Seabird

Seabird

The azure sky melts through the foam
A gentle breeze from far-off home
The seabird sings her trilling verse
She alone can bear the curse

Forgotten lore and gentle needs
Soft turns my thoughts above the sea
What stories have her eyes beheld?
Of wayward sons, forgotten wealth?

She circles now atop the shore
Over cliff and onward more

She’s comes to me in dreams at night
A wayward angel, deft of flight
She sings to me of love unfeigned,
Of dreams unfurled, forgotten names

Left alone beside the town
Glancing now upon the ground
I wonder if she’d come to me
What else she knows, and else she’s seen?
Perhaps she wonders how it’d be
to walk a little while with me.

-Jonathan E. Kenworthy

Christmas

I've been thinking over the past week and a half or so about what to write about today. I think the Christmas season for me doesnt really officially start until after Stacey's birthday, the 19th of December. However, to be perfectly honest, it's a little too late to get into the spirit of things, because then it's a mad dash to the finish. I think I get so caught up in dreading the Christmas lights, loathing the necessity of shopping, and the animated fever that my children get into. The kids in particular just get so worked up that it's almost unbearable. I want so badly to just relax and share in their excitement, but they can be so very loud. They've been banging out Christmas carols on the piano the past month. Anytime, and I do mean ANYTIME another adult walks into our house, they insist on adding to the insanity by banging as forcefully as they can on the piano. Dont get me wrong, I'm really proud of them for learning, but I swear if I hear Jingle Bells ONE more time in the next month I swear I'm going to lock myself into the garage with three vehicles running and all the doors and windows shut. I think it's not just the piano, it's the constant ringing of the phone, the barking of the dog, the shoveling of the snow that everyone just packed-down nice and icy-like and the whole December experience. I get cabin fever I think. I can't do any outdoor work, I cant go for a run, I can't get the kids tired or anything. It's just almost unbearable. Then there's the knowledge that one of the vehicles needs four tires, the $500 in repairs on the other car, the wife that spends 4x the amount on me that I think we've even come close to bargaining for, and the coup-de-gracias, Tithing Settlement. As if I needed yet ONE more reminder at how selfish I've been throughout the year, now I learn that I'm 5% in arears and I've been blessed beyone measure.

Well this year is just no different. I've got to stave-off the requirement to drive down to Salt Lake and see the lights. See, I'm not big on cold. You add "wet" and I'm just plain unhappy. I've seen the lights, I know how beautiful they are, but spending fourteen bucks to ride the Trax, or ten dollars to park and lug kids and strollers and backpacks and coats and all the requisite accoutrement is just NOT my idea of fun. Once we get there I have a great time sure. I feel the Spirit, I love to listen to the First Presidency over the speaker system from the Temple Grounds and of course the Visitors Center for the Salt Lake Temple will take the starch out of just about anyone. I think it's not the experiences that turn me off, it's the logistics I know that nobody factored in that's required to get there. So, by the time I get to our destination I'm upset about the cold, upset about having to stop for gas, the fact that our tire was low for the third week in a row, and the yelling from the back seat, and the aforementioned prospect of carrying a screaming, tired, and uncooperative child (pick one. There's four to choose from.).

The other day in church the kids were doing their little primary program. It wasnt the big one in Sacrament Meeting but the little one in Primary. Josh was a wise man (pardon the irony), Lexi had a singing and speaking part and Isabelle was gripping my neck lovingly like we were going to sell her into slavery the following day. Well, along comes the song, "Silent Night" and of course, it just melts me. They'd gotten me good with a couple of hymns the first hour and I was already feeling my heart swell, undoing the previous years shrinking of my heart (two sizes at last count). So, I guess that's when I let go of the griping and bemoaning of my fate and just tried to enjoy myself.

Well tonight is unfolding EXACTLY as I predicted. A last minute dash to the grocery store ($167.00) for "milk, rolls, and salad dressing", and the bustling night-before making of $4.00 gifts for family and friends that takes three hours of work to make. Then theirs the wrapping of gifts, the assembly of bikes, the making of nine p.m. cookies (almost as an after-thought) and the constant chiding of the baby for pulling the little gold leafy-beads-thingies off the tree constantly.

Well I tell you what, that trailer of mine in the driveway is looking awefully comfortable. As a Mormon, I can't distance myself from the reality of in-laws and outlaws with alcohol. I'm supposed to put on a smile and make it the hap-hap-happiest Christmas since the good ol' fashioned Griswold Family Christmas I've grown accustomed to. I tell you what, I'd just rather enroll everyone within sight and sound in the, "Jelly of the Month" club and just be done with it. I'd rather be sipping highly alcoholic beverages out of a cup shaped like a moose than watch this day through to fruition. It's insane I tell ya. And noone EVER listens to me. I can' see the writing on the wall DAYS and WEEKS in advance. My lovely wife keeps trying to cheer me up and make me smile and somehow look ever-forward to the opportunities awaiting us with family only a few short hours hence. (Hold on, baby Livy is handing me the bead-twig-thingies again).

So, I guess this is what it is to be a dad on the holy of holiest nights. But I want you to know I do actually love this season. Sure, I gripe, I complain, but for that calm in the middle of the storm, I really do love it. I just wish we could make it more about the Savior, and less about the hustle and bustle to pacify neighbors with two-liters of Sprite and quipish little festive sayings. I wish we could focus on the birth of our Lord. "For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace." (Isaiah 9:6)

I have this dream. This vision. If I was in charge of my little family and their wranglings and slowing the insanity down to a crawl. I'd love to have them quietly sit at the foot of the tree. I'd like to give them the account of His birth. "For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord." (Luke 2:11) I'd like a little peace and quiet. I'd like a respite from the entrapments of the world. The flurry of activity that preceeds and succeeds this night. I'd like them to know and feel the Spirit in our home. I'd like to not be so short with them. I'd like to have us all just dispense with the television, the cookies, the candies, the ringing doorbell and acknowledge the birth of our Savior.

I think about Him. All that He has done for me. Even now, at 7:30, I am encouraging one child not to pound on the baby's back. I'm watching the feverish excitement of "What smells in the car???" I'm being beseiged on all sides (including the baby whom wants me to hold her and her bottle). I want to tell my children to speak at acceptable volumes. To have our home feel as Celestial as the inside of the Temple. I'd like them to speak kindly to each other, I'd like them to acknowledge what this day really means. I love them so very much. (And of course, THERE is the phone!!!!!!!) I am telling you I just cant catch a break. I want to lock the world outside and make this night about what it really means. I frankly dont really care that we have name-tapes on the gifts. I want to invite the Spirit here to attend us tonight. I'd like us all, including me to treat each other like we really care. Like we love each other. There is NO rest from the insanity of the day. I am upset, even beginning to entreat upon angry at the lack of respect for what today really means.

I suppose in time it will come. I suppose that someday, in the not-to-distant future we'll all be able to speak at acceptable volumes. I expect the possibility exists that we can shut the world outside the door and celebrate the birth of our Savior without constant interuption. (Que the making of the last-minute cookies I alluded to earlier).

I wonder if it's enough that I just know these things myself. Tonight I was thinking about Stacey and my first Christmas together. The year after we got married. We lived in a tiny little apartment in Tooele, UT for the paltry sum of $400/month. We wanted a tree and a few days before Christmas went to the lot, with our little sedan. We didnt have a pickup then, and the lot-owner reasoned that he could tie the tree to the top of the car. With the help of a few burlap sacks, the paint on the roof would be fine. After all, we were only traveling a few miles in return. Well, I looked over the prospect and resigning myself that it was the only way, proceeded to allow him the opportunity to tie the tree to our roof. We had to roll our windows down to allow the ropes to circum-navigate the tree and provide for a tie-down. But we weren't going that far. I was so happy. She was so happy. We smiled at each other, like newly-weds do, and made the trip home. It was in the driveway I discovered that not only had the tree held fast, but we were in very point of fact, tied into our vehicle. The car doors were both tied shut, almost mockingly, and I imagined the lot-owner laughing at yet-another fool who allowed him the priviledge of tying them into their car. Well, to get out I had to pull a, "Dukes of Hazard" move and slide out the car window and untie it.

You know, we laugh about that everytime we think of it. It's one of those Christmas memories that made you so angry at the time. I felt incredibly foolish that day. I'd encouraged my tormentor to tie me in, and smiled, THANKED him and PAID him to do it. But it's a memory I wouldnt trade for all the sap in all the pine trees in all the world(Let alone Tooele).

So I guess now we're left with looking for a catharsis for my rantings and whinings and carrying on. I'm looking for that five minutes of solitude and solace where I realize it all went according to plan. I'm looking forward to looking back with fondness at whatever memories I am choosing to ignore on this, the eve of the celebration of our Savior's birth. I love the Savior. I dont believe I can fully understand what He has truly afforded me. I look at my life. My children. My wonderful and incredible wife. I look at the home I live in. The Nation which allows me the freedoms to pursue my every ideal and dream. I am, and have been blessed truly beyond measure. I love the Savior. I am humbled by His affection and concern for me. I want Him to know I need him. I need Him daily. I think of my own short-comings. I think of how He has blessed me and how finite my efforts really are in comparison to those blessings. I want Him to know I feel those things to be so close to my heart. I want Him to forgive me for my tirades. For my shortness with my beautiful wife and children at times. I want Him to know that I look to Him in all things. To guide us as a family. As a couple, and as individuals. I want Him to know that although I fall almost continually, that I will continue to stand and press-forward in His service. I want so much to be a better man. I want my weaknesses to become my strenghts. I want the promise of his guidance and protection which I have enjoyed even without full knowledge at times.

