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.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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