Dodge Ball - Part 2

I remember one game in particular where I had somehow managed to avoid being hit and ended up in the unenviable position of being the last man standing against a hoard of foes on the opposing team, including Stan Callister. Normally when this happened, the opposing team would gather up several balls and hurl them simultaneously at the lone holdout, who would not be able to dodge or catch them all, and would thus be vanquished in a flurry of flying limbs and minor curses.

In this instance, however, all but two of the balls ended up stuck on my side of the court. Instead of two people throwing at the same time, the opposing team just handed both balls to the Alpha-chucker Stan. I held one of the previously captured balls in my hands which I had been using as a defensive shield, deflecting incoming balls to the side when possible. With my puny arms, there was no way I could possibly win this contest, but I thought that if I could just avoid the two remaining balls and somehow keep them from rebounding back to the opposing side, I might possibly be able to force a draw by refusing to throw any balls back at the other team. It would be considered a cheap trick of course, unless I could do something to show some courage…something like catching one of the last two balls and thus eliminating Stan.

It was a crazy idea, but I couldn't dismiss it. To catch a ball thrown by Stan would be a coup of monumental proportions. I started to plan.

It would have to be a perfect throw directed right to the gut for me to have a chance at cradling the ball with both arms as it came in for the kill. Stan’s first throw, however, seemed like it was going to be off target, a bit high and to my left. As the ball came closer, however, it seemed to change course. I raised my shield ball just in time to deflect what would have been a perfect head shot. The guy had thrown a curve with a dodge ball! College baseball scouts would have been salivating had they seen that pitch. It came screaming in with such force that it nearly knocked the shield ball from my hands. Instead, it caromed off the wall behind me and bounded back across mid-field; they would have another shot at me. So long as Stan was throwing, they would likely have as many chances as they needed.

In the mean time, Stan was preparing for his second attempt. He had moved all the way to the back wall and began a loping gait towards the mid line, accelerating as he approached. It was like he was preparing to hurl a javelin. Speed and balance, form and grace, control at the edge of human performance are a beauty to behold, except when focused against your continued existence. Then it becomes a perfect terror.

As Stan planted his front foot and twisted forward, the ball was already an elongated red blur. As it left his hand, time slowed and my mind began to race with options: if it comes in high, I’ll duck and deflect, if it is low, I’ll either jump over or deflect it to the ground, if off to the right or the left, I’ll dodge the opposite direction. It soon became clear, however, that none of those conditions applied. Stan had thrown a perfect strike, and a fastball at that. There were really only two options: 1) attempt a difficult straight-on deflection where, at the speed of Stan’s throw, it was likely I would lose my grip on the shield ball and end up taking one in the face, or 2) try to catch the cursed thing.

Despite its velocity, I didn’t think I would have a better chance at catching one and winning a little glory. The ball was headed straight for my gut where I hoped to smother its heat and trap it with both arms. I dropped my shield and prepared for impact. I knew the timing would have to be perfect. Trying to soften the blow, I took a little hop backwards and arched my back to form a pocket for the projectile. As it invaded my personal space, I closed my arms around the ball as quickly as I could.

It is amazing how quickly the human spirit can cycle through emotions. In less than two seconds, I travelled a journey through fear, wonder, determination, surprise, exultation, concern and ultimately despair. Fear had been lurking ever since I stepped on the court, but didn't really bare its teeth until the opposing team handed the two remaining balls to Stan. As he let fly the second one, however, fear gave way to wonder at the beauty of the toss. A strange but steely determination set in as I dropped the shield ball and decided to go for the catch. As my arms wrapped down around the ball, I was both surprised at the force of the blow which now drove me even further back and knocked the wind right out of me, and exultant that I was in position to actually make the catch; the plan was working! My arms were in perfect position to counter the expected rebound of the ball off my midsection.

The ball, however, had other ideas. Having been hurled with what kids nowadays would call a “buttload” of backspin, it did not rebound back into my waiting arms as expected. Rather, it took a downward course, bouncing first off my thighs, then up to my arms at an oblique angle, then off my chest and grazing my chin as it escaped through the top of the trap I had so carefully laid for it. I lunged to retrieve the ball before it hit the ground, swatting desperately at the air as the ball was just out of reach.

The ball bounced. I was out.

To be so close to glory after so many years without a hope or glimpse of it, to then expect and anticipate it even for a split second, to hear it at your front door then rush to open it only to find the porch empty – the promise of glory only a doorbell ditcher – crushed my spirit. Despair rushed in to finish off the parade of brief emotions.

But only for a moment. Despair too was short-lived. A corner had been turned. Deciding to drop my shield ball and attempt that catch was a pivotal event. At that moment, my fear was centered in the ball. And for the first time in memory, rather than trying to run from or avoid it, I confronted the Beast. I faced my fear and it was exhilarating. Even though the exhilaration was temporary, it was enough. From that point on, I began to see fear differently, feel it differently. I developed an intense curiosity about it, and found that when you looked at it straight on, it would usually disappear or else shrink so small as to lose its significance. In short, it could be mastered.