I hope you have a wonderful and incredible Christmas. I hope you take a moment to love your family. I hope you soften your heart to the promptings of the Spirit. That you let Him into your life. I hope that you resolve yourself to make this the year that you start or even renew your journey back to Him. I hope that you find great joy in his personal sacrifice on our behalf. That you may know I am very, almost painfully aware of all that He has done for me. I believe that He can and will make me equal to the design which He has set me here for. I believe He will assuredly do the same for you and yours. My heart is incredibly full at the knowledge of all that He has been for me in my life and want that same understanding and fulfillment for you.

May God bless and keep you this holiday season. May you have the time requisite to reflect upon the message of His love. May you know of a surety that He came into the Earth, to pave the way for you and I to return to our Father in Heaven. May you feel the sweet forgiveness of his mercy. May you know of his hand extended in your behalf. May you feel in your heart the remembrance of his pain in the Garden of Gethsemane in our behalf. That you might know that the price of our sins has already been paid through His infinate atonement. That you and I might again return to our loving Heavenly Father to continue His design for sharing in His Eternal Glory. I love my Savior, He is everything to me. He has provided me with all that I enjoy, and spared from me nothing which would allow me the sweet knowledge of His plan.

May God shower upon you all that your righteous heart seeks and desires this holiday season. Is my hope and prayer. Merry Christmas.

Always Yours,

J

Update Meow

So, heck of a week huh? Man, tell you what. This whole work week was a complete waste for me. Seriously, I tried to get engaged. It was just tough. I couldn't focus. Dont get me wrong, I have PLENTY of work stacked up from months of neglect. You ever notice how if you take one day off, somehow you're three days behind? How is that even possible? I dunno, but I tell you what, I've been somehow able to do it. I took two days off last week and came to work with 96 emails. That's of course including the crap that is FYI, which I JDC (Just Dont Care). Anyhow, so here I sit today at the table in the kitchen.

Hold-up for a second. I'm going to go off on a rant. See, I'm in charge of our children whilst Stacey is with the neighbor lady gettin' pretty down at the salon. So, in addition to making a huge mess by trying to feed baby Olivia her Chef Boyardee Chicken and Rice, I am also in charge of finding the blankey and making a baba. Yeah, so here's my rant. SOMEONE PLEASE explain to me what is so freaking great about baby formula in the powder? It's like 25 bucks for a 25 oz can. If you're doing the math at home, that's like a buck an oz, give or take. So, I gander at the incredients: "Whey protein concentrate (from Cow's Milk, Enzymatically Hyrdrolyed, Reduced in Minerals), Vegetable Oils, Soy, Coconut and High-Oleic Safflower...." among a slew of others. However, aren't we trying to sell the world on the amazing benefits of soy and how much cheaper it is to grow than beef?
Hold up, neighbor girl has a bloody nose in my garage...how DO I end up with these issues???

OK, we're back, anyhow, I think it's friggin' ridiculous how expensive formula is, when it's nothing more than my own Whey Protein Shake I buy from Walmart for building muscles 12 different ways. I figure my protein shakes are a rip-off at ten bucks a container, and THOSE come in chocolate, strawberry and vanilla!!!

OK, so where were we? Oh, anyhow, so the holiday is just around the corner. Today Stacey took me to the Men's Warehouse. Which is about the biggest misnomer I have come across in a long time. She said I needed a new suit. But I figured since it had, "warehouse" in the title, I was good to wear my jeans and boots and go in unshaven and unwashed (See also, "Clientel for Red Lobster" on an earlier rant. Anyhow, so, I'm obviously out-classed, and out-gunned when I go into this place. "Jay" whom is immaculately dressed, and "Guarantees I'm going to Like the Way I Look" walks me on over to the starter suits at about 700 bones a pop. Well hey the good news is, it's, "Buy One, Get One Free", which makes my boots feel a little less out of place. So, anyhow, Jay takes about 45 minutes going through the educational process of where my shoulder line should be, and the cut of this, and that....blah blah blah. I think at one point when he was marking my suit he reached a little deep in between the trouser thighs, but he had chalk in his hand, so I figured it was normal. So, blah blah blah, yada yada yada, I end up with four new shirts, four ties, six pair of socks, two black belts, two new suits, and of course the proverbial partridge. OK, so we check out, and I'm about 800 bucks lighter than when we went in. Thursday of next I will don my suits and I'm certain that I will look simply smashing in them. However, I'm not certain that I will be 800 dollars worth of SMASHING. That's a lot of friggin' smashing if you ask me.

Anyhow, so were on our way home, and Stacey starts to tear-up and tell me how she just wanted to do something nice and how much I deserve it, and how I'm always sacrificing for her and the kids..all very touching stuff. It meant a lot to me. But I still have trouble buying clothes. For me, it's all about utility. I need 800 bucks worth of satisfaction for 800 dollars worth of ...well...dollars. See, I'm a guy that prefers 25 dollar jeans. 150 dollar jeans with little white stiching and flaps on the pockets and a nice little place for my boyfriend, "Stephan" to rest his manicured hands just aint my style you dig? I'm much more at home with a nice pair of JC Penny's slacks and a nice Van Huesen shirt. If I've even spelled that correctly.

So, moral to this story, is I felt a little, no a lot, out of place today. I mean, I'm an officer in the U.S. Army. I'm supposed to be a gentleman, but it was apparent to me today, that I'm way out of my element in some of the more refined arts and dress of the day. I couldnt tell you a Vera Wang from an Aloe Vera. I just frankly dont have a clue. Anyhow, I guess what I'm saying is I like to look nice, but I need a dang good reason to drop that kind of cash. So, we checked out, and Jay was nice and all, but I can't help but think he was quietly disturbed at my rough edges and how he must have done me a favor purchasing two suits off the, "Bargain Rack". You know what? That really doesnt bother me. To me, I would expect the same from a BMW dealership. I think there's a certain expectation of what their clientel should look, act, and maybe even smell like.

My point in all this I guess, is, hey I'm ok with that. I'm ok with frugal. I'm ok with old-school. I'm ok with acceptable pricing and expecting minimim service and convenience. Not to mention utility. I think this world has swayed very wide of those traditional ethics and that mindset that our grandparents exhibited. I think paying for a car shouldn't mean a second job. I think having a home shouldn't mean you eat beans and rice every meal and freak out the day you buy steak. I think everything in moderation. I think, hey, I get just as much love in my 25 dollar jeans as some get in their 150.00 jeans. I think, well the difference is, I'm not all that interested in snuggling up with Stephan so, it really doesnt bother me that I'm not that polished. I'm a man moulded after my dad, who was, well a heck of a lot like his dad too. I guess, good enough is good enough for me.

But I guess when the rubber hits the road, and you need someone to help you fix your fence, or change your serpentine belt, or look under your hood (if you catch my drift), well I guess I'm your man.

I gotta run now, momma just got home and the insanity just kicked up three more notches. I'll catch you guys later, color inside the lines and hugs and kisses on all the appropriate areas. We'll see you soon.

Keep it Real,

J

Big Green

So did I ever mention how much I love my pickup? Well, let me clarify. I have two trucks. One is a little red beater, "Rebekah" and the other, my current love interest, "Big Green". Big Green, is a 1996 GMC. She's 3/4 ton rated with a 454 Vortek has a K&N filter, power-chipped and has less than 80K original miles on her. Before Green, I had "Betsy". She was a '93 Chevy 1/2 ton, that gave great service but after the third transmission was finally sent out to pasture. (She currently lives on a farm somewhere in a predominantly spanish-speaking community). Anyhow, there's a song by Tom T. Hall, "I Love". It pretty much is a summation of the entire Big Green Experience. Here, let me share with you the lyrics and we'll cover the highlights together immediately thereafter:

I love little baby ducks, old pick-up trucks, slow-moving trains, and rain
I love little country streams, sleep without dreams, sunday school in may,
And hay. And i love you too.

I love leaves in the wind, pictures of my friends, birds in the world, and squirrels. I love coffee in a cup, little fuzzy pups, bourbon in a glass, and grass. And i love you too.

I love honest open smiles, kisses from a child, tomatoes on the vine, and onions. I love winners when they cry, losers when they try, music when it's good, and life. And i love you too.


OK, so, first off, there's the obvious connection. Old pickup trucks. See, I wasnt even aware that Big Green was even CONSIDERED an "Old Truck" until a very good friend of mine refered to her (with sincere deference) to how endearing it was that I loved Green so. It truly was a shock to me, mostly because I dont consider anything, "Old" unless it was manufactured prior to say, 1980. That's OLD when it comes to vehicles, young when it comes to people, so it's a good round number to use for guaging appropriately. Anyhow, I never realized how deep my affinity for Green ran until the moment it was pointed out to me.

Well, recently, as I've driven Rebekah to and from, she just doesnt speak to me the way Green does. Green always knows just what to say. She knows if I'm happy, she knows if I'm sad. Green is always there for me. See, Green loves classic country music (prior to say, 1980-ish) and she knows just what to say each morning to perk me up and bouy my spirits. Course she's a devil sometimes and knows I want to revel in a little melancholy, and she'll deliver that just as lovingly.

I love the throaty rumble green pipes out when she's fired up. See, when you drive somewhere, you get used to the way these newer cars drive. They have pep sure. Some even have vigor. But at a stop light, when Green pipes out a Dwight Yoakam tune, and you drop that hammer. She reacts immediately. I can have her up to 70 in a few hundred yards. I love putting on the blinker and giving her 1/5 throttle. She'll leap right ahead of some smug yuppy and blow a nice black cloud out as a reminder not to tailgate too close. You wanna know something else? She's sexy too. No serious. She has clean lines and she just resonates confidence and capability. More than once I've seen some little lass in an adjoining lane sit up and take notice. Yeah, there's just something women like about a pickup man.

