Tulsa Time

You ever feel like something you have written is just not supposed to be read? Yeah, second time it's happened to me. I had this neat little packet of thread of conciousness text that was going in a real positive direction, then this little computer froze up on me. Anyhow, here are the hightlights:
1) Sick today still; 2) Need a change; 3) Cathartic understanding of self; 4) Interlaced humor; 5) Melancholy upliftment coupled with tie-in to a double entendre.

Anyhow, it was beautiful. You really should have read it. However, now it's lost to the world, and the ethernet. Suffice it to say, I'm home sick today, and I dont like being powerless. That's been the story of my life the past few months. Can't move forward, backward, side to side...can't move in a literal sense because of home values....just..stuck. Happy stuck, but needing a change stuck. I'm not sure I'm putting this down quite right. Dont misunderstand me. I absolutely love my life. I adore my wife (Just learned how to love her correeeeeeeeectly I may add)...I've got myissues....some of them far more deep-seated than I care to admit. But I'm working on it. You know? Life. Stuff. Things. I've had some major potentially life-altering decisions to make. But most of them have been internal. Deciding to take back that personal power. It's no fun to be responsible for your own emotions, actions and what-not. I liked it better when I took a personal vacation from responsibility. Never done that before.

I should start a new paragraph. Same thought, just..looks cleaner on the page...anyhow...I've been dealing with some pretty straight-forward, in your face adult stuff. I've had to rely on a Heavenly Father who knows the end from the beginning. I've had to learn to accept that there's some things you may just feel, but can do nothing about. It seems I was destined to be the amalgamation of hit ya in the gut country songs. I'm THAT guy. Seems that Patty Loveless knows me best. I aspire to be as solid as Don Williams. I got a little party in me, so Garth Brooks doesn't help...Johnny Cash, man, I wish I could get to his level of give-a-shiz. Man, anyhow, so...I'm working on stuff. Sometimes I dont know the top from the bottom. Sometimes I take fourteen steps back, and one step forward. I just keep telling myself to keep that one step forward in mind. All in all, I have no advice for you. I have NO idea what I'm doing here. Each day is a bright new challenge. Each day I have the potential to hurt my delicate wife and kids with the current self-discovery, or I can bring them close to me and beg their understanding for this weak man I've discovered underneath it all. I'm doing my best. But I need God's help for certain.

Anyhow, it's not all doom and gloom. I feel REALLY good. Yesterday I had some revelations (Not like, crazy stuff) and came to an understanding that there are things I can't stop, control, or even make sense of. But they just are what they are. Meanwhile, back at the bat cave, I can work on my own stuff. I can get a clearer picture. I've been thrown for a loop, for certain, but this whole sordid mess we call, "Life" is a hell of a ride. I love it. I love what I'm learning. I love the pain of falling off that horse, cause I know it means I'm expected to get back on. I'll be back tomorrow. I mean to work. But today, I'm going on back to Tulsa Time... Just me and Don. My baby said, I's crazy, my momma called me lazy..but I really had a flash this time...


I left Oklahoma drivin' in a Pontiac
Just about to lose my mind
I was goin' on to Arizona, maybe on to California
Where all the people live so fine
My baby said I was crazy, my momma called me lazy
I was goin' to show 'em all this time
'Cause you know I ain't no fool an' I don't need no more schoolin'
I was born to just walk the line

Livin' on Tulsa time
Livin' on Tulsa time
Well you know I've been through it
When I set my watch back to it
Livin' on Tulsa time

Well there I was in Hollywood wishin' I was doin' good
Talkin' on the telephone line
But they don't need me in the movies and nobody sings my songs
Guess I'm just wastin' time
Well then I got to thinkin', man I'm really sinkin'
And I really had a flash this time
I had no business leavin' and nobody would be grievin'
If I went on back to Tulsa time

Livin' on Tulsa time
Livin' on Tulsa time
Gonna set my watch back to it
Cause you know I've been through it
Livin' on Tulsa time

I love it!!!

On a Sunday Morning Sidewalk...