And that potential, that hope, opened up the world and made all things possible. I would no longer cower or flee, but stand firm and even embrace the fears that for years held me captive. Each time I did so, I found strength. What started as an attempt to corral one simple red rubber orb sparked the courage to write, to act, to play, to work, to participate -- to meet life rather than dodge it. 
 
PS: Thank you, Stan. We miss you still.

Dodge Ball - Part 1

My wife Laura and I work with the YSAs* in our LDS Stake as an Advisory Couple. Last month, one of the activities we were asked to assist with was a late night dodge ball game. The flyer I created to advertise the late night match carried the subheading “Relive the Nightmare.”

Up until about a year ago when Ben Stiller made a farcical movie about professional dodge ball players, I had assumed that the sport had died out, vestiges of which only remained in backwater junior high schools where a few sadistic gym teachers still enjoyed the display of fear and pain that accompany this terrible game where the object is to violently hurl rubber orbs at fellow students while attempting to avoid being pelted yourself. Despite this premise, I have a soft spot in my heart for the game for what it taught me about both myself and the nature of fear.

Being an adolescent of very little girth and even less natural athletic ability, dodge ball seemed a cruel punishment for crimes I had yet to commit. The unfairness of the very concept was magnified even more than usual by the presence in my gym class of one of the gods of dodge ball: Stan Callister. At 13-years-old, Stan was what you would call an early bloomer – hair in all the right places and muscles bulging from everywhere else. We were about the same height, but that’s where the physical similarities ended. If we had ever been standing side by side, it would have been like miniature versions of Stan Laurel on a hunger strike beside Hulk Hogan in his prime.

Unfortunately, we were rarely standing side by side. As fate would have it, we were usually facing opposite sides of the dodge ball arena. Those picked to be on Stan’s team were generally gleeful, while those on the opposing team trembled. For Stan could throw. His wind up and release was a thing of terrible beauty. He threw with such speed and accuracy as to suck all the air into the ball’s trailing vortex and leave you breathless if you were anywhere in the vicinity. And heaven help you if you were his target. Had he not perished a few years later from Leukemia, Stan would have been pitching in the majors for certain.

I, on the other hand, had little to offer in the way of offensive firepower. My skinny arms could not muster the kind of speed to overpower an adversary, so if I was to throw at all, I would have to go for stealth and angles. My straight-on throws were easily caught.  I would have to concentrate on Defense if I was to be of any help to my team. Being thin was an asset in this regard as I presented less of a target to the opposition. My reaction times were not bad either so I would bob, jump and weave with the best of them. I became an artful dodger.  I thus found myself, quite often, as one of the last pins standing in this human bowling arena.

That is, until Stan locked on to me as his target.

           --to be continued
_______________
*In the LDS church, the Young Single Adults (YSA) program is designed to support the single 18- to 30-year-olds and provide opportunities for both spiritual and social development (read: help them find a mate and get hitched).

Last of the Haiku

Despite the extensive training in junior high school, I have to finally admit that haiku is the most useless poetical form there is -- at least in English.  I'm sure in Japanese the form is brilliant in both its simplicity, grace and flow. But in English, the constraints of 5-7-5 are just so rhythmically awkward as to make the reader stumble through the poem in fits and starts.

Nevertheless, I read earlier today that the Salt Lake Tribune was hosting a haiku contest and the submission deadline was today at 5pm.  The catch? The poem had to have something to do with "Jello."

I couldn't resist.

Here are a few of the submissions I cranked out during my lunch break:

Dare you add carrots?
I am no vegetable dish.
Away vile shredder!

Tremulous at rest
Fearing the coming onslaught
Cries, "Hide me with cream!"

Once a small fellow
Consumed way too much Jello.
Now he doth bellow.

Jello wrestlers part
More sticky sweet than slimy
"Wanna 'nother round?"

Five Jello salads
Jiggle madly in my fridge.
Stop sisters. No more!

Sliced in perfect squares
Like finely carved temple blocks
Mormon Jello rocks!

Jello fight at night
Gelatenous gobs fly by
Hurled by spattered troops.

Wiggles and jiggles
Won't tickle any stickler.
Jello Haiku? BAH!

I still can't take haiku seriously as an art form, so these may be the last haiku I ever write -- unless someone holds another tongue-in-cheek contest. Perhaps on Yams.

Skull Candy

Milestone:  Michael (my youngest child) decided not to go trick-or-treating this year. 

Halloween, which I have always enjoyed, was even more fun than usual this year. Michael and I spent the day before fixing up the garage to look spooky and boobytraping it for the unsuspecting seeker of sweets.  Becca planned a party for about 2 dozen of her closest friends. Even though fewer and fewer kids seem to be out trick-or-treating, Halloween still seems to be anticipated and enjoyed by the great majority of the people I know.

