Melted Wings --

Egos are a tender part of ones personality, which affects the delicate balance of ones self esteem: everyone wants to feel good about who or what they are. Now all of us make fools out of ourselves on occasions, so it’s hard to feel good about yourself all of the time.

I have written quite a few stories most of which have been met with good results, at least from other idiots like myself. Enough people have blown wind up my skirt to give me a bit of confidence. So I decided to see if someone with some sort of expertise thought they were any good. The problem is when you leave your little pool for other waters, and especially when those waters are swamps, lakes or oceans – it kind of like putting your soul or valuables on the chopping block. These people swing harder – so don’t be surprised you will get whacked across the side of your head and receive a few more scars. If you’re not careful, you could easily lose confidence, passion and most likely find out you’re just not as good as you thought – or in my case hoped.

This transition or metamorphosis hopefully isn’t complete. It started with the creation of a personal blog – now I don’t know what blog means or stands for, it’s not even in my spell check. A blog is on the Internet, and if someone looks hard enough supposedly they could find it. In my case you would have to search quite hard. Next came the letter to the editor – this resulted in a lot of response from my small area. This made me think that perhaps I really could swim in bigger pools – I had the right attitude I never thought I could make money at this stuff and still it was just for fun and to tell my stories to family and friends.

Now, let's see what the big boys think! I went to the top – the short story King, the Readers Digest. Well if you look at it logically I got what I should have expected – nothing. Come on you guys, you only get a trillion of these things a day you could at least tell me to kiss off. Then, I sent three stories to a newspaper – I know, a lot lower than the first try, but I got the same results. Where do you send these things? I’ve sent two others, one each to a T.V. show and a magazine. Then I received my first response – still no, but they were really nice about it.

Now this ego thing can be addictive when the results are positive, but rejection isn’t. I’ll admit I stopped writing stories for a couple of weeks but then I started to tell my stories to those in that little pool again. Ya it’s still warm water and no one's out to prove me wrong or try to ignore me. As a matter of fact, they are telling me they're great and I ought to get them printed somewhere – there goes that ego thing again. That’s all right, since I’ve already been there and know it’s not so easy. I guess I was kind of like that Icarus dude whose father crafted him some wings so he could fly, but who also warned him that he shouldn't fly too low least his wings dip into the waves and get wet - or that he shouldn't fly too high least the sun melt the wax to which the feathers were attached. I haven’t read the story since high school, but as I recall - Icarus started to think he was pretty great, became euphoric and flew too close to the sun and the wax holding his feathers together melted on his wings and it wasn’t a good thing. Such a rapid descent can be kind of hazards to ones health. Perhaps I should just sort of ride the waves - not going too high to melt my wings or too low to get discouraged or depressed. In time hopefully I'll learn to navigate at just the right altitude Maybe I just need to know my place - and think about what made writing these stories so fun in the first place.

I know that all of the stories are true and I enjoy the rush I get from writing them. Maybe I'll just have to hone my stills a little better to bring out the greatest of each story - you can't make this stuff up better than they already are. I guess I should just keep trying until they tell me to get lost. Back to the newspaper –a great place to start, because it hits such a small area. This time I sent two stories and followed it up with a phone call. Then came the return call – they wanted to print one of my stories. All right – a published author, even if hardly anyone read it. Oh well maybe some day I’ll have to write another section at the end of this one – but if not that’s Ok too.

Walking Dead--

Yesterday was Halloween; I saw a bunch of kids dressed up like Zombies. I guess a Zombie is a person that is dead but still walks around with their hands held out trying to kill other people – the walking dead. Why they are trying to kill everyone is beyond me, maybe they’re just mad they’re dead so they want to take it out on everyone else. I don’t know how someone came up with this concept – believers I'm sure would say because it’s true. I think there is a lot of people that walk around like Zombies: emotionally their dead to the world and the things that would bring them happiness. I think all of us fall into this category once in a while.