Well, I'm not really sure there's any life-lesson here. Frankly, Big Green makes a statement. She doesnt sip her glass from crystal stemware. She's obnoxious at times, rude even, but she's a closer. See, way I got it figured, I'm an American. I went to Iraq for 12 months, to separate folks that wanted to kill each other, for the privilege of them selling us their over-priced oil. Now, I realize that the grand irony is that we're sitting directly atop the most vast oil fields known to man. But a bunch of candy-asses back in Washington are dead set on us buying high and selling low and a whole slew of ridiculous policies and procedures designed to reduce the American way of life to that of a German socialistic ideal in which gasoline will run you about 9 bucks a gallon. See, I think the problem is much simpler than that.

We have a "Strategic Reserve". I say, we park the U.S. Navy out in the Persian Gulf. Any tanker than comes out destined for any other port than the U.S. or a U.S. ally, well, it becomes a reef structure quick, fast and in a hurry. Then we pump our own damned oil. For about a ten year period. Then we tell those screamin' idiot God-less bastards over there that we really dont care WHAT they think. See,they only understand force, and they dont really have a lot of respect for weakness. They crave a great caliph and will never embrace democracy no matter what shiny polish your liberal arts teacher put on it. Now, the Saudi's, well they understand business. They'll sell to us, they'll play nice, but make no mistake, they hate our guts with a passion. So, they are smart. They diversify. They know this whole train is coming to a stop someday, so they want to be in a position to bargain when it does.

OK, what does all this angry American talk mean? Well folks, I've seen it first hand. I've seen my brothers and sisters fight and die to keep oil below three bucks a gallon. I think it's entirely unnecessary. I think that the real culprits are in Washington, making ridiculous (Ironically "Green) policies that are touchy-feely, yet out of touch with the reality on the ground.

See, Big Green knows this. She doesnt apologies for belching clouds of black smoke. She'll tow 8,000 lb of kids and dogs and trailers and water up three canyons and over to live the way I and my brothers fought for your right to do.

So when I get to a stop light, and it turns green, and Big Green and I lurch forward to the sounds of Jason Aldean, Just Dont Tell 'Em I've Gone Crazy, well now you'll know why. See, there's a couple of ways to, "Go Green". You've got yours, and I've got mine. But heres the beauty of it, we live in a land where were free to feel and think and act on what we deem is right. While I afford you the same respect to recycle garbage sacks, I'd like you to afford me the same right to purchase gas that I fought for, to take my family on a camping trip, the way my dad did for me, his dad did for him and we've been doing for generations. See, I'm an American. Big Green gets that. We're loud, we're in your face, and you know what? Frankly we're not really afraid to get out and kick a little ass on your behalf should the need arise.

So there you have it folks. I'm going Green. I go Green everyday I can. I can afford to, because this wonderful nation allows me the opportunity to do so if I can afford it financially. That's the difference between us and them. I think if you can afford it and you want to make the sacrifices necessary to do so, well that's your right and it's noone else's business. However, if you want to save a little money and buy a hybrid or an electric car, well knock yourself out. I dont mind you exercising your right to go green your way either.

Hope you dont mind my rant as much as I mind yours. Have a great day and God Bless ya.

J

Capitol Reef National Park

OK, it's been a while since last we spoke. Here's the update. So, this past weekend, I booked a cabin down in the Teasedale, Utah area. It's close to the Northern entrance to Capitol Reef National Park. I was in desperate need of getting out of the valley and even worse shape at work. On top of that, our anniversary (Stacey and I) was a week ago, and my wilting flowers on the counter were a constant reminder of how I had again put the Army in front of my own spouse by virtue of not only a drill weekend, but going to work on the actual day (the sixth of December) of our anniversary. We worked every possible angle to get the kids to be able to stay with grandparents, or a responsible semi-adult, but to no-avail.

So, in true Chevy Chase cross-country fashion, we loaded up our gas-sipping Honda SUV/"Cross-Over" and headed South. Now, I want you to know right up front, I only had two melt-downs. One was after the baby had cried almost incessantly for two nights and three days, and the other two I blacked out, but I am certain I was either driving or had just told someone not to get close to the sudden 10,000' drop-off for the 42nd time in as many seconds. OK, also you should know that I like Hyperbole so much, I bought the company. Anyhow, I lost my train of thought.

Oh, yeah, so anyhow, I rent this 16x28' cabin. Complete with a little mini-fridge, a full bath, a TV/DVD/VCR combo, a couple of light switches and a heater. Oh, and some blankets, and a screen door. Anyhow, it was rather homey. For $69 bucks a night you cant beat it. Unless of course you had 4 kids less than what you left Salt Lake with.

So where were we? Oh, anyhow, so day one through four are pretty much a blur. We drove down the "Burr" trail, headed over to Escalante to see how the Feds had imposed their Washington will on us, and then skipped on over to Goblin's Knob, or Devil's Garden, or...some...sort of dark-arts moniker representative of the native escarpments and wind-swept canvas. So, the red-rock, the white rock, the Hair-band Rock all culminated in a complete picture of the Southern, Utah experience. In fact, at one point, I contemplated jumping the Family Truckster over a fifty-foot drop off and sharing a beer with Rusty. But, we just plum ran out of time.

From thence we made our way back to the cabin nightly to make chicken and stove-top, minus the stove-top, and the chicken. We had something like Hamburger Helper, but I say it does just fine on it's own. We even bought travel-size ketchup and mustard and failed to open them. Nightly we'd watch movies after sundown (you better take care if I find you been creepin' 'round my back stair) and dish out icecream by the spoonful. There was plenty of hot water and electricity, and I must say, "A good time, was had by all".

You know while we were down there, I had a vision. See, I'm a visionary fellah if I do say so my dang self. I pictured us, not too many years into the near future, living in Teasedale or the immediate vicinity. It just felt like home. Now, ask me what I'm going to do for money and I have no idea. I do like the idea of having five such "mini-cabins" and renting them out to well-meaning but "citi-fied" folk such as we used to be to supplement my military retirement income. Stacey of course says I should be a writer, at which I am certainly entertaining. However, as yet, no publisher has come knock, knock, knocking on my chamber door for a set of manuscripts. Plus I'll need to invest in learning how to Spellcheck and I'm just not so sure this old dog can learn too many more new tricks.

So, that's it in a nutshell folks. No animals were hurt during the making of this diatribe/memory. We made good memories. I made them laugh, I made them cry. I hope that the incomplete nature of the vision is made known. I'd like to know God's plan for us. I'd like to even play along and help that particular plan to remain in motion. But, much like everything else in this life, I'll just take it on faith that ten or fifteen years from now, I'll see the lillypad nature to where I'll be standing, and the leaps of faith along the way that got us there.

OK kids, I gotta run. I'm in charge of a bottle and picking up a dance class participant. No rest for the wicked and...well, let's just leave it at that. Take care, color inside the lines and treat others the way you'd like to be treated. Oh and one last thing, if you must pick your nose, please stop somewhere short of the second knuckle, as otherwise you just look back-woods and unsophisticated.

See you later meow. 'till then.

Rage Against the Machine

About a year ago, I sent some of my writing to a dear friend of mine. She asked me at that time to write about my experiences in Iraq. I suppose I didnt know this, but at that time, I just couldn't. To be honest there was a mental block that I had constructed. My experiences in Iraq consisted of longing for my wife and children and feeling like it was safer outside the wire, than in. My experiences have changed me. Mostly for the good, but somewhat for the bad. Let me explain.

When I left for Iraq, much like any fresh-faced young Officer, I was going to make a difference. I was going to work hard, take acceptable risks, and get home. I left in November of 2005. But really, if you back it up about three months to August, I went to Huntsville, Alabama to learn how to destroy unexploded ordnance on the battlefield. See, I'm an engineer. Engineer officers do three things. They breach obstacles, create them, or fix them. We can blow a lane in through a mine field, put out a mine field/tank ditch/crater a road, or we can build a road or construct a building. Part and parcel to that mission of breaching obstacles is the nasty little business of what to do with ordnance that is just left lying around. For example, let's say you're driving around...you know, windows down, arms out the door, soaking in the sun, and you drive up on a 155mm round just lying out there on the desert floor. Well, this class was designed (provided this is not an IED) for you to know how best to approach this round and set charges against it and remove it from consideration. It was an intense class. We lost three students out of twenty that went to test failures. So anyhow, this class is designed for you to be able to recognize a select set of ordnance and remove it without having to wait for E.O.D. to get there. So, I left my little family almost three months early to go to this class. That's the backdrop.

So, around November time period, I met up with the unit at Mobilization Station, which was Fort Leonardwood, Missouri. Coincidentally (or not) the home of the engineers. I take a lot of pride in being an engineer. They are the unspoken heros I think. For example, on the movie, "Saving Private Ryan" when they are on the beachhead. They are assaulting the pill boxes underfire. In one scene, they have to breach a series of concertina wire with a bangalore torpedo. Well that's what a combat engineer does. Those guys are engineers. Engineers preceed the infantry on the battlefield. They fix opposing forces on your flanks. They are the dirty, the unwashed. And I love it. To be an engineer, you have to realize that there is no obstacle you cant breach, that with the proper amount of explosives you can't remove. No obstacle that with a bridge, or a dozer you can't span. That's how an engineer thinks. It's just how much loss is acceptable to the commander.

So, anyhow, I meet up with the unit. Our mission is that of an inglorious staff function. See we were a battalion headquarters unit. Forty officers and enlisted that were to take over the Explosives Hazards Coordination Cell in Baghdad. We were going to work directly within the, "C7". That is the senior engineer in Iraq. It was a pretty sweet gig. But we were going to be, "Fobbits". See, fobbits, are people that never leave the wire, but get home and tell war stories as if they kicked in doors everyday and shot people in the face. In particular, when you are an engineer battalion staff, in our case a construction battalion, you wonder why your talents are wasted in a staff function. We wanted nothing more than to have a horizontal company, a verticle company, and a sapper company under us to affect the fight. But that's not the straw we drew. Within the C7 was the Reconstruction Cell, the Prime Power Cell, the Demining Cell and then us, the Explosive Hazards Coordination Cell. Our functions were pretty basic. Get new equipment and training into the hands of the war-fighter. We were fielding the, then new, Buffalo, Cougar, and ANPSS-14 mine sweepers among others. The Buffalo (which I still contend should have been, "Bison" when pluralized) are a family of MRAP vehicles designed to take indirect blasts and actually search out IED's on route clearance missions.