I have often wondered what the attraction is. Is it just a fascination with the spooky or bizarre? Perhaps a desire to confront our fear of death? Or just maybe, it is an opportunity to laugh in the face of it. I wish we had the same tradition as in Mexico where on the "Day of the Dead" they eat little skulls made of sugar. Not only would we be laughing at death, but eating it, accepting it as a part of life, and ultimately surviving it.

No Battle

In a battle of wits
We all take some hits.
The question is, What can you deal?

If you're not too selective
Using naught but invective,
Your fate as a loser you seal.

Written in sympathy to those who battled this week in the pages of the Salt Lake papers over a letter to the editor I wrote. See Sheriff's Crony and Cronyism Alive & Well.

27 Years

“Twenty-seven years is far too short a time to spend with such an admirable woman.”

When I wrote these words on the card accompanying a dozen medium-stem roses, I knew she would have no idea that the phrase was lifted nearly word for word from Bilbo Baggins’s birthday speech from “Lord of the Rings.” But I was under the gun; it was my anniversary and, as usual, I had not made any definite arrangements beforehand to celebrate our 27 years together. I stopped at the florists on the way home from work so as not to be totally empty-handed and on the spur of the moment, decided to include a small card with the roses. The phrase was the first thing to pop into my head. It’s hard to be original when you are in a hurry, so I went with it.

And yet, now that I have had time to reflect a bit, I can’t think of anything more appropriate. Although the famous old hobbit uttered his original speech just before leaving his home to go live with the elves, I plan to stay on with my admirable woman for at least 27 more years and much longer if I can. I need no elves for enchantment. I still find it in her eyes.

It was her eyes, in fact, that first attracted me and eventually entrapped my heart. I am completely bound by other means now, but her eyes still convince me that in submitting to such bonds I find the greatest freedom. During a family quiz game last week, I was asked what title I would give a song about someone I love. My answer was “Pools of Blue.” I didn’t fool anyone.

Twenty-seven years is a milestone of sorts. It marks the point at which she has been with me longer than she was ever without me. And though certainly there have been times when she would have liked to have strangled me, I have always been confident of her love and her desire for me to remain. She has no idea what great comfort that is, nor what exhilarating joy it brings. I should tell her, but how can one express such monumental feelings without causing her to worry that something is wrong? Nothing is wrong, but worry she will. And I do not wish to add to her burden.

Instead I keep still, watching in wonder at her constant movement to reach out and help, feed, console, or nurture those around her. Though her eyes entrance me, her greatest beauty is in that divine motion to serve the needs of others. In her case, it is a beauty rarely hidden.

It was this beauty that first brought us together. Her roommate was directing a play and needed more “chorus line” players, so she volunteered to help. I went to audition for a part and was disappointed to learn that all the named roles were already filled and they only needed extras. I was cast as a lowly “knight” and she was my “lady in waiting.” She had been waiting a good quarter century. It became my favorite role ever.

I had always fantasized about meeting my mate “on stage,” but had no interest in some flighty prima donna. She was too emotionally honest and grounded to be an actress, however, and when we were first introduced, my mind and heart were prompted with the words, “She could be the one” as clear as if spoken aloud. I have trusted such promptings ever since.

For more than two decades she has stayed at home and raised three exceptional children while I was off at work trying to become a better provider. She had worked for 16 years before the first child came along. She used to have money, a fancy sports car, and traveled wherever and whenever she wanted to go. But she traded it all in for a struggling writer who drove an old AMC Pacer and held his Sunday shoes together with electrical tape. There must have been other times during the past 27 years when she wondered if, financially, she made the right choice. But if so, her doubts have been fleeting, for her commitment to me has always been as Gibralter.

The kids are older now and growing in their independence, so she has started working again. Not so much for the money, though every little bit helps. But for the company of other good women and the chance to make a difference in the lives of struggling school children. “The lights went on for Sally today,” she’ll say, and her eyes will dance in triumph. And I fall all over again.

Yeah. Twenty-seven years is too short a time to spend with such a goddess. Happy Anniversary, Laura.

Middle Age Haiku

And now, in honor of my esteemed 9th grade English teacher who taught me the delicate art of haiku, I present a short collection celebrating the life and frustrations of the middle aged.


Pink slip lies crumpled
in old hand, replaced by young.
Arbys is hiring.


Dental work and cars

are the grief of all good men.

Bills. Bills. Bills. Bills. Bills.


"I'm freezing," "I'm hot"
though temperature's constant.
Hot flash rules the day.

Rugged pinecone falls
To sail upon the water
Seeking distant shores.


Menopausal wife
Arises, then sits again
To mourn her lost youth.


Creaking bones arise
To face another morning.
No pushups today.


I eat no more now
Than I ate when just a boy.
Whence come these handles?


You need some wheels, boy
To visit your girl in town?
A bus pass ain't much.


Argue 'til your blue,
Son, you still don't get the car.
We own this keychain.


I am no chauffeur,
Yet the miles I drive the kids
Make me cross...country.


Went to Disneyland.
Fought the crowds for five whole days.
My dreams are of queues.


Breaking wind at night,
Sheet rises, then slowly sets.
Hope the wife's asleep.