This week our son goes on an LDS mission. This is a two-year period that young men in our church are asked to go to another part of the country or world to serve, teach and support the growth of the church in that area. Missions are encouraged, but are not required of all young men when they turn nineteen year of age. This is a huge sacrifice and needs to be the young man’s decision otherwise it could be a waist of time. Our son has been called to Argentina, which as far as I know is in a different world. They gave him plenty of time to prepare, but the two or so weeks before he leaves have been terrible - it feels like a funeral. When my father died it was a great blessing – he had been in poor health for many years. I know that where he is now is a far better place. Even after fifteen years I still miss him tremendously. I would love to have another opportunity to sit down and talk to him or do something fun together. I believe we will be together at some point; we will embrace, laugh and want to know everything that has happened since the last time we saw each other - it will be a wonderful reunion. I’m sure he will ask about his grandchildren and how I have treated my wife and if I brought any shame to the family name.

Most of these things are the same thing that will happen with my son’s mission. The mission will be a great blessing to him; his spiritual strength will increase tremendously, why wouldn’t it - he studies, prays and teaches from the scriptures on a daily basis. I think a mission is the greatest training tool that anyone this age could do in order to prepare for life, marriage and providing for a family. What a great place to learn how to work, study and relate to people. It‘s hard especially for those that have to learn a new and difficult language. Like my father - at this part in my son’s life he will be in a better place. This will be one of the only times in his life that he will spend every waking moment looking outward and seeing what he can do to help others more than himself. I will miss him tremendously! Unlike death we will be able to talk to him twice a year – Mothers Day and Christmas. We will be able to e-mail once a week, because he will be so busy we will want to know more than he will have time to tell us. We won’t be able to do anything together but we will have a great reunion in a couple of years. I’m sure at that time we will embrace, laugh and want to know everything that has happened since we were together. I may ask him if he has done anything to disgrace the family name – even though I already know the answer. We have started to feel like Zombie emotionally in anticipation of the void that will overcome us when he’s gone.

My wife isn’t an emotional person and she has started to feel the pain. In reality it’s actually should be a celebration – he hasn’t died nor is he in prison and acting like an idiot doing something that would bring shame to the family. Most people agree that the hardest part is dropping them off. I went on a mission a long time ago so I think I’m more excited about him going because of this experience that will change his life forever. But I’m the crier in the family and I’m sure it will be hard. But unlike death our time apart will be short and he’ll come back a better person than when he left. I’m sure like a funeral it’s harder for those left behind than those that have started the new journey.

Wrote Letter to Editor --

I did something for the very first time – when you’re fifty years old it’s harder and harder to say such a thing without getting in trouble or having to buy a new kind of undergarment. I wrote a letter to the editor – and they actually printed it. After I wrote it I thought it was great – then I pushed the send button and my mind screamed out what are you doing? I even used my real name. I hadn’t thought of using some other name, the same day there was a letter from a Helen Waite, which some people were concern didn’t really live in the small town in question. My mother’s maiden name was Helen Hunt; she had a lot of stories about people telling someone to go to Helen Hunt for it.

I don’t know what came over me to write a letter; it had never crossed my mind before. You can ask my wife there are a lot of things that have never crossed my mind before – like doing things around the house. The letter I wrote had a point, and of course I thought it was a good one. As with many of my conversations it was written with a twist of humor, which my family points out isn’t always good because I’m not as funny as I think I am. I was just trying to show how ridicules society is becoming.

One thing I was unaware of is that people could respond or critique your comments in a “blog” on the papers web site. It was more than a week later before a friend told me that it was there. I had twenty-eight entries about my letter. A few of the comments were in response to other “bloggers” evaluations and not my original work. Some of them were very supportive a few even thanking me for the letter – or thanking me for poking fun of five different government agencies. Others wisely pointed out that I had made a serious mistake, now maybe that was writing in the first place, I had admitted in print that I had put soap in a public fountain – which I’m sure is against the law.

Now I will have to admit that I did this act more than twenty-five years ago, but it sounded like it was the last time such an act took place. This soap discretion was committed when I was still young enough to run away from my crime. Besides the “bloggers” I’ve had a lot of feedback from those that read the letter. One man asked me why I would have put soup in the fountain – I guess I could have used a couple of cases of Lipton cup a noodle. I was assured by the chief of police a couple of years ago that the statute of limitations has ran out on most of my youthful acts – of course that is the out going chief and I have no idea what the new regime will say. Since I’m coming clean, I might as well admit to all of my criminal behavior. I have toilet papered more than once – being caught twice. I have egged cars and jaywalked across Main Street. With the exception of jaywalking – all of these acts happened in the 70’s.