OK, well within all this was a command climate that was just not conducive to good order and discipline. I dont think it's germane to what I'm trying to get across so I will lightly gloss over it. Here's the bottom line. Two camps developed within the unit. Boat "A" and Boat "B". By the way, "B" boat was destined to sink and I was apparently, unbeknownst to me, on it.

Well, somewhere around halfway through the deployment I was picked or...more likely exhiled from the "Boathouse" (pardon the irony) to work on the watch floor within the Al Faw Palace. My job was to work with the Operations Officer, LTC Ford. A man whom I have a deep and profound respect for. In addition we had two rotations of Austrailian Majors that were my intermediary. My job was to scan the daily fragmentary orders and be the trusted agent for the C7. I was to look out and anticipate for each of our cells what was coming down the pike. In addition, to coordinate on behalf of the C7 to affect the battlefield. A couple examples at random include, coordinating (directing) Divisions to support with equipment and personnel across division boundaries. Iraq at the time was carved up into quadrants. With a division in each quadrant, and a marine division in the West. Additionally I became a travel agent for engineer divers who at times had the horrific honor of searching for the bodies of U.S. service members lost near bodies of water. Anyhow, it was an intense job.

A couple of times, maybe three or four, I found out I was going to travel either for a meeting, or conference to find the best practices and procedures to affect the counter-IED fight. Once I went to Balad, no, maybe twice. To learn about the training for the Buffalo and other vehicles and to see first hand how they had survived/destroyed in the fight. Pretty sobering. Then another time I was directed to learn about a trash cleanup program. This was no ordinary program. They were cleaning trash overnight with bobcat skidloaders in order to deny the enemy opportunity to hide IED's in the trash along the roads. This mission still sticks with me.

I traveled along with a Navy Commander (O5) to visit this unit and embed with one of their companies on this mission. I was a lieutenant at the time and had no real function. So, not knowing what to do, and not wanting to appear like a, "fobbit" I elected to take the far outside right flank. We were moving in a "wedge" formation, which is basically how a flock of birds flies. It was in that setting, at two in the morning, coming to a halt that I learned to love a wall. See, the wall to my right, was safety. No one would shoot me from a flat wall. It had to come from my left or above. Soon we started between four story buildings. I had a combat flashlight fixed to the bottom of my M4 and painted the balconies full of onlookers just waiting for someone to pull an RPG or an AK47. Then I realized. I did the math right then and there. I either get shot in the leg of the face, or I come upon an IED, and become pink mist in the wind. It's a weird feeling to make peace with that. You turn yourself over to God. OK Lord. If it's my day, it's my day. You dont even scan back and make sure you're ready. You just...realize today may be the day. Well, we finished the mission and saddled up. Headed back for the FOB (Forward Operation Base). On our way back, almost five minutes from reentering the FOB, I heard three distinct pops. I assumed it had been backfires from a vehicle in our convoy. After returning to the FOB, someone told me that someone had taken some pot-shots at us. I remember thinking, "Well that's just stupid. Someone could really get hurt that way." I'm embarassed to admit that.

So, on another convoy, back from Balad (I had flown there in a C-12 or Blackhawk I dont remember) We had an IED at the front of our convoy. We had to wait what seemed like hours while EOD was responding. To my side of the convoy was a road running parallel to us. We had stopped all traffic running both directions on our route and traffic had started to bypass on this parallel route. I was sitting in the right rear seat of the guntruck. Directly above me was the .50 cal gunner in the turret. A great feeling btw. But on our left side were giant cattails that were in excess of five feet tall. I realized we were almost literally sitting ducks. Along this parallel road van after van of drivers stopped. The road was a little more than a hundred fifty yards from us, but I imagined each one of those vans had someone with an RPG ready to fire at us. I kept thinking how idiotic it was for a driver to get out of their vehicle, and wipe their windshield, or kick the tires or whatever the the hell they were doing, when the .50 cal was trained on them and ready to fire.

So, somehow we completed the year and of course I'm back. We returned just shy of Christmas of 2006. I didnt feel much different, but I'm afraid I am. These experiences, among countless others have changed me. I realized that there are such thing as Time Vampires. People who have none of your best interest at heart, and only want to suck time from you that you can never get back. Some are just plain oblivious to their actions, others are the leaches of society. I get short with them. In my mind. I try to be patient. But I want the 45 second answer. I'd rather not talk for 45 minutes and have you say nothing. Just spit it out already. (Hello Pot, this is Kettle. Come in over.) So, in addition, I no longer have a great desire to go to crowded places and put my family in jeopardy. In my mind I'm searching the crowd. I'm watching how people walk. Checking their eyes. How are they dressed? Are they out of place? Meanwhile my little family is totally oblivious to the anxiety growing inside as I mentally calculate the risks and countermeasures.

Oh, and there's another thing. The whole time I'm doing this, I'm telling myself that if they are poised and ready, they just plain chose the wrong person to victimize. I'm accutely aware of my ability and willingness to inflict violence at a moment's notice. See, used to be, I could count to ten. I could give someone the latitude of just being stupid. Now, I count, 1...2...10 and I'm done. It's actually very frightening. My dad wanted me to go with him to get our concealed carry permits almost immediately after we got home. I didnt trust myself. Now, this is no fun to tell other people, cause it makes you look crazy. It makes you look like you're on the edge. Dont get me wrong, I dont WANT to hurt just anyone, but I've felt that building rage of just ITCHING for someone to give me a reason. I've been driving and had someone tailgate. I've literally had to tell myself NOT to lock it up right smack there in the middle of the highway and get out and inflict some real personal pain on some fellah. Now, chances are, he's just in a hurry to get somewhere. He had no idea who he's tailgating. I've actually tried to make eye contact at the next light just hoping, praying that they would be idiotic enough to make some hand gesture. That part has started to slow down for me. I am able to talk myself out of those violent fits. I conciously tell myself that 99% of society is just blissfully unaware that their actions can be taken as threatening. They are just living their lives.

What that knowledge doesnt take away, is that feeling, that now you're different. I'm no longer like everyone else. I dont have little white stick figures on the back of my minivan. I dont walk through parking lots with a big fat wallet and a glazed look on my face and a giant sign that says, "rob me". I dont care about sports. I dont care about the inconsequential. I care about real. I care about decisive and concrete things that affect me or my family. I tried to fit in at church. Church meetings are just painful to me. Everyone with good ideas, noone with follow-through. It's easy for me to like people, but easy for me to categorize you too. See, I was teaching a lesson one Sunday. Someone asked me a derailing question. Obviously to hear themselves speak. It's fun dont you think? Anyhow, the subject chosen was that of defending America. It through me into a rage. I was seven seconds away from climbing over three rows of folding chairs and choking him out. But I took some deep breaths and realized, he's just philosophizing. None of this is personal or an attack on what you've pledged your life for.

So, I guess where I'm going with all this, is yeah. I'm different. Every few weeks I wake up at 2 am. I check all the windows, all the doors. I have a pistol in a gunsafe next to the bed. I look out the windows behind the house and in front of the house. I am intimately aware of what things should look like. I've had alarm company spokesmen come to the house. I almost laugh at them. If they only knew I think. "Dude, I dont like the way you look and I feel like there's a 1% possibility that you're really a criminal casing my house. I dare you to break in. You'll end up with three 9 mil slugs in your chest and my kitchen steak knife in your hand before the cops get here." Yeah, scary stuff huh? You dont want to live inside my head. Ah, it's not that bad. I just tell myself most everyone is just trying to get by. They mean no harm. But I'm always ready for the 1% of the population that is up to no damn good.

I really wish I could go back. I wish I could unknow these things. I wish I didnt know that during 2006 75 bodies a week washed up on the shore of the Tigris river. Hands bound, killed execution style. I wish I didnt know that every week we lost a Soldier. The all American kid. Two kids, married his high school sweetheart. Joined the Army after September 11th. I wish I just didnt know that. I wish I could watch television and zone out. I wish I could care about some of the stuff that other people seem to. My life I feel is on a counter. Every second counts and I dont like to waste them. Yeah I'm different. I am in check now. I've seen a counselor. I've talked through some of this with others. I trust myself to carry concealed now. I see what right looks like. But I still dont like festive crowds. I still dont like time vampires. I still have low tolerance for intentional stupid. It's just how I am now.

Most people dont know that about me. Because outwardly I'm just happy go lucky. I have to do that. I have to keep reminding myself of the good. I have to really strive to focus on making people smile. I have realized that this knowledge, this capability, this darkness that I now possess, well it has it's place. But not here. I have that ability. I'm willing to take a life. I'm willing and perfectly capable of taking someone out of this life. But it's a huge repressive responsibility to carry that burden. It's something that requires milliseconds to process through. Is this the time? Is this the place? Does this guy really know what his actions signal?

I like to go to church. I love to make people smile. I love to see the good in all things that I can. I believe this darkness is pervasive, but not entirely so. I believe there is so much beauty in the world. Colors that are so vibrant that I wonder why people dont stop and notice, soak it all in. They are in such a hurry to get where they are going that they fail to see all that God has created. I know now that there is evil in this world. Tangible, real, and ugly evil. People who have malicious intent. But mostly here where I live they just dont know to look for them. I know they are there, like wolves moving among the sheep. I see them. This all sounds so forboding. It sounds like I'm on the edge. Like I'm nuts. Well, I hope I'm not. I'm just different now. I am betting that if you spoke long enough to another combat veteran, that you'd hear a similar story. We want to unknow the things we do. We just can't.