Feel free to add your own in the comments section.  Remember: 3 lines, 5 syllables in the first and last lines, 7 syllables in the middle line.

Keep your arms and hands
Inside the car at all times,
Stay seated. Have fun!

The Politics of Outrage

Am I just out of touch or has the nation gone crazy? Who are all these people who actually take talk shows seriously, especially those on radio?  Are they lonely souls who have no one else to listen to?  Are they angry, inarticulate souls who cannot express their anger and thus rely on professional mouthpieces to express it for them? Are they souls in turmoil or pain looking for someone who can sympathize, or looking for someone to blame for their troubles?

Whoever they are, there seems to be a lot of them.  And the demand for talk show blather shows no signs of ebbing.  The political power that the current bevy of celebrity spokespersons now seems to wield should be a source of shame for Americans.  Whether the name be Beck, Limbaugh, Hannity, Oprah, Franken or Stern, these are entertainers, not political geniuses. No one should be taking them seriously or giving their political opinions any more weight than you would give David Letterman's opinions on sexual harassment.

Why? Because in the long run, they do what they do for one reason only: to sell advertising.  They are selling products just as assuredly as the used car salesman down on Main Street.

I have no beef with Main Street.  I have no beef with entertainers. My problem is with the number of people who look to these new cultural icons in order to know what or how to think.  It's like this huge segment of the population tunes in to find out what to be upset about.  "What would Jesus do?" seems to have morphed into "What did Limbaugh say?"

What happened to the age old search for truth or enlightenment? The modern search seems to be focused on fueling outrage. "What should I be mad about now?"

The problem with the politics of outrage, however, is that nothing gets done.  Sure there may be shouting and bluster, but when you start from a position of anger, the only option seems to be revolution rather than compromise. And few people are really angry enough to follow through with revolutionary options, as these generally include the spilling of blood and great suffering. We're not big on suffering, nor of much blood nowadays (except on TV or in the movies -- another personal gripe that we'll save for later).  So we just get a little angry and frustrated and grouse that someone ought to do something (specifically, someone else) while we preen in self-righteous indignation.

Real political progress, however, almost always depends on compromise, a continual give and take that requires both an understanding of and a respect for the opposition. Yes you can have strongly held opinions. But you must also realize that those whose opinions are diametrically opposed to yours probably hold them just as strongly as do you. Just like you, they also regard themselves as advocates for what is right and true. They may very well be dead wrong, but to see any progress in a democracy, the people must realize that many times it is more important to be together than it is to be completely right.

Outrage may be easier, for the world is thereby seen as black or white, good or bad, right or wrong, villains versus heroes. Battle lines are drawn, but all that occurs is polarization, not progress. Compromise is harder, but richer, its colors not only more numerous but infinitely more promising. When you choose the path of compromise, you start with the assumption that there are neither villains nor heroes--just good people trying to do good. And when that turns out to be true, common ground can usually be found and change can happen. Rarely will anyone get everything they want, but we move forward and together we can celebrate each small step.

Outrage fueled by today's talk show clowns prevents progress by diluting the nation's focus.  Entertainers certainly can't maintain an audience if they repeat the same things day after day, so they must come up with something new for people to be mad about each day.  Compromise, however, usually requires a concentrated focus on the same issue over a long period of time in order to discover common ground and the basis for change and progress. It's hard, often boring work -- not the stuff upon which products are sold nowadays.

I am, of course, speaking of politics specifically.  There are some areas of life where compromise is neither wise nor a precursor to progress. There are times when lines must be drawn and no quarter given. But even then, outrage is rarely helpful. Quiet determination and perseverance will win the day long before the fiery howling of the outraged.

Think Gandhi.

Change the channel. Turn down the volume. Then let's work together.

Spaghetti Western

Finest Western ever made: Once Upon a Time in the West.

Casting perennial good guy Henry Fonda as the cold-blooded villain was sheer genius. Extreme, steely-eyed close-ups and the mystery surrounding Mr. Harmonica build the tension with each gun battle. And the soundtrack by Ennio Moricone is to swoon over. It's definitely the only western that I would ever have patience to sit through more than once -- and this one is just shy of 3 hours long. I've seen it probably half a dozen times and it still entertains.

I'm not sure why I like it so much, but it may have to do with the ambiguity it presents in defining the line between justice and vengence. I won't spoil it for anyone who has not seen it, but whichever concept you favor, the ending of this flick is definitely sweet.

Train-bound Souls

Train-bound souls move with the grace of sameness.
With unconcern, they dance in a unified sway,
Each flaw of steel or geography
Nudges life this or that way.

Train-bound souls roll forward, still forward.
Lost in bookish or papered worlds,
Or absorbed in earplugged ecstasy,
They ignore the speed-blurred land.

Train-bound souls, when they finally arrive,
Disgorged from coccoons, free to fly,
Will scatter in every direction,
But proceed evermore in straight lines.

              -Mark Fotheringham

Hidden Heroes

Sometimes I exaggerate. Never on a grand scale, never making things up from thin air. More like an expansion of the truth, in order to show contrasts more clearly or to recreate an emotion that would otherwise be unappreciated in its original smallness.