Anyone reading this article that thinks they have personal knowledge of other discretions I was involved in that aren’t on the list, there could be a couple of reasons: 1^st the statute of limitations isn’t up, 2^nd – I’m too old to remember that they ever took place, or 3^rd your mistaken and I wasn’t there. Now I’m sure that because I have admitted to these dreadful crimes I wouldn’t be able to run for any kind of political office. Can you imagine what the media could do with this information in a heated school board campaign – with the winner having authority over young impressionable minds? One “blogger” was astonished that I would participate in such acts of vandalism “which cost thousands of tax payer dollars in cleanup and repair.” Now the “blogger didn’t list their name and where I could find them – I’m sure it was because they were afraid I would put soap in their sprinkle heads (I wonder if that would work?)

Public Speaking --

I’ve heard a number of times that the two greatest fears that most people have is dying and public speaking. I don’t know much about the dying thing – but like the majority I’ve had fears of speaking in front of people. In my seventh grade math class the students decided to sing happy birthday to me – I was so scared and embarrassed that I accidentally stabbed my leg with my pencil under my desk. The lead broke off and left a grey dot that can still be seen today, I guess it’s like a mini tattoo.

On more than one occasion, I remember giving a speech or talk in school or church and having my leg shake so bad I looked like Thumper the rabbit in Bambi. I had a speech impediment that made it hard to say things the way I wanted too. At least most of the times there was a podium that I could hide behind. I think it’s helpful to be a little nervous before an important presentation or discourse – not only does it help you to prepare, but also it keeps you on your toes. I must have done all right in those early years since our primary leader at church used to call me her little patriarch – I didn’t know what a patriarch was but she said it in a pleasant manner so I knew it wasn’t bad. Every time someone didn’t show up to give his or her scripture, talk or prayer, she would recruit me to fill in. It seemed that people didn’t show up quit often.

As I was growing up, and even extending into my college years, I had a number of opportunities to speak publicly. Despite an occasional bout of nerves, it really didn’t scare me that much so I signed up for a public speaking class in order to meet one of my elective courses in college. It really was a fun class and was divided equally between men and women. About half of the men were on the university football team, I guess they needed to know how to speak to the media, or they may have aspired to become sportscaster after their illustrious careers. I took the class because I thought it would be an easy A. Most of the class members were communications majors and the course was required for graduate. Over the duration of the class, we were required to deliver approximately five speeches and had a number of assignments on how to prepare a speech. These were all important to your grade, but all of these together weren’t as important as the final exam. The good and bad part of the final is there was really no way to prepare. It was a two day, four hour event – and most of the time all we did was listen to the other students giving their speeches. The way it worked was that just before your turn you walked to the front of the class and picked a piece of paper out of a large bowl. On that piece of paper was a topic that would decide your fate or seal your ultimate doom.

We were given a few moments to collect your thought or to clean up the accident that you just had. Then you presented an extemporaneous speech that would basically decide your grade. We were graded on three criteria – composure, delivery and audience reaction. The content of the speech had little or no importance because you had no time to research the facts and details of the chosen topic.

When it was my turn, I approached the menacing bowl at the front of the room with trepidation - like everyone else. Hesitantly I picking my topic from the bowl, it read “The evils of Gossip.” What? I thought for a moment then I had the perfect idea. I approached the front of the class and started my remarks by saying; “What’s faster than a speeding bullet and sharper than a two edged sword?” I then hesitated, answered my own question by saying - “A woman’s tongue.” What happened was exactly what I expected; I received an instant reaction from the class, which was one of the judged criteria. The men cheered and laughed. The women were visibly offended and booed loudly. I proceeded to talk about how women were totally to blame for the problem of gossip and pointed out that gossip not only hurts people, but also wastes time and money as it destroys productivity in the business world. Now remember, facts were not important – I had no obligation to prove my hypotheses, I just had to present it. At the end of this impromptu masterpiece the men in the class gave me a standing ovation, the woman took it for what it was worth an opportunity to ace a college final. The professor then did something she said she had never done before; she gave the next speaker – a woman, the chance to pick a new topic or give the opposite view of my speech. Because the class was already worked up, she would have been crazy to choose another topic. I don’t remember what she said and it really didn’t matter because I had accomplished my objective and nailed the speech and in turn the class. I’ve given hundred of speeches since that day but never made up facts to get a reaction or in this case a grade.