Well, I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

...ok, it's not that bad. But Johnny Cash sure knows what he's talking about. I normally love Sundays. But the past six or eight months it's been rather tough to get excited about it. Yeah, I'm in a bit of a slump, but this too shall pass. Well today, I woke up, for the third day with a deepening chest-cold. Yeah, it's a doosey too. Complete with that green junk from the back and bottom of your left lung. Oh, additionally any time I get lower than a 45 degree angle my head fills up with yeller pine sap. I friggin' hate being sick. I've had my flu shot, but I think the kids bring it into the house when they come for piano lessons. (My saintly wife teaches piano lessons, cans her own pumpkin filling, feels bad when the laundry isn't done etc. etc. I on the other hand fight the urge to shoot people (It's ok, Im in the Army) and alternate periods of rage and extreme happiness.) Anyhow, so I'm sick and I feel like I can pull this off to stay home.

Where were we. Oh, so it's one of those mornings. I didnt rest at all and I'm really contemplating plugging in my ipod and listening to Johnny all morning. I certainly can't watch "Teen Nick" with my son whom is also sick. I'll slit my wrists if I have to watch one more episode of I Carly.

Alright, dont let me get you down, I'll leave you with another of my personal favorites:

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Gather round me people there's a story I would tell
About a brave young Indian you should remember well
From the land of the Pima Indian
A proud and noble band
Who farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land

Down the ditches for a thousand years
The water grew Ira's peoples' crops
'Till the white man stole the water rights
And the sparklin' water stopped

Now Ira's folks were hungry
And their land grew crops of weeds
When war came, Ira volunteered
And forgot the white man's greed

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

There they battled up Iwo Jima's hill,
Two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again

And when the fight was over
And when Old Glory raised
Among the men who held it high
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Ira returned a hero
Celebrated through the land
He was wined and speeched and honored; Everybody shook his hand

But he was just a Pima Indian
No water, no crops, no chance
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done
And when did the Indians dance

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Then Ira started drinkin' hard;
Jail was often his home
They'd let him raise the flag and lower it
like you'd throw a dog a bone!

He died drunk one mornin'
Alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch
Was a grave for Ira Hayes

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lyin' thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died

Have a great day everyone. We'll see you on when the mucus is clear.

Vizeo for Shizeo

OK, second attempt. Last pulse I drafted a beautifully eloquent account of how I installed a 55 inch flat screen today. It had all the elements of intrigue, drama, self deprication that you've all come to expect. Suffice it to say, I fat-fingered the "Enter" key (which used to be a, "Return" key) and lost all that mental diarreah. Anyhow, it was a good day. I have some more stuff to do, but at least it's on the wall. I have cords scattered from Hell to Breakfast, and I am paying the emotional price of a obsessive-compulsive flat-mate. I did however buy a, "Cord Hider" which thankfullly is paintable. "HOOORAYYE" *sarcastically*

Also of note today, I had to correct my wife when traveling with her and my son that she was NEVER again to refer to a "Slug Bug" in anything other than normal crayola twelve to a box colors. There is in my opinion, no such thing as a, "Slug Bug...CREAM!!!". Seriously? Like I want my son playing, "Slug BUG! SAGE!!!" Unfriggin' believable.

Anyhow, I gotsta go. My dinner is on and I'm getting that...sad look that I dont care. I gotta go. Hugs and kisses on all your pink parts.

Toodles,

Sarcastic Jon Out.

Turns out, My Name IS Earl...

OK, so we're watching the third episode of, "My Name is Earl". Turns out there are similarities in our lives. My middle name, happens to be, "Earl". So, I was driving my plush '96 Toyota Pickup down to the Jiffylube. Our mission, to find out why the, "Check Engine Sometime this Quarter" light is still on. I had Isabelle with me, that's my 38 lb six-year old. She's good stock that kid. Anyhow, I lured her in with the promise of a stop at the Maverik ("Maverick" for those of you that are not Westerners), perhaps for a slushy, or even a sweet frozen yogurt. Anyhow, we had Rebekah hooked up to the machine at the Lube and diagnosed her with, "Catalitic Responses Below Threshold" which, is Mechanic for, "EGR Valve or some other 145.00 part with 150.00 in labor cost". But they couldnt work on it, on accounta, well turns out, "Paulo" is not in fact, a "Mechanic". Who knew? I figured with that with a sweet set of coveralls and a nice green certificate on the wall with Paulo's name on it, that we could make this dream a reality, but to no avail.

Anyhow, so Isabelle and I, quite dejected, and somewhat thirsty, saddled up Rebekah. However, in my effort to, "Click It or Ticket" I jammed a little cough drop wrapper down into the receiver thingy. Anyhow, after attempting to remove it with a baskeball inflation needle, and failing miserably, I took the risk and fired up Becky for the ride home sans safety restraint.