For instance, I have often said that Wayne Sandberg would have been a dead ringer for Boris Karloff's Frankenstein if you just attached a couple of bolts to his neck. But Frankenstein didn't wear thick coke-bottle glasses with which to view the world, and his teeth were straighter than Wayne's. Wayne was much smaller vertically and a bit larger horizontally. He didn't shuffle along with arms stretched ahead, but rather trundled along with his back ramrod straight, and with one hand ensconced in the coat pocket of his old brown suit. Wayne did sport a high, squarish forehead and a slightly protruding brow like the monster, but otherwise the resemblance was slight at best. The point of the comparison, however, is simply to state that Wayne was not an attractive man.

Nor was his wife, Marge, a paragon of womanly beauty. She was a bit shorter than Wayne, but wider. Only once did I ever see her wearing anything other than a simple knee-length floral print dress and no-heel shoes. Her hair was grey and thin, making her appear older than she really was. As Wayne trundled, Marge waddled, all the while holding her husband's un-ensconced hand. When they walked together, you witnessed a delicate balancing act as you were never quite sure which one was supporting the other from toppling either backwards or to the side.

I knew them both for nearly 20 years. They were neighbors when I was growing up in the East Millcreek area of Salt Lake County. They lived far enough down the street that I rarely saw them outside of church. But on Sundays, they were always there. I first noticed Wayne not only for his strikingly strange looks, but because of that hand that was nearly always tucked away in his coat pocket. Whenever that hand emerged from hiding, it would be holding a wrapped piece of salt-water taffy which would be given to whatever child was standing closest. Needless to say, my brothers and I would jockey for position each week to make sure we were in proximity to Wayne when the hand would reveal its sweet treasure.

Somehow Wayne always made you feel like you were his special friend and that you were the only one with whom he shared his hoard of sweets. I couldn’t help but notice that his pocket would be bulging before church meetings began, and empty three hours later. I never bothered to connect the dots and realize he was sharing with others also. It was too nice feeling special.

Even when I grew older and lost my interest in the taffy, Wayne merely replaced the candy with a crooked smile and a handshake. I still felt special.

As for Marge, it took a little longer to come to appreciate her. She did not hand out candy like her husband, though she never seemed to discourage it. She was mostly invisible to begin with, despite her girth. But that would change.

As a pre-teen, I was one of a group of boys of similar age that a charitable Bishop would have to describe as “difficult.” I was certainly not the ringleader, but I laughed and goofed off with the rest of the rabble and showed little respect to the adults who were tasked with trying to teach us each Sunday. In fact, one year we made it our mutual goal to see how many Sunday School teachers we could run through by getting them to resign the position. Our short term goal was to see how fast we could bring our teacher to tears each Sunday. We were monsters.

After about 6 months of terror, we returned to church one Sunday a couple weeks after having run off our 4th teacher, only to find that a new victim had been procured by our Bishop. Was he inspired or merely desperate? We may never know for sure. What we do know is that more than one of us looked upon this new challenge with a confident and slavering delight. For there before us, manual in hand, was sweet little Marge Sandberg, still smiling. Fresh meat.

It didn’t take us long to get her tear ducts working. The combination of utter disregard for what she had to say, along with the rude noises and giggles soon drove her to distraction. But she stuck it out to the end of class. She didn’t turn tail in the middle of class and head for the Bishop’s office like our last teacher had. Still, I gave her about 2 weeks.

But two weeks passed, then four, then six. Week after week, Marge endured this cross she was called to bear. It soon became evident that she was in it for the duration. We would not be running her off. After a time, her tear ducts dried up, despite our horribleness. And little by little, she earned the respect, if not the cooperation, of the hooligans. She finished out the year with us. Then we moved up to the next class, while she began a new round with the kids just younger than us.

I don’t remember a thing she tried to teach. I just remember that she remained. She stuck it out. Where others had fled, she stood her ground. She took the heat and reflected back love. We were too young and stupid to recognize it at the time, but Marge Sandberg taught us the meaning of both commitment and perseverance.

I met Marge in the grocery store many years later. I was married and Wayne had passed on a few years previous. I still recognized her despite the fact that she was now wearing blue jeans and sneakers rather than the old floral print uniform. I stopped to say hello. She was delighted to see me, so after answering her questions about my family, I took the time to tell her one final recollection I had about her and her departed husband.

When I was about 18 years old, having grown out of the hooliganism of younger years, I started thinking about and worrying about big questions: meaning of life stuff. A couple of the smartest questions I asked myself was “Who would I like to end up like? Who are the happiest people I know?” As I sat in front of the congregation at the priest’s table where three of us would prepare the sacrament each week, I looked out over the congregation and asked myself these questions. And each time I did, my eyes would rest upon Wayne and Marge Sandberg. Of all the couples in the congregation, they had to be the least physically attractive. And yet, there was Wayne, week after week, with his arm around Marge, giving her the occasional squeeze and treating her like the most beautiful creature on the planet. And there was Marge, responding with a grand and loving smile of peace and contentment just to be there with him.