Arrested --

In one of my stories I claim to be a nice guy – and that I have never been arrested. I encourage anyone that reads my stories and has a different opinion or recollection to let me know so if I’ve forgotten something it can be corrected. So I wasn’t too surprised my daughter called me on the recollection of my regurgitation of stories over the years, saying she recalls me telling a story about when I was arrested – so here it is and you decide. I’ve been taken into custody or detained three times in my life by law enforcement. One time I was given my rights – and there is no doubt they didn’t like my reaction! But I’ll save that one for last. First I’ll spend time on the other two. One of these is mentioned in one of my others stories and I don’t think toilet papering is a major crime, it is treated a little more severe when it takes place in a small town because there’s not much else going on, and when the police have a chance to be called into action it’s a serious matter to them. The reason we got caught is because half the school was there, which is too many to keep quite – just a thought if you’re making plans. When the police showed up they chose the four most vocal to talk too that would always include me. During the interrogation it became known that my father was the local judge - this required a lecture of what my dad would think of my involvement, which all of us knew the answer to that before the discourse. The heat was turned from me as soon as he realized that the city councilman’s son and the major’s son were in the car as well. He turned to the fourth young man and said who’s your dad the governor? Get out of here no one will believe this. We did have to clean up the toilet paper but no arrests or records with obtained. The next one was a little more serious and could have gotten someone in trouble. One of our extra circular activities included a fire extinguisher, this was one of those that shot water and became a tool for drenching innocent bystanders alone the side of the road. I don’t remember who was driving but it wasn’t me. Some of our victims decided to give chase and the driver didn’t want to be caught. He made a couple of illegal turns and failed to stop when the lights and signs said that he should – during this chase we recognized those following us were actually people we knew and so we pulled over to give them a hard time – by this time three cop cars were in a relentless pursuit, which isn’t good. This earned us a trip to the police station and a call to our parents – but no arrests and records were earned, but we did lose our fire extinguisher and I got grounded at home. Now for the feast of resistance! One day at school I received a note that I should report to the office as soon as possible. As I left class and started in that direction I met one of my best friends walking the same way as well. I asked him where he was going and he told me he received the same notification. When we got there we were taken to the principles office – we had no idea what was going on, maybe we were getting a citizenship award or student of the month. The principles office was empty, but not for long. When the principle entered he was accompanied by two uniformed police officers. Before anything else was said they began to give us our rights – now I don’t know what your reaction would have been but I started to laugh. This didn’t go over very well with the three adults but my friend looked at me and started to join in. Now I’ve watched Perry Mason enough times to know that I could ask what we were being charged with. They started to ask a couple of questions and I said no – what is it you thinking we’ve done. Apparently there had been a series of thefts and locker break-in at the school. Now maybe we should have called our lawyers or at least my dad, but I knew I had nothing to hide. My friend looked at me in bewilderment - then I figured out what situation had caused their suspision that we were the harden criminals that deserved such treatment. There was a young lady our age that always had plenty of candy in her locker and we always made an effort to beg or prey on her generosity. She decided, and who knows why, to give us her combination and she told us to help ourselves to what ever she had to offer. Now this is like giving the town drunk a key to the liquor store. I looked at our bloodthirsty vultures trying to break the case of the century and told them if we were reported in a locker at a certain location and we're together that this young lady had given us permission and that we were getting candy. This information required a huddle and then they excused themselves for a conference. As I recall we stayed in that office for almost a half-hour more as they questioned the young lady involved. After the cross examination of all involved we were released to our freedom – but no arrests were given of records earned. Now I can see why my daughter wrote the comment she did – but I don’t think I will change the other story for now.

IQ Test --

Being raised in a family with ten children has its advantages and disadvantages. It's easy to get lost if you want too. Despite each of us having so much in common, with so many people to do things you kind of evolve into your own little specialties. One of our sisters became the meat connoisseur; before any of us received a piece of meat at dinner she got the first choice. When questioned why, we were told she didn't like fat. I guess this meant the rest of us did. For some reason I don't remember any wars over gristle or sucking on a piece of fat for an extended period of time.