On the way I realized, almost as a stroke of genius, that I could use the middle seatbelt to loop through the driver seat belt and affect a safety restraint which was the envy of soap-box car drivers the world 'round. So, I put the radio on one of the four stations we can pickup without a radio antenna and moved back on our way to the ranch. I stopped myself from thinking negative things about guys that wear their name on their shirts at work, when I realized that in the military, I TOO wear my name on my shirt, and my hoity-toitiness ground to a screaching halt.

Anyhow, upon my return to the ranch, I found that my mom and dad have purchased us a, "Vizio 55" LCD Television. So, my dream of surprising my wife with a TV was thwarted and now I am left with the prospect of surprising my spousal-unit with a cabinet, wallmount and perhaps surround-sound because I'm a big spender. I love it when she calls me, "Big Papa".

So kids, that consists of my day. Oh, well we're going to dinner at, "The Texas Road House". I'm sure we're going to split a Bloomin' Onion, or whatever the American version of the Australian delicacy is.

Before I do, I think I'll change my pants to a hole-less version (When I car shop I go in looking poor. I learned that from Dr. Cosby when he went to buy a car for Theo in that one episode and it's served me well). So...I better wrap this up, turns out my desire to be a success has been tempered with the reality that I wear my name tape on my shirt, and it may as well say, "Earl".

My solace at this point, is that even Doctors wear name tags, so I dont feel so bad about being the Southern kind of, "Earl" versus the English variety.

I think we're done here. I said to you, Good Day.

....

I SAID, GOOD DAY!!!

Take on the Day

Alright kids. Huddle-up. So, here's what we're faced with. We sorta have to get something for the spousal-unit here for Xmas. I know, I know, in the past we've used the, "Hey let's go get something together, so I know you get exactly what you want." However, that's probably not going to cut it this year. We've had reminders of everything from a new wedding ring, a cruise, a generator, a new mattress set (which actually pays dividends), among other things. However, the out-and-out open dialogue involving potential gifts has done more to confuse than help.

Now I'm not sure what the budget is. $100? or $1000? Also, it may help to note here, NEVER tell your wife that you get money left over from travel-vouchers. That is, in the military, when you go TDY (Temporarily Divorced Yank) Uncle Sam may give you anywheres from $36 bucks to the most recent, $136 a day. Depending on the exotic nature of the locale. Anyhow, so of course, because I'm used to being whipped about the head and shoulders for spending more than $10 a day, I of course, am a little gun-shy about using all that and almost feel an apology is in order if I spend the actual $36. So, much like most well-trained married men, when TDY, I hit the local commissary/minimart and stock up on sundries and then eat one meal on the economy. Suffice it to say, I'm going to have some cash left over. But, see, chicks are sly. Wives more so. See, I have a slush-fund. An old account from my Navy days. Well, anyhow, each month, an allotment of $100 is deposited into said account. So after time, and losing my card, forgetting my pin, etc, it starts to accumulate. I told Stacey the other day to go out and buy some new clothes to the tune of $438.45, give or take a dime. Anyhow, that's because that's exactly how much is in the account. I did this because she looks so wonderful after doing her Charlean....no, wait..."Charlean" is an exercise regimine...anyhow, she's really made huge strides. As a husband the only thing you really truly understand is NEVER mention she should lose weight. You can only encourage and casually mention. NEVER look directly at it, much like the sun, it will burn your retinas.

Where were we? Oh, so I gave her the go-ahead to forge my name on a, "Check" (a peice of paper people used to use to as a promissary note) and reimburse the credit card for the aforementioned purchases. It would be important to mention here that two pairs of Robin Meade black boots (knee length) were purchased, about four shirt/blouse thingies, and some pants that actually fit correctly. Additionally some other stuff was purchased, but you kids dont need to worry your pretty little heads about that. Let's just say that we cancelled our, "Saltlakecityhelpwanted.com" add for a french maid. But you'll never guess it so stop trying.

So, anyhow, my point after all this rambling is that my little male brain gets confused, because all these accounts, all these hints, and no real concern on her part for either cashing my check (let alone writing one) nor pressure regarding the left over travel money has been exhibited. So, it's the damndest thing, but I'm wondering if we have just plain given up and decided to be just like every other red-blooded American and involve ourselves in deficit-spending, or should I be more careful and only spend the smaller portion? Now, I KNOW the answer to getting your wife a gift is NOT to get her the following practical gifts: 1) cover for the travel trailer; 2) generator for said trailer; 3) tire covers for the trailer; 4) new 6 volt batteries for the trailer. So, with that knowledge, then I can move on to less practical gifts. The mattress idea sounds good. She's complained since she was pregnant with Olivia that we have ruts in the bed. Of course, I assumed she meant LITERAL ruts, like graves with the ends kicked out, but it couls also mean sensual ruts, so I've not delved too deeply and just invited the maid over for tea and crumpets from time to time.