That’s what I wanted.

It’s what I’ve been striving for ever since.

And that’s what I told Marge in the grocery store, omitting only my shallow and ultimately false judgment of their attractiveness.

She gave me a big bear hug and started to cry. OK, I’m exaggerating again. She actually just gave me a peck on the cheek, said it was the nicest thing she had heard all day and we parted. But a slight moistness of the eyes made me think I may have gotten her tear ducts going...one last time. Yes!

One thing, however, is not an exaggeration. Though I'm sure they have both passed on by now, Wayne and Marge Sandberg are still my heroes.

Now what?

I'm always depressed for awhile after writing something good. When the muse is working and the words flow, you never wish it to end. But end it does, leaving you drained, breathless, and rather empty. Other writers have adopted the metaphor of giving birth to describe the process of writing. But I've witnessed the births of two of my three children and would not trivialize the physical pain and exertion of giving life by making comparisons unworthy of that supreme effort. Writing is a walk in the park next to childbirth.

But where the metaphor works is in regards to the aftermath.  You've put your heart and soul into nurturing this thing that has been inside you for so long and now it's out, separate, with a life of it's own and you are not at all certian that you will ever be able to again create something so real and beautiful as what you have just managed. You've got Post-Natal Depression of the Word, baby.

Cancer is a Bully

My brother was dying.
He was dying and had come to make his peace with me. But I didn't know that yet.

When he called me up at work one morning, after a prolonged dearth of any communication, asking to meet me for lunch, I assumed he would again be fishing for money to tide him over. Since reaching adulthood, the rare request for money had been the only reason he ever made contact with me.

Even though I am closer in age to him than any of our six siblings, my older brother Steve and I have never been close. I was a small and scrawny kid, easily intimidated and fearful of confrontation. Nearly two years older than me, Steve was brash and adventurous, questioning everything, challenging assumptions, debating every point. To me, he was just one more thing among many to be afraid of and thus avoided whenever possible. By the time I had outgrown my fears, however, Steve had already committed to the path of rebellion, experimenting with mind-altering drugs, reading Carlos Castenadas in search of mystical truth, beginning his withdrawal from the family in favor of a separate, hermitic existence dominated by addictions. His was the direct opposite of my commitment to the path of least resistance: stay in school, go to church, don’t make waves, get a job, prepare for a mission, seek family support and guidance. Wisdom had nothing to do with my choices; they just seemed safer than Steve’s self-destructive and contrarian ways.

We had not spoken of anything other than cash in decades. In fact, the last real conversation we had attempted prior to this lunch was years earlier as I was packing my bags to enter the mission field in South Korea. Looking back on that conversation, I’m pretty sure Steve was trying his best to make a connection before I left for two years, but it ended awkwardly when he attempted to give me spiritual counsel: “If I could leave you with any advice, it would be that when you teach the Koreans, just teach them good Christian principles, not Mormonism.” Not wanting to start an argument (I still avoided confrontation even then), I just nodded silently and kept packing until he left. If he had made that same suggestion two years later, I would have jumped all over it and asked why I should settle for teaching only “good” Christian principles when I could be teaching the “finest and best” Christian principles encompassed in LDS doctrine. But I was still weak, so I missed the chance to engage Steve on his terms, in his venue of choice – a debate. If it wasn’t for the drugs, Steve could have made a great lawyer.

There was a local sandwich shop called “The Pub” within walking distance from my office, so when Steve arrived, he suggested we eat there. I would have picked “Wendy’s” or some other cheap fast food joint, since I figured I was going to be paying for this outing, but Steve seemed to be following some pre-determined plan and so took charge. It felt a little like an ambush. I became wary. I had already determined that I would not be giving him more money. I didn’t really have extra to spare, for one thing. And Bubba (our dad) had counseled me not to enable his addictions with cash, but to simply refer him to his parents, who would be happy to help him with groceries, rent, or whatever else he needed to survive.

We attempted small talk on the way to The Pub, but having so little in common, the conversation seemed forced and shallow. It inevitably turned to a discussion about my kids, since that is the easiest thing for any parent to talk about. Steve tried to compliment the beauty of my daughters, but never having mastered the social graces, his comment about them both being “real lookers” came off as a little creepy. I let it pass, but silently vowed that there would never be any sleepovers at Uncle Steve’s. His biggest gaffe, however, came when we turned the discussion to my son, Michael.

“He can be a mean little bastard, can’t he?” said Steve. I was totally shocked and outraged by this allegation. I could not let this one pass.

“What are you talking about? Michael is one of the kindest souls on the planet.”

“Maybe when you are around. But I’ve seen him picking on the little guys at the family parties and he’s a mean little bugger.” As far as I could recall, Steve had been to a total of about three family gatherings in the past 20 years, so I doubted the validity of his knowledge base. I wondered aloud if he wasn’t mistaking Michael for Scotty, our brother Paul’s 2nd oldest boy, who at that time, would occasionally torment his younger brother Tommy to tears. Or perhaps he meant our sister Kate’s 2nd oldest son Steven, who would routinely attempt to bully his surprisingly resilient younger sibling Hunter.