I believed that one of my brothers was the smartest of the group. For the majority of his life he hasn't disappointed that observation. If you had to choose the one with the dullest bulb - I would have been in the running. In today's school system I would have been earmarked "Special Education." This would have been because there is special funding for the kids in this category. I had a speech impediment, (which I will talk about in a later story). I took special classes and just barely seemed to slide by. So now you know why I was so excited to talk to my brother one day and found out that he had taken an IQ test on the Internet. Apparently he had proven his intelligence and done extremely well, way above the national average. Now I had always thought that these kinds of tests on the Internet were more like the shell games I have seen people playing on the street of New York. The game was really easy and everyone got it right until some guy decided to bet money on his choice, then who knows where that ball ended up. With each one of the test results you could order an evaluation to better understand how smart you really were. This sounds more and more like a shell game to me.

In order to confirm his family supremacy he gave me the web site and told me to check it out. The test didn't take that long and was a lot more interesting than what I was doing at work. There was a bit of anxiety as I was ready to push the final key and discover just how stupid I was in comparison to the rest of the world. Oh well, what did I had to lose; I was already married and had a bunch of kids that couldn't disown me and they weren't old enough to get jobs on their own. Finally I pushed the button; the computer started acting like it is tallying up my total, minus a few points because I was stupid enough to take the test in the first place. Then the final results - I had beaten my genius brother by one point.

All right, this isn't anything like the shell game - it was true! I was not only smart but all of the special education crap was bogus. I should go back to Adams Elementary and tell those stupid teachers they were wrong. Man I'm smarter than most of the country. Now to call my brother - there was a new intellectual chief among the family. After breaking the news and giving my brother my educated opinion, it was only fair to ask him what he thought. "Sounds like some shell game to me," he said.

Giving Blood --

There are a number of acts that are selfless and help those that can’t help themselves. These feats are many and can change the way you look at life and your existence. I wish I could say I have done so many of these selfless acts that I can’t number them but that wouldn’t be true, at least not being able to number the different areas that fall into this category. One of these events that I have done often is to donate blood. At least twice a year there has been a non-profit organization that has set up shop to conveniently entice would be donors to contribute. These locations are normally in the same proximity making it easy to find. In our city they are usually at churches or at the local university and high schools.

I remember the first time I gave blood. I think you have to be at least seventeen years old to donate. Giving blood isn't that easy for everyone, some are afraid of the needle, which is the size of a sprinkler pipe. Maybe it's the worker that acts like its no big deal and crams it in like their drilling for oil. Maybe it's the questions you have to answer in order to qualify to give this life saving substance. Every time I go they give me the list of things that disqualifies a donor, as I read them I can't believe anyone does those kinds of things. I’m sure it’s on purpose, but they also try to confuse you by asking the same questions twelve times with a different twist. Last time I answered the questions I felt like I needed to go take a shower and review the itinerary from our last cruise. If you haven't given blood before you have no idea what I'm talking about. I'm not disputing the need for these kinds of questions - if I were the one receiving the blood I wouldn't want getting it from someone who failed the quiz in order to donate. After you’ve answered the questions they give you a mini physical which includes your pulse, temperature, some kind of test will a drop of blood from your finger. Then if that works out all right - it’s time to do the deed.

Usually I don't care which arm they take blood from; I go with whichever chair is available first. Each chair has an attachment on the right or left side where you put your arm in order to extract this life sustaining liquid. I always enjoy it more when the person next to you is starting the same time, that's so you can race and see who can fill their bag first. Of course they have no idea you're racing, that would be a little weird. After you given your blood they patch you up with a bandage of some sort. You have the choice of a number of colors - blue, red, green and some times pink. The problem is they are florescent and they wrap it around your arm until there’s no more feeling. After your done, it's time to stand up, which can be a big concern as some people get real dizzy and it can scare away those waiting in line. Then you get to go over to the treat table to load up on juices, cookies, and some times trail mix. Our group usually has Fig Newton's, which is the only time I ever eat them, when I see them in the store I almost always think about giving blood. Don't get me wrong, I love Fig Newton's it's just no one else at home does, so if I bought them I would have to eat the whole bag. After this mini feast, it's time to walk out with your florescent arm in tow.