What was the subject again? Oh, so anyhow, now it's almost eight A.M. on Black Friday. Yeah, I really pulled a stupid last night and tipped my hat on intent to brave the crowds at Sears and look at a 40" flat screen. Our current T.V. is as old as most Chevy Chase movies and is in dire need of a power-button, surround sound, and no Wabbit Earwas. So, that then leads you to believe it might lean toward the "Practical". But the wedding ring thing is like $4k, which we dont have, on-account of selfishly I'm buying a septic tank next year for our cabin lot and frankly if she has a problem with that then the next little filly along will enjoy all that endless flushing if she dont want it. Know-what-am-a-sayin'??? Hm hmm? Anyhow, so I really have to close now, but I really only meant Sears because I was going to breathe in the beauty of the tool department, lightly run my hands over a new snowblower, caress a Toro Weedwacker (which I used to have before it was stolen) and maybe tell one of the kids, "NO!" to the idea of popcorn/roasted almonds cheering me on toward the, "10% Off When You Use Your Sears Card sign."

OK, anyhow, go about your day, dont start any fights, color inside the lines and I'll have a full report on my findings later on in the weekend.
Uh, awkward closings now so...

See ya.

Post Game Wrap-Up

OK Kids. So we did it. We successsfully navigated the familial requirements of funneling a whole slug of family and friends into a house and devouring turkey, eggs on the half-shell, and yams with gigantic marshmellow blankets upon them. I would say all-in-all, I'm giving today a solid 9. Mostly because the only way to get to a ten would be for Daisy Fuentes to request I help her shave those, "Hard-to-Reach" areas. Presumably on her big toes. Latinas can be down-right hairy.

Anyhow, I digress. So, there we were, no kidding. At my cousin Jared and Sabrina's place in W.J. That's how the peeps from that AOR (Areola of Repsponsibility) say it. Anyhow, beautiful spread. The food I mean. Two turkeys, beautiful settings with two plates stacked on top each other. Also two different sized forks complete with velvety feeling napkins. Really for our side of the family Sabrina truly out-did herself. Where were we? Oh, anyhow, the Cowboys narrowly missed finally putting a, "W" (Dubbya) in the, "Win" column, and the Saints, whom have ridden this whole, "Hurricane Katrina" sympathy wagon right into the ground narrowly pulled off the victory of the week by stripping the ball and causing a fumble in the final five minutes...where were we? Oh, anyhow, we then watched a Versus Outdoors show on the amazing new world of pneumatic air rifles and I realized that now a BB gun cost more than my grandad's 30.06 would at the local Pawn Stars depot.

Well anyhow, nothing of real import happened today, which makes this day even that much more palatable. We all laughed, we smiled, we ate, veni vidi vici. OK, so, I better go help smack kids around. Josh has the liquid-joes, Lexi is feeding Sally Anne, Stacey looks tired and I'm about to get, "The Look" which is her polite way of saying, "Tell your throngs of adoring fans (both of you), g'night."

So, without further adieu, I bid you...a-dieu.

Newby-Thanksgiving Apologies

OK, now, I've had some complaints of sorts. Please give me a few days to learn how to use this. I'm working on first having good quality material to read, as our first complaint was that I drone on and on with little or no, "LMAO" or "LOL" between skimmings. So, give me some time. It's Thanksgiving today and I'm headed over to my cousin's for Thanksgiving. Last night was, "Pie Night" and I watched a whole hour of football and then had to take another hour of nappy-nap to recover.

BTW (That's, "By the Way"), I'm also thinking that Tom Brady is kind of a bad-ass and I want to grow my beard and mullet in just like his. However, my current profession, as well as latino background are both voting against that happening.

OK, gotta close now, hitting, "Send".

Wish us luck. This, as well as Pie Night, would be an excellent opportunity to partake of either, "Wild Turkey" or some Black Label.

Out for now Meow.

Good day to you.