But Steve was insistent that Michael was the bully, teasing both Tommy and Pete (our sister Amy’s son) unmercifully and regularly. For the slightest moment I considered the possibility that my own perception of Michael was clouded by parental affection. After all, Steve was a neutral third party observer, who was familiar with the ways of the bully, having trod that path himself as the oldest of eight. But, no. I was certain I was not so blind. Steve was the bleary-eyed alcoholic who saw what he expected to see. Michael is a big kid, largest of all the local cousins who regularly meet at family parties. Steve had always been the biggest when he was younger, too. I suppose he may have been seeing himself reflected in Michael, mistaking innocent play for teasing and bullying.

Regardless of the psychology, I was having none of it. I assured Steve that Michael was not mean or bullying by nature and if it appeared so to him, it was a rare anomaly and not representative of Michael’s normal behavior. This time Steve let the potential conflict drop, but a barely perceptible smirk seemed to reveal his position that I was being naïve. I was no longer just wary. I was ticked. How dare he judge my family? I would buy him lunch, but otherwise, the bastard would not be getting a dime from me.

We arrived at The Pub and Steve asked specifically for a booth rather than a table. I would later realize that this was probably the real reason he wanted to go to this restaurant. The booths were high-backed and private, thus hiding from the world what he may have expected to be a difficult discussion. At the moment, however, I assumed less charitable motivations, because the first thing he asked after we were seated was if I would mind if he ordered a beer. The Pub, as its name implies, serves more than just sandwiches. In fact, they have their own microbrewery, concocting such local favorites as the sarcastically named “Latter Day Stout” and “Happy Valley Hefeweisen.”

“I’m not comfortable buying alcohol for you Steve,” I said firmly. Other than Nyquil, I had never purchased alcohol for myself or anyone else my whole life. I was not about to start by further enabling his addiction to the stuff. “That’s OK,” he said with a chuckle, “I’ll just pay for the booze separately.” Just as I had figured; I was buying lunch.

Steve ordered some pasta dish and a Heineken. I ordered a wonderful green salad that featured flakes and chunks of salmon in a raspberry vinaigrette. The restaurant wasn’t busy and the food came fast, sparing us both the strain of more small talk. After a couple bites of pasta and a few pulls on the Heineken, Steve turned to me and got suddenly serious and began speaking quietly. He began by asking me if I’d be willing to do some small tasks for him should something happen to him. At first it sounded to me like he was trying to put his affairs in order in preparation for a suicide. Having been trained as a Bishop to confront such suspicions directly, I asked him if he was thinking about killing himself.

“No, no,” he replied with wide and suddenly moist eyes. “It’s just that I haven’t been feeling very well for a long time and I’ve gone to see the doctor and they ran some tests and now they want to run more tests and in my gut I think it may be serious. I think I may be dying.” He was clearly scared and the tears welled further, giving him a sudden case of the sniffles.

I didn’t have a clue how to respond to this news, but before I could even summon up some sympathy, Steve plunged into the real purpose for our little meeting. “I need to ask you something. Are you OK? Have I totally screwed up your life?” he asked with a heartwrenching sob.

I’m not sure what well of guilt the question had bubbled up from, but it was apparently deep and closely guarded. Perhaps I should have been offended that he thought my life was screwed up at all, but he had just told me he was dying, so I wasn’t going there. Instead, I had one of those moments where you instantly review the past looking for some clue to the meaning of your present situation. Had Steve done anything that really affected who I was now? He had mostly been absent for my entire adult life so I figured he must have been referring to something from childhood.

As a kid, I had been one of many victims of his occasional bullying, his favorite method being what he called the Chinese Water Torture, where he would straddle your chest, pinning your arms under his legs. Then raising the knuckle of his middle finger from a closed fist, he would rhythmically bludgeon your sternum in the same spot over and over again until you were crying or someone had run to tell Mom.

It may have been a bit painful and humiliating at the time, but it certainly was not permanently damaging. That’s just what big brothers did, asserting their dominance and thus teaching their younger brothers how to similarly torment those even smaller than themselves. I'm sure my knuckle was raised more than once over the chest of either Mike or Paul at some point. In fact, I remember making Paul so angry with my teasing that he once hurled a dandilion digger at my chest in retaliation. Luckily, it hit me broadside, not pointy-side.

But that’s not screwing up a life; it’s just teaching the law of the jungle.

I remembered that Steve had also shown me the first truly pornographic picture I ever saw. He was showing it off to one of his buddies when I came into our shared room and asked him what they were looking at, for they were doing so with such obvious interest and glee that I was instantly curious. He tried to dissuade me, saying I was too young to see such things. This, of course, was exactly the wrong thing to say if he really wanted to discourage me. I insisted that I was old enough, even though I had no idea what I was talking about. In a magnanimous gesture of brotherly kindness, he relented to my pestering and showed me the picture of a buxom blond woman on a bed, on her back, leaving nothing to the imagination.