Well I guess I better close. I have to get stuff packed for our minivacation. I'm going to get out of the smog, the inversion. I'm taking my family to Capitol Reef. We're going to stay in a little cabin. A little rest and refit as it were. I hope you understand a little more about what Soldiers face. What they deal with day to day. Why you get a blank stare when you ask them a nebulous, "What's it like?" When really you're question is, "Did you kill anyone?" I hope you realize they know the things I've just put down. They may have an answer that is matter of fact. Remember, with a veteran, you get exactly what you ask for, so be careful in asking.

Alright, I've droned on and on. I hope this covers a little of what my friend asked for. I hope it's not going to put me on some watch-list. I hope now that I dont suddenly start getting concerned looks and plates of cookies from the ladies in the neighborhood. It just is what it is. BTW, there's nothing wrong with those little stick figures on the back of your car. I'm a little envious. Go ahead and put them on. Have joy in your family. Watch the game this weekend. Do all the things you love and enjoy. Be happy. Soak it in. Time is precious. I'll drop a line later, but for now, God Bless ya.

Oh, and...uh..dont tailgate me. You wouldnt like me when I'm angry.

Zero Trace Living

So, the past few days I've had a feeling that I needed to cover a certain subject. As I've driven to work in the darkness the thought has come to me repeatedly. The words, "Zero Trace Living" and, "A Life Not Lived" have run wild through my conciousness. Some of the thoughts associated with these two terms are of course the given, "What the heck is that all about?" and, "What does that really mean?" So, I've thought a bit about this and here's what I've come up with.

See, I'm VERY happy in my life. Just like anyone of course, I have days that I could just do without. The past three weeks have just been insane. Going from one thing to the other. Actually if you back it up to maybe even June, it's been a whirlwind. In June I went to Turkey. Not, like to BUY a turkey, but the actual country of, Turkey. Then, when I got back, I dropped my father-in-law's ATV over on to myself and jammed my arm up right nice. It was really kind of cool because as I was loading it into the back of my pickup, it reared back on me. I knew instantly I couldn't put the nose down and it was going to crush me. Pin me right to the ramp and crush my head on the concrete driveway in the process. Oh yeah, forgot to mention I wasn't wearing a helmet. Dumb. Anyhow. So she rears up on me, and I have a split second decision, crush my sternum and flatten the back of my skull, or push it off to the side and throw myself free of it. Well, remarkably I was able to choose the latter. I pushed it off to the right and she nose-dived right into the concrete and landed on her side, with me still in the saddle. Well then, the six-hundred pound ATV began to roll back on me. Pinned as I was, my left arm holding it out away from me. Stacey and my dad came over in a panic and repeatedly asked me if I was ok. I said I was, but if it wasn't too much trouble, I would like them to roll it the opposite way, as it was getting rather heavy just with the one arm. So, suffice it to say, I've been dealing with a torn something in my shoulder and periodic shooting of pain which is frustrating. Really there is no point to this story, other than, "Chock that up to another, 'Why Me'?"

Well from there, I think we had some sort of Summer vacation, maybe not. Then we started football for Josh, yada yada yada...an elk hunt in which I killed a nice spike but lost him to bloating and, oh yeah, we had a Summer of visiting the lot we bought out in Fruitland a couple years back. So, then..now here we are knocking on Christmas' door.

Again, to reiterate, it's been...INSANE. The past three weeks have kept me running from work, to home, to dance/scouts/store whatever and back home, to some other activity and back to work, to drill...endless cycle. I'm ready for a real break.

Here's where I think the tie-in is. So, I'm driving to work in Big Green the other day. I hear a few of the songs about life. Remember When, by Alan Jackson among a few others that really got me thinking. How horrible would it be to be just like everyone else? MAN! would that suck! No seriously, I look back on my life and I really dont even have a, "Bucket List". There are a couple things I would like to do before the Grim Reaper comes...reaping. One is to hunt moose in Alaska (I personally think that Sarah Palin is totally within her rights to televise hunting). The other is of course salmon and halibut fishing (and snuggling up with Sarah, also...in Alaska). Finally, I want to visit Machu Pichu and a slew of the Central American ruins. But, I dont..have an extensive list. It seems, life just sorta, happens to me.

If I look back, I've visited 27 different countries thus far. I've hunted most all of America's big game, with the exception of sheep, moose, and bison. I have reached Gold Status with Delta, Silver Medallion, somethign something with American and STILL can't use the Crown Room! I've fired automatic weapons, blown up C4 and 40lb cratering charges. I've been to explosive hazards schools and learned how to approach unexploaded ordnance. I've conversed with peers in other countries in Spanish, Arabic, French, Japanese, horrible German. I've camped at 13000 feet in the High Uintas. I've loved and lost. I've lost and loved. I've felt the whole gammut of feelings that this life has to offer. I've refinanced, I've lost earnest money. I've had a son and three daughters. Been married, never divorced but come close. I've discovered I've been wrong at the very cusp of the unfixable, and I've stepped over the line with no hope of fixing it. I've been shot at, and not shot back. I've trained a weapon and a flashlight and trembled at the trigger. I've felt the understanding that today may be my day, but there's nothing I can do about it.

My point in all this is...well, let me give you an example. A very dear friend of mine once asked me about a particular video game. His question was rather direct and easily understood. Basically he wanted to know if this particular video game, (the fourth or fifth in the series) was "Like the real thing"? I was dumbfounded. There's no way to answer. Of course not. Of course it's not like that. You'll never feel what it's like playing that game to know that there's a real life widow and two children that will never see that man again once he expires. You dont plus up with 12 new Soldiers at the next, "level". You can't experience the days on end boredom of the same day repeated like Ground Hog Day. But, I realized, he had no way to know.

I'm telling you this, because, I dont think I'm alone. I think your experiences are just as personal. Yours are just as vibrant. Just as meaningful. You have moments burned into your mind. Like snapshots. Those moments can never be erased. Some make sense, some you never understand. But they are individual and unique to who you are. You may be a dentist, or a surgeon. I will never know what it's like to fix a tricuspid valve, or a bicuspid tooth. You may lose a child. You may lose a house. There are things that make you up, that make you who you are. To me, the important thing, are taking those things, and making them a positive part of who you really are. These life experiences bring depth and clarity and meaning into this existence. These experiences form you into the person you need to be for those around you. You're finally living.

That is, if you're living it. That is, if you're soaking it in. See, I think way too much emphasis is spent on memorizing baseball statistics. I think way too much time is spent on scanning the brackets for your favorite football team. Wouldnt that time be better spent on crushing a quarterback? Do you remember that feeling of reading the play, shooting the gap and crushing him before he knew you were there? It's an awesome feeling. Something which can never be replaced by the memorization of ever line-backer's stats since 1954. You gotta live it man. If you missed your chance then, take it now. Live it. What's available in your life today? Are you loving your spouse as deeply as you can? Are you holding back in your profession? Do you really seek to understand your God? Do you believe in his plan for you? What is your physical fitness level? Did you ever learn Spanish? What is available to you? Without looking back, what can you look forward to?

Zero Trace camping, is the idea that you set off into the mountains and backpack through. Digging catholes for your scat, and leaving nothing but footprints in your wake. You hope that the rain will come and wash those away, so that someone who follows behind may never know you were even there. To me, I think life is just the exact opposite. I think you need to make an impact in those around you. Make someone smile today. Make a difference in a child's belief in themself. You can be the light that shines for someone who just doesn't see a reason to go on. You can do your best with what you have to make an impact. You can leave not only footprints, but giant billboards that you were, "here". I'm asking you to live life. I'm asking you to practice, "Full Impact Living" I'm asking you to break out of yourself and find out what talents you have. What the potential is for you here, and live it.

Well, that's pretty much my rant for today. I'm trying to live my life such that if I was taken at this very minute, I might not wish I had just one more day. I want my relationships to be solid. To be true. My loved ones to know I love them at full throttle. That they may not ever have to wonder if I had been happy with them. I want people at my funeral to come and tell my wife and kids how I made them happy. How I made them smile when they were down. How I inspired them to break out of themself and start living.

I gotta go now. My babygirl Olivia is tired and momma's teaching piano. I've got to go live some more life. I've got to soak it all in before it evaporates like yesterday. I hope you will too. Take it easy and remember, a life not lived is no life at all.

The Handyman

I wrote this little ditty in 2005. It's part and parcel to the letter I had prepared for my son, Josh. I think it still rings true. It has elements of self discovery, personal growth, and humility. However, after this year I feel I've learned a little more than I knew five years ago. I'll let you read it here as originally written. Hope you like it.

***************************************


16 February 2005
The Handyman Jack

This morning I am having difficulty writing down any thoughts. I am listening to George Jones, some of his oldies. How clear things seemed such a very short time ago. These old country songs that I learned to enjoy when I was a boy your age take me to a place years ago. Driving with my father in his ’78 Chevy Scottsdale. Listening to AM 1550. I remember the standard transmission and working the clutch, the wing windows, the blue vinyl seat that was ripped, and a well-worn steering wheel. This was a time when cars had a switch for the headlights on the floor and you always carried a Handyman Jack in your truck.