Background Noise 2008

2008 A Year in Review
Dateline: Riverton, Utah 84096
This year has truly been a momentous year in our lives. From challenges at school and work, to opportunities to make new friends, we’ve truly been blessed throughout this year. Beginning early this Spring, we embarked on a couple of new family projects. One of which was to establish a garden, another was to raise some chickens, and still others included a vacation to Bermuda for Stacey and I, and another to Yellowstone with the kids, as well as a good deal of travel for work.

Beginning almost immediately after the last of the snow thaw, we tilled up a portion of the pasture behind my dad’s house in order to prepare for a garden. The approximate dimensions of this modest garden were to be around 35’ x 50’. Uncle Brandon was gracious enough to bring a tilt-bed work truck with 1 and 1/3 yd3 of compost, which we generously raked into the garden and then tilled in. Throughout the coming weeks we visited the local feed store to pick up seeds, as well as forty-eight tomato starts from a local green house. Stacey and I had often discussed the importance of teaching our children the value of work. What better way than to enjoy the labors of a family garden together? After multiple discussions with Grandpa Bill, we settled on a three rows of beets, three types of squash, six rows of corn, ten heads of cabbage, and the aforementioned tomato plants. We also selected a pickling type of cucumber, radishes of red and white varieties, carrots, water melon, cantaloupe, and various and sundry types of chili peppers. As our efforts continued, we installed a drip irrigation system from the secondary water to keep our garden growing. Additionally, we surrounded our little vegetable haven with four-foot field fencing, complete with gate to ensuring that either little kid feet, and big puppy feet, wouldn’t spoil the harvest.

As mentioned before, we also instituted a new backyard chicken industry through the purchase of some mixed breed chicks from a chicken “rancher” north of Salt Lake City. With an initial estimate of fifty chickens, I figured half of them would turn out as roosters, and half as hens. Our plan, was to grow them both to maturity, butcher the roosters (aside from one lucky little devil) and put meat in the freezer. To top it off, these chickens were of a brown-egg laying variety, which would almost ensure that the roosters would top out at nine or ten pound birds by the time butchering was necessary. At the time, efforts to reduce our flock at the appropriate time did not seem all that daunting, as I was sure that 25 roosters would behave themselves long enough to make it to full maturity to become welcome additions to the family deep-freeze.
During this same time period, my dad caught hold of the vision and also began ordering chicken connoisseur books in order to satiate his desires for the ultimate in at-home chicken production facilities and practices. As a result of his fervor, I was often subjected to on-the-spot direction to read the aforementioned publications, and return the following week with a detailed report of my findings.
As an important note, shortly after (during) planting the garden, our children: Josh, Lexi, and Isabelle all lost interest and any desire to work in the garden. Instead they focused their cumulative efforts toward mauling to death our surprisingly agile and resilient chicks. While I labored to find the perfect species of tomato, the children attempted with their complicit 90-lb dog to either inhale or crush our baby chicks. It is important to note that initial purchase estimates had factored in a ten percent loss to squishing, mauling, or otherwise ignominious deaths within our burgeoning and ever-fragrant flock.