When you are giving blood they always give you a few instructions for later - don't lift anything heavy or don't do any strenuous activities. These instructions were the reason I decided to give blood in the first place, that might sound a little strange – but if it leads you to do good that’s a great thing. When they announced the blood drive at my high school, it was in the spring of my senior year. I was eighteen and could make my own decisions if I wanted to donate or not. It was the beginning of the baseball season, which meant conditioning. We had a coach that loved to make us run, I think just for his own enjoyment. During homeroom they explained the procedure and consequences, it’s then that I receives a brilliant manifestation, which usually didn’t happen in any of my classes. There is only one thing that could get me out of practice that beautiful spring afternoon, a florescent arm bandage!

Now like all spectacular ideas - they need to be shared with those with whom you love, or at least with a few friends so you will have company in your glory. So there we sat in the bleachers drinking water, which is what you do after giving blood, watching the rest of the team run their guts out. Now the coach wasn’t real happy that half of his starters were getting suntans and not subjected to his absolute rule. I have given blood ever since.

That non-profit medical organization that would set up a location for donating a few times each year was taken over by the Red Cross. Not much changed except they never kept track of the number of times I’d given blood with the first organization. Which doesn't matter, but it would have been fun too know. I would estimate I have donated blood a couple of times a year for close to thirty years. If correct that could be over five or six gallons of blood. I believe giving blood is one of the most selfless acts of service an ordinary person can do. I have never received any money or special award, just Fig Newton's and juices. I don't know who has ever received my blood or if it has saved any ones life. I just know that our bodies are able to replenish our supply and the pain or inconvenience is minor in comparison to the benefit it provides those that need it. In deed it is worth the sacrifice. I also know that once in a while it can get you out of something even worse like conditioning.

Big Head –-

I’ve always looked ten years older than I am. This is a problem, especially at the age of five and entering kindergarten. I’m sure it might have also given a couple of parents indigestion when their sixteen year old daughter was going out with some guy that wouldn’t have been ID’ed at the local tavern. The feature that has been my shortcoming is my head – it is huge! Over the years this has led to the nicknames of Dumbo and Potato Head, which evolved into Taters or Tate, which I rather enjoyed. Everyone wants a good nickname – it means that you have arrived. Now you see I said a good nickname. There were a few kids that had terrible nicknames and they sometimes eventually evolve to something that is tolerable. A great example of this was the kid that was called “Fat Dog” which eventually evolved into FD. Now FD isn’t the name most kids would choose, but it’s better than the alterative. The only reason I bring it up is he is the one that gave me my nickname. I think he gave it too me because I still called him “Fat Dog” when everyone else had moved on to FD. When people know your nickname they usually want to know how you got it. Not many people have ever asked me, which is kind of a confirmation in it’s own right. One year I got two Mr. Potato Head games for my birthday and I also have been given a tie with about thirty different Potato Heads on it. The one thing I can’t do that the real Mr. Potato Head can, is change my features with different pieces. If possible this would have solved my ear problem, which was the reason for my short-term dumbo name. My ears are in reality proportionately the size they need to be for what else I have been given, which would also make them a little large. When I was playing High School football I got a brand new helmet because they had it special ordered – which was worth the money because they could rent it out as a billboard. Some times my head gets in the way, in a moment of relaxation I have laid my head on my wives lap, only to be told it wasn’t that comfortable for her. We have a friend that is a mortician, I asked him to cut my head off after my demise to see how much it really weights. I think he said something about some kind of laws. Maybe I can donate my body to science or a medical school so such a test could be accomplished. If in reality it does weight the fifty pounds I have estimated, it may be some type of record. Another problem is the weight tables for ones height. I’m considered overweight when in reality the head factor should be considered. My wife has pointed out that the extra bulge around my waist has nothing to do with my head. Contraire – my beautiful young looking wife! Do you remember the “Weebles?” Remember they wobble but don’t fall down. The extra weight around my waist is in reality a counterbalance intended to make sure I don’t fall and hurt myself. The positive possibility of the size of my head, that isn’t considered much, is the amount of brain or gray matter that maybe lurking within this untapped cranium. If properly stimulated it could awaken at anytime with amazing results. Another blessing that has transpired is my loss of hair, if it was still there it would make my head appear even larger, It’s amazing how these things all seem to work themselves out. We have been told that the business of improving ones looks is a multi-billion dollar industry, breast implants, nose jobs, facelifts – maybe I would be more excited if they could reduce the size of my head. I saw a Gilligan’s Island episode where some witchdoctors could shrink heads, but I think it had to be off your body first. But aren’t you glade that all of us have unique features and look different so we can tell each other a part. You can just see me from a little further away.