I still remember that my father’s only desire was that his old truck would have a sliding rear window. I miss that old pickup. It was white with primer spots and rusted wheel wells. I learned to drive in it.
At times I think of a time when at fifteen years old I bent the front panel and put a giant gash in a brand-new tire. It was on a deer hunt near Grantsville, Utah. I had begged and pleaded for my father to let me drive. So confident, so able, I would surely impress him. As we drove up the dirt road along the cedar hills, we scouted for deer. I made sure to casually drive with one hand on the wheel, just like dad did. The key was not to focus too intently, but to look far ahead of the truck and let Old Betsy do the work. As we bounced along in first, and second at times (there was a crawler gear too) there appeared a small crevice in the middle of the road. I straddled it with the wheels and continued looking, hoping that dad would gain confidence in my obvious talent for driving. The crevice at first had started out only a few inches deep. The washout from the Spring run-off that had found its own line of travel out of the mountains along the cut of the meandering road. As we continued to climb in altitude, the crevice grew to about a foot deep, and then to a foot wide. Then, soon it widened slowly to about two-feet wide. At times I would have to cross over, keeping her high along the one side or the other of the deepening channel. As I drove I became nervous, the gently bouncing pickup, was in some places more primer-grey than white, but was still my father’s only way to work. Ignoring the desire to turn around, admit concern, or ask for help, I continued to drive on. Periodically peering left and right through the rolling sage brush and pebbled desert floor and juniper trees for elusive deer. With growing concern, I looked left and right and began to worry about the growing gap beneath the old pickup. In my effort to concentrate on the burgeoning gulch to the right, I landed upon a sage brush with the front wheel on the driver’s side. I heard a gut-sickening, “crummchhnn”. All at once, I knew that the sound meant things gone awry very quickly. Without any outward panic, and projecting counterfeit calm, I eased the old pickup in reverse and backed up two feet and off of the sage brush. In my effort to extract us from the holds of that pernicious sage, I placed a gigantic gash in one of dad’s brand new front tires. It is important to note here that your grandpa Bill had a habit of only being able to afford two tires at a time, and would normally replace them just prior to deer season. Unfortunately he would always put them on the front of the pickup. His theory being that should he need to put the truck in four-wheel drive that the grabbing and pulling would be more effectively done by the front wheels and not the rear.

Sick inside I stopped cold. I remember staring out the front window, afraid to look to my right, where dad would surely be about to curse and carry on about how I had to drive, and how he knew this would happen. Quietly, we both got out, and walked over to the front tire and surveyed the damage. In the forward motion I had indeed crushed the left front fender up like a crushed beer-can behind the wheel. No amount of bondo would cover it; the fender would have to be replaced. What’s more the new $100.00 tire had a gash about 5 inches long and bisected the bright white stripe that encircled the tire. With deep anxiety, and afraid to look for dad’s expression, I asked him, “What do we do now?” In a way I will never forget, dad calmly said, “Well… I guess we had better get the spare off and change it out.” I had been dreading what he would say. What I was dreading is what I knew he should have been said. Instead, dad taught me that day, how to change my own tire, the importance of a star-wrench, and how every man should own a Handyman Jack.

I think about that day once in a while, and as I type her tonight, I think of another lesson I didn’t realize I’d learned that day; that small crevices can be like any of the challenges and troubles in our life. The small crevice in the center of the road at first is of no consequence or concern to us. We can easily straddle it. As the warm sun shines and we drive along, a little trickle of course is of no consequence. The small furrow in the road, is of no concern and therefore needn’t concern ourselves with finding another route, or carefully deciding how far up this particular road we are really qualified to go. However, if we are watching out to the side, watching life go by, and if we aren’t vigilant and conscious instead about where we are going, that chasm will imperceptibly widen. We at that point, often still have a choice to turn around, to change course, to find a new route. Some of us however, become overly-confident in our abilities and we begin to jump to one side or the other. Flirting with the intoxicant of danger, believing that we are different, and that gravity will not inevitably pull our wheels in, and thereby ground us and require us to be humbled and forced to dig out.

That day my father taught me many things. Lessons I am not sure he was aware he taught me. Lessons about patience. About responsibility, self sufficiency, and of course humility. That day I resolved that if I ever had a son, I would teach him to drive, that I would be patient, and if he ever crunched a fender, or popped a tire, that I would teach him how to change it. I have been impressed by the importance of a quiet demeanor, of AM radio and old country songs, and the importance of a star wrench. But most of all, I learned lessons about character, and about the nature of temptations, the nature of our character. I learned that things that at first glance, appear to be of little consequence, we need only to look a bit further up the road, to where we are ultimately heading, to decide if it is truly the path for us. I learned also that we can become confident in our own abilities, that we can ignore that still small voice, and even enjoy the challenges of going it alone, facing the danger, and nearing the edge. I learned a lot that day, as I think about it now. I learned that day that I had to learn my own lesson, that small channels, can become wide chasms, that the edge, although the most challenging, can also be the most detrimental. I learned that it’s best to pay attention to where you’re heading, anticipate what your heart tells you is ultimately going to happen, and, above all, to carry a Handyman Jack, just in case you forget to listen.

***********************

Our Anniversary

Tomorrow I share my fourteenth wedding anniversary with my eternal companion Stacey. I would be remiss if I did not pour out my heart to her in thankfulness for the person she has become, and taught me to be. Tonight we watched the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints Christmas Devotional. Such a wonderful message of joy and faith in our Savior. How much this time of year means to the world in celebration of His birth. I will not even attempt to recount the feeling which I felt this evening. However, perhaps you can empathize with me over what today was like.

Today I had drill. Just another weekend, another holiday, another birthday, another anniversary shared with the Army. I have been watching my Facebook, the continual reminder of our impending anniversary perpetually on my future outlook. Well something happened today. We had some very deep discussions regarding suicide preventions and some other very deep and profound subjects. This morning I was so worried about getting to work and making sure that the training was aligned, that I kissed my sweet wife. I sat on the bed next to her, tucked her back in and made my hasty departure for the headquarters building.

I arrived and worked feverishly to get the auditorium heated, the screen brought down, the volume and lights correct. Everything that would be necessary to provide a smooth transition for training for the Chaplain to discuss this solemn subject.

If you back up a few days, this entire week has been insane. I was ill on Monday, and by Thursday I had worked myself into such a lather that I was and probably still am five days further behind than when I started. Saturday morning was no different with a retirement ceremony, counselings, and other command responsibilities that you just dont care to know about.

So by today, I was set and ready for a face-paced morning, followed by a lax and easy Sunday morning. In fact, I think there's a song about it. Easy, like Sunday morning. Only it weren't so. By the time I finished with the briefing I ran back to my office to begin and had Soldier and senior officer alike in my office derailing my efforts to get where I should already be by virtue of work. I quickly opened my Facebook to send Stacey a message and panicked. I swear, and will always swear, that the "Reminder" section of facebook said, "Your anniversary with Stacey Kenworthy Today". Well I just about launched out of my seat at the idea that I had totally forgotten to even mention our anniversary to my bride. I jumped up and told the chief I was on my way out the door and he would see nothing but a vapor trail of me for the next hour.

I stopped at Harmons, quite in a dander. At the entrance of the store I found the flowers. Being a smart shopper I realized I could get seven more minutes of life out of the flowers if I went first to the card section and then back-tracked to the flowers. As I transited the rat-maze to the cards I was reminded of the fact that on not less that three occaisions I have in fact given the exact same card. Not in back to back years, but definately three times within the same decade. She laughs about it, but I say, "It's just how I feel. At least my story remains the same." Anyhow so I make it a point to find a card that I unequivocally have never set eyes on before. I find one in the "Wife Anniversary" section and then dart for the flowers.

Well, meanwhile back in the flowers my choices are slim There are some three-pronged..tall...orchid looking thingies, some sweet hydrangeas (nothing says romance like "Hydrangea"), some mums n' daisies, and some sad-looking roses. I did notice for a split second that I could buy the best part of the roses, that is to say, the petals, for a mere $2.99 a bag, but I elected instead for the double-digit arrangement with a smattering of purples and reds, a couple of those tiny little white ones and a super-duper looking rubberband.

Additionally, while standing at the register, I scanned for a "I-tunes" card. Nothing says, "You're the mother of my children, my eternal companion, my lover and my friend" better than $25 in Eminem and REO Speedwagon downloads. But, not seeing them, I elected instead for some gift cards to the White Trash House of Fish, that is the "Red Lobster". See, my beef with Red Lobster, is not the restaurant, nor the staff, and especially not the food. No my problem is actually my peers. The clientel. See, something about that fat lady with gout toting the oxygen on wheels and the guy wearing the Harley Davidson Do-Rag sorta bugs me. I just want to stand there, for the 38 minutes waiting for our table in peace. But no matter WHERE I stand, I'm constantly pushed and cajoled and backed up against that barn-wood by the confusion of similar folks speaking abnormally loud and NOT keeping their snot-nosed, mullet-wearing kids in check. I just hate it. But anyhow, Stacey loves the place, so I keep my mouth shut and take longer than normal parking the car. But I love my little Copenhagen Angel, so we keep going back to her favorite old haunt.

So anyhow, I got side-tracked. So I grab fifty bucks in cards deposit them into the card, wrote some mushy stuff and headed out with a sense of purpose and conviction.

Only the way home I checked my phone. Verizon never lies. I believe their clock is set to the U.S. Naval Observatory and updated via satelite as the vibrations of Cesium atoms dictate. So it's pretty spot-on. Anyhow, I am looking at my phone, and the date says, "December 5th". But, because I'm smart like that, I realize that my...er...OUR anniversary isn't until tomorrow. Meanwhile back at the Bat Cave, I've already texted to Stacey my intent to be home directly.

So I walk in the door, present her with flowers, and some lame excuse trying to cover why I waited 'till the second-to-the-last minute to get her something or think of her even. Well, to my great pleasure she got all misty-eyed and commenced to blubbering. Well, I should back up. See, it wasn't quite the picture I had envisioned in my head. As I walked in the garage, I saw her there. All sweaty. Just finishing her 45 minutes of Sweatin' to the Newbies. So, anyhow, her hair is pulled back in an unflattering fashion and she's got a nice bead of sweat going on her upper lip, back of her neck, forehead and ...elsewheres..

So, anyhow, I'm standing here, holding flowers, a day early and a dollar-short. She is so taken aback, that she wants a kiss from Papa Bear. I reluctantly move in, and give her the 50th Anniversary version of the kiss rather than the 14 year version. Anyhow, not sure she noticed. She was so taken aback that I remembered the day before the day before the Day That Will Live In Infamy. Yeah, Pearl Harbor Day. See, that's how I personally remember it. We celebrate our Anniversary just prior to a day that the Nation remembers with great sorry and off-set pride. Anyhow, I never forget, and thankfully, this year, TECHNICALLY, was no exception.