I was indeed too young to be aroused by any such picture, as puberty had not yet reared its horny head in my direction. I was, nevertheless, strangely fascinated by the photo for what it revealed about the differences in equipment between boys and girls, which I had previously only guessed at from snatches of playground conversation and the occasional dirty joke that I laughed at but didn’t really understand.

Was this possibly what Steve was talking about when he asked if he had screwed up my life? Other than the Chinese Water Torture and the porn, I really could think of nothing else that he might be referring to.

“No, Steve. You have not screwed up my life. I have never needed any help in that department and have managed well enough on my own,” I replied.

And that seemed to be all he needed to hear. “Good, that’s good,” he said. He wiped his eyes and went back to his pasta. Something had broken. Some wall had been breached. Some burden had been carried off in that moment. I still have no idea if I was even close to guessing what he had been worried about, but it didn’t matter. He just wanted to know that I was OK. Up until that moment, I assumed he didn’t care much about me one way or another. But now he was dying, and wanted more than anything else to make sure his little brother was OK.

The small talk resumed, but was somehow easier now. He didn’t ask for any money. And without any regret, I bought his beer.


Postscript: We’re still not close, but we are not so distant as before. Steve has battled colon cancer for over three years now and currently seems to be at a stalemate in what has been the kind of recurring war you would not wish on your worst enemy. We pray for a lengthy remission, but we all know remission does not often equal cure. I’m OK. But I wish he were too.

Substitute Teacher

Frank called on Saturday morning. He was looking for a substitute to "lead the discussion" in the High Priests Group on Sunday. "Lead the discussion" is a less threatening way of asking someone to "teach" a lesson in priesthood meeting. Not having read the manual, I asked what the lesson was about.

"It's about the organization and purposes of the Relief Society."

Great. I could almost hear the yawns of the bretheren from 30 hours away.

Frank is a good guy, however, so I reluctantly agreed. I could hear in his voice the "Lake Powell, here we come" glee as he thanked me repeatedly.

I confess that "reluctantly agreed" may be stretching the truth a bit. Although I had concerns about being able to liven up this particular topic, I really do enjoy teaching. I see it as something akin to performance -- using words, thoughts, ideas and poetic expression to coax the Spirit into a room, while stimulating discovery, wonder, delight and a desire to know more.

I read through the lesson material and was surprised to find several good hooks (questions or ideas) upon which to focus a "discussion," but there would still be a need for an ice breaker to loosen up the geezers and set them up for the more serious discussion to follow.

I considered showing a clip from LDS comic Johnny Biscuit's "Latter Day Night Biscuit" DVD wherein he mocks the sisters for combining "sticks and weeds and a glue gun" to turn a house into a home. But Biscuit's riff is perhaps a bit harsh (though hilarious) for a priesthood lesson. I opted for original material instead.

I went through our home collecting all the inspirational sayings from the latest R.S. homemaking fad: vinyl lettering on wood blocks or ceramic tiles. I then imagined how the sayings might change if guys had been involved in coming up with the phrases, rather than the women-folk. After setting up a table cloth and centerpiece to set the mood, I would start off the discussion with a few brief observations regarding the differences in how men and women (generally speaking) relate to the world around them. I then presented as evidence my lists of original sayings followed by the re-imagined guy versions as follows:

Families are Forever
Families are Forever........So Cool It!


Do What Makes Your Heart Sing
Do What Makes Your Heart Sing. But Please, No Opera

Friends are like Heirlooms, Always to be Treasured
Friends are like Heirlooms, Always to be Treasured, and dusted off whenever you need Money

Live, Laugh, Love
Live, Laugh, Love, Limbo!

What lies before us and behind us are small matters compared to what lies within us
What lies before us and behind us are small matters compared to what lies beside us

Christ is the Center of our Home, a Guest at each Meal, a Silent Listener to every Conversation
Christ is the Center of our Home, a Guest at each Meal, a Silent Listener to every Conversation - So can we please stop talking about bunions?


Be Your Own Kind of Beautiful
Be Your Own Kind of Beautiful...But a little mascara wouldn't hurt

Count Your Blessings
Count Your Blessings...Yes, you can use your toes

There's No Place Like Home
There's No Place Like Home, but I wouldn't mind a little more Maui time

As For Me and My House, We will Serve the Lord
As For Me and My House, We will Serve the Lord...Pizza

Now, the High Priests in my ward are a pretty tough crowd. They take that "avoid all loud laughter" advice pretty seriously and are generally a solemn and dignified group. Nevertheless, there were a few chuckles noted, at least from the younger bretheren. A few greybeards seemed shocked that anyone would attempt a comedic turn in priesthood meeting and thus were unsure as to how to respond. At least one other had already started in on his afternoon nap, not waiting for sacrament meeting, and others just didn't get it.

But Frank would have laughed had he been there.

And you know what?  The tablecloth and centerpiece really did make a difference.