Recycling-- Published 12/2009 HJ

Technically I was born in the fifties, now those two and a half months hold no recollection in my fleeting memory. As a matter of fact I have very little recollection until the mid sixties and most of them are vague and not pertinent to this story. Come the end of the groovy sixties and the early seventies is when the glory of my existence began to take shape. Through the Woodstock era of hippies, peace signs, Vietnam War demonstrations and the advice to “Make Love not War” began an environmental movement. This wasn’t the first time that recycling was possible, but a time when it started to get some wind behind its wings. But even at that time it wasn’t vogue or socially responsible to recycle, most people weren’t too concerned about global warming or saving the environment. That doesn’t mean we didn’t do it – it was just in fewer areas and for different reasons.

Being the eighth of ten children we seemed to recycle clothes quite a bit, we just called them hand-me-downs. As boys this was no big deal, as a matter of fact no one ever noticed if I wore the same clothes five days in a row, let alone if your brother wore it a year ago. But with girls it’s a whole different ballgame – I can’t wear that! I wore it three weeks ago. Six of my siblings were girls and if they had coordinated it correctly they could have acted like they had quite the wardrobe – I guess it wouldn’t have worked because they weren’t all the same size at the same time. This happened with our kids as well, which normally was all right, but occasionally one of our daughters wanted a hand-me-down without her sister’s permission. This would happen after the older one had already left for school and the other one had every intention to be home and changed before her sister came back, which didn’t always work as planned which led to an emotional melt down. The melt down usually come from the one that didn’t wear the outfit and now can’t for who knows how long. A co-worker told me that now-days the boys act more like the girls of old, we only have one son and as far as I know he never tried to wear his sister’s clothes. His sons try to wear each others clothes with out permission and the melt down can lead to fist-to-cuffs.

Recycling also happened with pop bottles – everyone recycled them because they gave you a nickel to do so. Of course I didn’t understand that the pop cost more than it should have and in reality it was my nickel I was getting back. The greatest is when you found a bottle that you didn’t buy - it’s like finding free money. When I had one I needed to protect it or my brother would cash it in for me. One year I was part of a organization that had a pop bottle drive to raise money – I guess if your planning to give something in the first place you might as well give pop bottles then you don’t have to pack them into the store yourself.

Another area was newspapers – you just needed a ton of them to make a difference. Every non-profit organization needs a way to raise money. Whether they’re trying to change the world by discovering a cure for cancer or a scout troop trying to change the lives of a few young boys around a campfire, there is a need to raise money.

Long before there were blue bins at everyone’s house to deposit your papers in, our scoutmasters came up with a brilliant idea. We built a shack that was about four or five feet square and about six feet high that had a swinging door on the front panel allowing anyone to donate their newspapers to the Boy Scout of America. These papers were then collected every other Saturday and taken to a company to make insulation. The problem was when the papers were deposited they would scatter in the shed making a mess. It took a lot of time to sort and stack the papers in preparation to be transported to the proper location. After a couple of months of this, our leaders came up with another great idea - I think they thought it was great because it made less work for them. The shack was in front of Smith’s market on fourth north and was approximately half way between the Junior High and our homes. Since we were walking home anyway, they needed volunteers to drop by the shack each day to stack the papers, making it quicker and easier to pick them up and allowed more papers to be deposited.

Now for the most part twelve-year-old boys don't volunteer for anything, unless food is involved, and this responsibility was to be done without the leaders that could provide such a treat. So you will understand that after a few weeks of pulling teeth for volunteers the scoutmasters were surprised at troop meetings that almost every scout was raising their hands to take a turn. Now at first I'm sure they thought we had rounded a corner in life and were becoming responsible citizens. Now deep down we were great responsible citizens in the making. But, at this time there was something else motivating the masses.