So, tonight as we wrapped up our day's events, and watched the devotional, I was so full with love for this time of year. Despite all the running around, the confusion, the stress, it really is my favorite time of year. The account of the Savior's birth, the promise of renewed hope and fait and the inherent knowledge of familial ties that span beyond this life were much needed for me.

I absolutely adore and love my beautiful wife. Each day she honestly gets more and more wonderful and beautiful to me. I am not making that up. It's true. See, this year has been out of control. We have had experiences that have nearly broken us. We have dealt with broken arms, stiches, challenges at work, vacations, in-laws, outlaws, and personal challenges that have nearly crippled our relationship. But we're surviving. But today, it's better than that. Surviving is no way to live. Thriving is a much better way to go. We've had frank and open discussions that have been so brutally honest that the very real danger of us moving on separately became a distinct and almost inevitable reality.

Today however, those challenges are minimized. I've found ways to treasure here that I have never before known nor taken advantage of. I've changed my own personal mindset about her capabilities, her intent, her intentions and basically everything I had previously considered her to be.
My wife has met and exceeded every single possibility that I had ever imagined. I've found a love and conviction for her that I'm frankly embarassed had not existed before. See, the sad thing, is she knew it all along. She was just waiting for me to catch up, and learn it for myself. She never waivered. She never had internal challenges. She never thought I was anything less than a hero to her. For that, I am humbled and acutely aware that I have so much more ground to cover to be her equal than I had ever imagined.

I love her so very much. For not just the children she has given me. For the life that she shares with me. Not for the folded t-shirts, or the way she selflessly gets up with our children at three in the morning. I love this woman for how she now makes me feel about myself. She has given me an example which is, for me, almost inattainable, but worth striving for. She is so very good. I see her in a new light now. I dont see her as timid, I see her as quietly strong and resilient. She is everything I wish I could be, but am painfully aware I may never be.

I take solace instead in the idea that she loves me for exactly who I am. I am the loud and obnoxious one. She is reserved and fixes those hearts that I offend, makes apologies for my over-sights, and mends what I was blissfully unaware of. I on the other hand, have my own talents. I push us, tug us, yank us foward. I take risks, she mitigates them. That's how it's become. Today, this month, this past few months, I have realized that. I really would be a completely different person without her. I'm certain that would be a person that I'm not sure I would be happy with. She helps me be who I need to be.

I love her so very much. I'm so thankful for the things I've learned this year. I've found out I am woefully inadequate at times, and I'm thankful she loves me in spite of it all. Happy Anniversary Stacey. I hope tomorrow I can somehow show you how much you mean to me.

Perhaps, if you're not busy...We could go to Red Lobster? I'd love to take you.

Letter Written to Joshua My Son circa October 2004

Introduction: The following was written as I prepared to deploy for Iraq the following year. I had taken this and a few other opportunities to capture some of the most important moments I had shared with my son to that time. I was and continue to be, desirous to let my son know who his father was in the off-chance that I did not return whole. It is written directly to him, though he was four years old, with the possibility that he may not fully understand it for many years to come. I hope you enjoy it.
*****************************

Joshua. My boy. You like me, have been gifted with an inherent love of the outdoors. Since the time you were two years old, I have taken you with me as a Young Men’s Leader in the Scouts or just alone whenever I could. You have asked me all this past year to go hiking. I love to hear you say it. “Daddy, can we go hikin’?” It warms my heart. This Winter has been particularly tough on the both of us so cooped-up, unable to get out and be in the mountains. It makes me so very happy to know you have an affinity for the quiet respite that the mountains can bring. You received a Camel-bak from your grandparents this year for Christmas. They too recognize in you the tendencies of wanderlust that burn behind those dark eyes. I think back on this past year. I believe we went on four or five hikes. One with Lexi up Stockton Canyon, that we cut short, one up North Willow Canyon to find the lake, on the elk hunt in Strawberry, and of course this year’s deer hunt.

Son I will always remember, you with three layers of clothes on. The outer layer a florescent orange sweater that was too small for me, and way too big for you. I had to fold the arms up and roll them and it went to your knees. Your mother insisted on an orange knit cap, and blue thermals underneath your pants. We went on the rifle hunt. This was your first deer hunt. You went elk hunting a few weeks before, but only to hike around with grandpa Bill. This was different. This was you and papa up early in the “white truck”, headed for Lookout Pass between Tooele and Dugway, Utah. You were so tired that opening morning. It was a Saturday and you had gone to bed late. I worried about the frigid temperatures outside and wondered if you would you be warm enough. I woke up at 4:00 am and had you in the truck by 4:30. You continually asked me why we had to go when it was so dark outside. This season, October 2004, I had elected to go on the rifle hunt. I selected a unit that was close to home, because I had been gone for four months to Missouri for Engineer Officer Basic. I didn’t feel like your momma wanted me to be off gallivanting around far from home. I normally choose the archery hunt, because I feel it’s more relaxing and more satisfying. This year I decided to stay close to home, and to take my boy with me. Just you and me.

I had mentioned our hunt to Grandpa Bill, and even invited him. He had to work, so it was just the two of us. Grandpa mentioned that we ought to try Lookout Pass, that we had been successful there when I was a boy, and it had been many years since we’d been back out. I asked him for directions, knowing in my heart that we would get close but I couldn’t remember exactly where we had hunted before. After a little searching, I chose a road that appeared to wind it’s way up the canyon on the north side of the pass. We continually turned and dodged the juniper trees, walking the truck slowly up the canyon. We came to a wide dry gully, and I pulled us across in four-wheel drive. It was still dark, and we had a good 45 minutes until first light.

I had packed my backpack with an MRE, treats, water, flashlights, toilet paper, matches and an extra knife. It was fairly heavy, and I expected to carry it, as well as you all day. Not really wasn’t looking forward to a hike at that moment, I tried to coax you out of the truck. Because you were concerned about, “Pumbas” or mountain lions, you elected not get out until you could see the area around you. We sat for about a half hour, and when I got anxious and got out and began to get my gear on. Load the old Enfield 30.06 I thought about how I should have purchased a new rifle, something with a synthetic stock, and a nice new scope. I wanted to get up the trail. Concerned that you wouldn’t be warm enough, and repeatedly asked you if you were ok. In that way you have, you assured me that you were just fine, and were finally ready to hike. I thought for sure you would talk all the way up the mountain trail, however you were very quiet now. We practiced the night before you covering your ears if I shot, and how to get down low and not be seen.

In the ambient light I could see an ever widening swath of the trail, and the silhouettes of the mountains steep on either side of us. I began to retrace old memories in my mind, the cold air freezing our breath. The heavy shell-belt of my great-grandfather’s fit well around my waist; my “girdle” as my friends had often referred to it. Each set of loops but the last five, now in the rifle, contained a rifle shell, each one capable of bringing an animal to it’s demise. I looked down at you, and resolved that no matter how far I had to carry you that day, that as long as we walked upon the ridgeline, we could make a solid day of it.

I remembered back to the combined memories of hunts with my father and my brothers. Three boys under twelve, the second weekend of the deer hunt. It was an annual holiday. The wind in that canyon could get bitterly cold. I was concerned that I may even have to light a fire to warm you should the wind begin to blow down the canyon that morning.

As we walked down the trail, the quiet murmurings by you and reassurances from me, I noticed two forms on the East side of the canyon far above us. This canyon was sparsely treed and I knew instantly that these forms were going to be animals. I hoped that they might be deer. We stopped and glassed them. I tried to point them out to you, far in front and above us, in a side canyon. Two deer, I thought. “Get low buddy” , we traveled another 100 yards closer. By now the two forms were 600 or 700 yards from us. As I looked through the low-power binoculars, I could definitely place them as deer, but had no idea whether either of them was a buck. Each time I would breathe, they would fog up, and I would have to pull them down, wipe the lenses with my shirt and hold my breath for another look. About that time I noticed that in the little box canyon, somewhat closer to us, were another four or five deer. None of which I could identify for sure. We were much too far to shoot anyhow. Coming closer and ever lower, we edged upon a small hill, around the back-side, to gain some elevation and perhaps close the gap between us.

All during this you were so patient. You asked me if I was going to shoot the papa deer and I stated I would if I saw him. We topped out on the small hill in the high grass and sage. The deer could hear us and continually stopped to watch us. I didn’t feel comfortable attempting to get any closer, as they were so very close to the top of the mountain. They could easily bound over the top in a matter of a few bounces and we would never know for sure if one had been our buck.

We whispered back and forth, and I asked you if we would wait for a big-buck, or if we would take the first buck we saw. You recommended we take the first buck; a wise choice for such a little man. The two bodies we had seen originally began to move over toward the others. I was particularly interested in the two on the left, as I reasoned they must be bucks as they would not yet be in the rut, and bigger bucks weren’t supposed to be running with the does. We laid in the grass, me on top of my pack, breathing heavily in and out…fogging my binoculars over and over. I was certain that one of the two bodies had antlers, but I wasn’t totally sure. Once I would tell myself, it was a little spike, and then later I would think it might be the white tips on the big mule deer ears. I wanted this to be a sportsmanlike hunt, and I didn’t want to kill any doe accidentally.

I finally resolved that the one deer was in fact a buck. He was walking slowly. He was feeding as he went toward the draw that now separated the two on the left, from the four or five on the right. Occasionally glancing over to the group on the right, I couldn’t find any definitive evidence of antlers. The shot was steeply inclined. Though I had taken my pack off and rested the rifle across it, I had to arch my back terribly to get the needed elevation for a shot. I watched him begin to trot down into the gully. I pulled the 4x scope over to the right and waited for him to exit on the other side neared the other animals. I waited. I waited. I waited…where had he gone? I pulled the scope to the right and noticed the group of deer milling around. At this time I noticed what I thought was another buck. This one seemed a bit bigger than the original buck that disappeared, and I resolved to take him instead.

