me, bless you.