If I recall at that time USU had around ten to twelve thousand students. With more than half the students being male, occasionally some of them would look for a little entertainment or light reading. For that matter, with all the reading at school, many decided that they just wanted to look at some pictures more than read the articles, some of which folded out to be larger than the magazines itself. Now many such magazines seem to come out quite often, and after you have looked at one for a while some people wanted to get a new one. The question then arises what do you do with the old one? Being young intelligent minds and looking to the future you can understand why many were environmentally conscious and wanted to recycle or make insulation. Well the best way to do that was to donate to troop 5's newspaper shed. Why throw it away when you can enlighten the minds of twelve and thirteen year old boys trying to make money for their upcoming scout camp.

When it became common knowledge among the scouts that the college students were concerned about the environment, you can see why we scouts wanted to get involved and take our turn stacking papers on a daily basis. This worked well until our scoutmasters changed the locks for some reason, then it just took longer on Saturday mornings to stack the papers with their supervision. I'm sure it was just so we would do it right the first and only time.

Class? --

This writing thing has become something I rather enjoy – it’s not an obsession thing yet, but what the heck it’s replaced a lot of T.V. watching. Now don’t worry I still waste plenty of time doing that. I’m the first to admit that my stories have much to be desired and need some help – but where does an old dog go to learn new tricks? My family is already sick of my constant dissertations and asking for their opinions. Thus the reason I’m contemplating taking a class, I’ve been told many times that I need professional help, I just don’t think they meant this type. Now I don’t care about verbs – nouns – adjectives, I don’t even know the difference anymore. I guess if it makes sense and sounds good that’s all that matters. As I researched my options it came down to three: 1^st – There’s the Community Continuing Education classes. The local public school district gives these, but there seem to be only two choices – English as a second language, I have a hard time with it being my first language – and what looks like a basic class to help people to pass their GED. Now there’s nothing wrong with these two classes but they don’t meet the itch I’m seeking to scratch. But that Dutch Oven Cooking class looks pretty cool – maybe if I don’t win the Pulitzer Prize for writing, do they have one for cooking? 2^nd – There’s a local technical school, now they do have some English classes, but tech school aren’t designed to inspirer literary ignoramuses – part of one class was writing techniques, that seems like they would make me diagram a sentence, that’s an old trick that I just forgot a long time ago. Then I tried the local university; they have oodles of different options – basics, advanced, composition, foreign literature and then course number 3440 - non-fiction creative writing. In the explanation it even said that it would take your writings too a publishable finish. This is exactly what I’m looking for. It’s not a long class, 1-½ hours twice a week – or in university lingo, three credit hours. Now I just had to figure out how to register – apparently you can take classes for credit or not for credit. Now because I don’t want to take all the other classes why would I take it for credit? – I just want to learn how to finish the final masterpiece. Now the cost - $930, what! For one class? I guess the more credits you take the less it is per hour – but $930 is worth more than the old family van I still drive to work. Now my daughter works for the admissions office, so she decided to see if there was some sort of discount. There was, but only under two conditions; 1^st –you’re an employee of the university and then you can sit in for free. 2^nd – if your sixty-five years old or older you can take the class for free as well. So it’s from $900 to free. Well I have fifteen years before I can save a few bucks or I have to get a new job. If it cost $900 dollars for a twenty year old and free at sixty-five, shouldn’t it be $600 at thirty-five and $300 at fifty? I think I had a couple of story problem in elementary school math that taught me that logic. I might have gone for the $300, but $900 is a little rich for my blood – unless they could guarantee the publishable finish could be sold for as much as the outlay. The reason I’m writing these thing is just for fun and my wife would much rather spend the $900 at Disneyland rather than my signing-up for some class that fuels my evolving obsession. I guess the age-induced reduction would make sense if they had a lot of empty seats in the class. This is what hotels do, a discounted room is better than a vacant one. Maybe I should consider a tutor – then I could stop the tuition at whatever level I think it’s worth. When I was younger and went to school for free I hated to write, now that that’s not an option I think it would be great. I wonder if Adam and Eve considered eating the forbidden fruit before they were told they couldn’t. Either way I think I’ll still press forward in my mediocrity, at least for the next fifteen years then I will see what help the learned can really give me.