The sun was beginning to come up and I knew that soon, I would be looking directly at the sun, unable to see any of them. I had to act now, or not at all. I would later tell people that I shot him at about 350-375 yards, but would honestly put it closer to 425. I just didn’t want to sound like a bragger. At the first shot, with my back arched, taking half breaths, I walked the scope from his rump down to the front shoulder. He was pointed down hill and to the right and I placed the cross hairs two inches below the backbone. Every time I breathed the deer would almost totally leave the scope. The cross hairs alternated between a foot above and a foot below him as I breathed.

A breathe in, a breath out, a breath in, half a breath out, hold…no movement… a slow squeeze of the trigger. “VVWWWOOOOHHMMM!” Deer went everywhere. The recoil moved the deer totally out of my sight picture. I jacked a new shell in, checked with you to make sure you were ok, and looked back, watching. Looking for one of the deer to drop. The deer began to run across the side hill, some to the north, some to the south. I didn’t really expect to hit him anyhow I thought. But I can probably get off another shot if I can find him again. The deer all began to file into a line, running diagonally up the mountain away from us. I saw a slower body, hanging back. The buck! I noticed him lagging back, and gained confidence that perhaps he was hit. Although he had moved another 75 yards from the first shot, it was lateral to my perspective and didn’t seem much further. This time, I resolved to put the cross hairs two inches above the bottom of his ribs, behind the shoulder. He slowed to a trot, then walking. I picked a moment out ahead of him and squeezed the trigger slowly again.
“VVWWWOOOOHMMM!” again the deer left the scope. I jacked a new shell in, and searched again for him. By this time, the first two deer had made it over the hill, and two does were looking back down toward another deer lagging far behind them. Without looking closely, I took aim on the last deer, knowing without doubt, that this seemingly sickly deer, was our buck. I took aim, breathed in, breathed out…again in…again out…a half a breath …a half squeeze.….a sudden flash of white at the bottom left of the scope. I let off the trigger. Pulling left I recognized the death throes of a back leg and the soft underbelly of a deer. ‘Jeeeeeeeeeze! I thought…I just about damn-near shot two deer!’ Then, with a sickly feeling…I realized I had shot twice already. In all the commotion, there really might already BE two deer down. My thoughts raced. Should I find a second deer. It should be a buck. Would Troy tag it? No wait, he had a tag for another area. A deepening sickness pervaded the moment. At that time, we began to hike. Though a straight line distance was only around 450 yards, the adrenaline and dwindling youth fought out for who would make it to the top of the hill. As I told you we had knocked him down, I checked my watch. It was a few minutes before 8:00 am.

I was too anxious to see if there were multiple deer to have you hike behind me. I grabbed you up, and taking the shell out of the chamber, I put you on my shoulders, and the back on my back, shouldering the rifle we made it up the steep incline to where the deer was last spotted. I covered some considerable ground and remarked in my head at how far 500 yards can be when your going up a 45 degree hill with a pack, a kid and a rifle on your back. We made it to within 75 yards of where I thought I had seen the buck go down. I thought for certain I had watched that exact spot. I was getting very nervous, because I couldn’t see any deer yet, and we were way too close not too. There was only one small stand of willow thicket on that side of the canyon, and the rest was covered with 2’ high sage brush. Again that sick feeling. I couldn’t breath. I put you down, which made you nervous, and began to circle in ever -widening concentric circles. No deer. Not only are there NOT two deer, but now there are NO deer. No blood. I began doing the geometric calculations again in my head. Looking back at the spot where I had taken the shots. This was definitely…well, I am 80% sure that this is where he went down. After 15 long minutes of searching, I resolved to go back to where I had shot the first time. As I neared the spot, with you still in my sight, and within 100 yards of where you were, was a nice two-point buck on his side. Well, there’s the first one. Oh no. Oh no no no no. If this deer is here, where I shot first, WHERE is the other deer? There has to be two deer. Again I am feeling nauseous at the idea of any game-warden believing my story.

I went back to get you. I put you within a few feet of the big bodied deer. A nice buck I thought. He would look great in the smoker. Or more likely, I would hope that someone in the Ward would be able to use the meat so we didn’t have to. I had made it a habit over the past few years of donating the meat to families in need within our neighborhood. This deer would probably be no exception. Your mother won’t eat deer anyhow. I’ll skin him at home, pay the 50 dollars to have him cut and wrapped and ultimately give him away before next season.

Along the right side of his body, directly behind the shoulder, and two inches down into the rib cage, was a nice little hole. I rolled him over and checked for another wound. There was a sizeable exit wound on the other side, low, and I wondered how the trajectory would allow for a high entry, and low exit, on an animal above me?? Hm. It gave me hope that I might find another small wound when he was skinned out.

As I began to dress the deer, your eyes got very wide. I removed the testicles and explained to you very plainly that it was necessary. After removing the scent glands on the back legs, I cut his throat and turned him down hill. I then commenced the dirty business of rolling up my sleeves and opening the abdominal cavity. As I was moving the deer, one of the back legs came within inches of you, and you jumped back, and refused from that point on to come closer than fifteen feet. As I opened him up, I smelled the acrid scent of a torn stomach. UGHHH….arrghhhhh….probably ruined meat and arrrrghhh! I removed the diaphragm and went looking for lungs and a heart, which were notably absent. I wondered how he could have traveled the 150 yards back over to where he died without the aid of any blood or oxygen. The thick-black jelly confirmed that he hadn’t breathed or beat his heart since a split second after the trigger was pulled.

I surveyed the terrain and realized that this would be a dragging and not a carrying mission. Besides, I couldn’t shoulder this deer, carry a backpack, a rifle and a four-year old boy. No, we were dragging today. I offered you a ride on his back after I did the logistical calculations, knowing that I needed to shift my upper body and would unavoidably drop you if I put you back on my shoulders. It was steep and rough terrain, and I worried constantly that you would pitch forward and hurt yourself. Well you didn’t. We both made it down to the trail-head, you taking this opportunity as license to begin talking. Talk you did. All the way down to the trail. Questions about why my hand was up inside the buck. Why we got up so early. Whether Pumbas would take our deer. Questions, but as long as you kept moving.

We got to the bottom of the mountain and I resolved to drop the deer there, and return with the truck. I really didn’t feel like dragging him another half mile to the truck. On our way back to the truck, we discussed many of the intricacies of the day’s events. We passed an old Mexican gentleman. He commented to me on what a big boy I had, and how impressed he was at your hiking ability. He also commented that despite my efforts to quiet you, that he heard the majority of the comments and queries you made. He handed you some candy, I nodded it was ok, and you thanked him. We bade him good-luck and continued to the truck.

Upon return with the truck, I realized that it can be more difficult to get a deer into a pickup than I remembered. Though the tail-gate was down, I had to jump in the back and pull him by the horns up into the truck.

We were back in the driveway before 1100 am. Your mother even asked what was wrong as soon as we pulled up. You proudly stated that we had a papa deer. That daddy shot him, and put his arm up inside him.

In the process of skinning him out, I noticed that I had missed a second wound. This one was low in the rib cage, also, on the right side. I let out a sigh of relief. One high behind the shoulder, one low behind the shoulder. Not an ounce of meat wasted. No other deer was lying dead in the sage somewhere at Lookout Pass. I will admit, a quiet satisfaction at knowing that uphill, at between 375 and 450 yards I had shot that deer, not once, but twice, exactly where I wanted it.

Now. Every year I consider spending the 700 dollars to buy a new rifle. The old 30.06 that I use was Great Grandpa Bud’s. It’s ugly and marred. The stock has been extended and the sling continually comes loose at the top. However, every year that I get the opportunity to look at a deer through the 4x scope, it does exactly what it’s supposed to. I once asked my dad about his own rifle, an old military surplus 1903 A3 30.06. Why he wouldn’t just break-down and buy a better rifle. He could buy a variable scope that would allow a much closer view. Why, a new rifle, perhaps in a bigger caliber, would surely do the trick. I am older now, and every year I pull that trigger, I learn to trust my dad a little more. I am convinced that there isn’t an animal in North America, that with proper shot placement, that 30.06 wouldn’t bring down. Sometimes you just stick with what works I guess. The old 0.06 is reliable, tried and tested, cheap to shoot, and non-glamorous. The old 4x scope seems to do ok too. It’s been said, and I believe, that if you can’t see it in a 4x scope, you shouldn’t be shooting at it anyhow. Funny how dad’s tend to be right about those things. I think this year I’ll fix the sling. I’ll wipe down the barrel and the stock. I’ll get a new ring for the scope. I think a few weeks before elk season I’ll put a few rounds through her. Check to see if she’s hitting true, and go out and do it again. I hope you’ll be with me.




****************

If you've read this far, please excuse my English and grammar. I've felt it more necessary the past couple of weeks to capture my thoughs, than I have to practice my prose and diction. The most recent post regarding my brother and the feedback I have received has encouraged me to make more of these stories and personal thoughts known. I realize the potential that exists for this knowledge to be used somehow negatively, but I believe the risks are far outweighed by the positive responses and the potential therein for these stories or thoughts to help you, the reader as well as provide a positive respite for my ever-wandering psyche. These posts can be cathartic for me, and serve almost as silent group-therapy when I find that they have touched someone for good. I will continue to make these and other thoughts available as long as I need the outlet, and you the reader continue to read them. I sincerely hope you enjoy them. They are, after all a peice of my soul and who I really am finding myself to be. We are all compilations of the stories that make us up, and bind us. Those moments in which we can laugh at ourselves, cry at our innocence, or share that another might not falter all bind us together and make us who we are.

If you like these please share them. Sometimes you never know who needs to recall a moment from their own past, and smile silently at learning that another shares their same passions and fears.

God bless you.

J