About a month into our chicken ranching endeavors, and six weeks into our garden, Brandon, dad, Josh and I began making preparations for our second annual, “Guys’ Weekend”. This year our sites were set upon a five-day back-packing trip into the nether reaches of the High Uintah Mountains. When we weren’t discussing our back-yard poultry project, or the finer aspects of drip-irrigation management, we focused our efforts in planning a day-by-day itinerary of the guys weekends. Countless hours were spent pouring over maps, calculating via Global Positioning Systems, reviewing meal requirements, basic load requirements and debates upon the amount of calories necessary to fuel us along our journey. We poured over a giant stock-pile of MRE’s (Meals Reticent to Eat), back-packs, tents, stoves, giardia removing water bottles, conducted three- months worth of map reconnaissance and training in order to embark on our quest.
During the last week of June, and the first week of July, we set off to the Reader Lakes, Queant Lake, and the final stop, Chepeta Lake. Brandon and dad went up a day early to set up, “base camp” at the Pole Creek camp ground. Pole Creek has always been a family favorite which consistently yields pan-sized trout, as well as almost equally large mosquitoes. Josh and I met them a day later by driving my little Saturn four hours from Salt Lake to base camp. That night we made final preparations as well as necessary adjustments to our packs. Dad left our intentions with the camp-host, conducted final checks on back-up batteries and put way-points into both Brandon’s and dad’s GPSs. While at base camp, we enjoyed our final night of sleep in the soft- downy fill of a bed of straw, in the antique octagonal Army Tent that dad has enjoyed since he was a boy-scout. I have a suspicion that many officers also enjoyed many nights under the tee-pee like qualities of the canvas covering during the Korean Conflict.
The next morning we embarked on over twenty miles of rocks, boulders, alpine streams, meadows that contained fast running mountain creeks, and enjoyed some of the most beautiful scenery God ever created. The initial ascent to the Reader Lakes was the steepest of our climb, and we made four or five miles that morning before an afternoon monsoon created a diversion long enough for us to set up our back-packing dome tents. Although there was snow under some of the pines we hardly noticed any cold as we baited our hooks to catch the native brook trout out of the larger of the twin Reader lakes. During that initial ascent, I acquired the dome tent to lighten dad’s load.
The next morning we broke camp and were on the trail before eight a.m. toward our next stop, Queant Lake. While on the way to Queant, I inherited the .38 caliber revolver (dangerous bears you understand) and the supposedly requisite twenty rounds of ammo from dad. It seems he was having difficulty maintaining inertia up the steep and rocky trails at sixty-three years old and 139 lb soaking-wet. Looking back, I am reluctant to believe that the full load of twenty rounds of ammo were really necessary to protect us from the ravages of an adolescent 100-lb scruffy and anemic black bear who merely enjoyed the smell of trail mix, jerky, and MRE salsa chicken on our breath. Upon arrival at Queant we made camp shortly before the afternoon deluge, and awoke to find a young moose walking across the expanse of the marsh before us. Brandon, Josh and I went up to fish the little stream and we enjoyed modest success for the five and six- inch long natives within the stream. I hooked a few and let Josh real them in on my nine-foot fly rod. However the greatest success was alongside the inlet of the lake, wherein we caught some nice one-pound plus brookies that would hit the bait almost as fast as we could get it into the water. For a short while I told Josh that we could only use the one pole between us as I could not keep his hands off of the stationary pole, while simultaneously casting the other pole and realizing that his pole had a fish on. Someone should come up with a better system for taking kids fishing, as for some reason, regardless of the success, or lack-thereof, they insist on throwing rocks into the exact area you’re trying to fish in. Compound that challenge with their seemingly unwavering ability to tie your line in knots, while simultaneously knocking over worms, complaining about mosquitoes and hunger even though you fed them fifteen minutes prior.
Leaving Queant that next morning, we traveled past an un-named lake, hit the outer edge of Taylor lake, and up over the low ridgeline pass to the drainage East of the Readers. We fished that afternoon along the stream and made an early camp that night before walking out to Chepeta the next afternoon. All told Josh was able to pack his own backpack, sleeping back , mess kit, and his knife-fork-spoon combo-thingy the entire trip without complaint. At this point it may be important to mention that in addition to carrying the tent, the .38 pistol (with rounds), my clothes, Josh’s clothes, our food, and back-up batteries, back-up knife combos, a radio we never used, a compass I never used, and having nearly set the tent on fire one afternoon with a faulty kerosene burner, I can confidently report that we had a wonderful time together.

Upon our return to the valley, I had to report to drill, and was unable to conduct any maintenance in our garden, due to the more pressing issues of chicken-ranch management. At this point we moved all the chickens into the old shed which twenty-five years earlier had served as a chicken coop for a five-year run at the chicken ranching industry. During the evenings when we had time, dad and I set up a modest run using fencing stakes, and one-inch poultry fencing of the four-foot variety. We also conducted a leg-banding experiment in which dad and I caught all of the chickens and placed either a blue, or a yellow leg-band on the chickens based upon our guess as to the sex of the young birds. Dad also made some laying boxes out some old milk crates as well as set up 2x2 roosts within the hen-house. It was at this point I realized I was spending an inordinate amount of time NOT tending to the garden.
Over the next couple of weeks dad kept quizzing me on the books he had sent home with me weeks earlier, and I vowed to actually read them so as to appease him despite my already keen knowledge of the chicken raising arena gleaned years earlier during my formative chicken-ranching years. Within one of the books, obviously written sometime around 1978, I learned that in addition to chickens and the garden what we were really missing were some geese. As it turns out, the purported evidence in all three chicken and goose manuals pointed toward the undeniable fact that geese, unlike chickens thrive on eating weeds. Additionally, geese could be counted upon to tend a strawberry patch and make the shortest of work in clearing up unwanted growth within our little garden. At that point I also discovered that turkeys could be counted upon to protect a young laying flock from stray cats, small dogs and weasels. During the next couple of weeks after spending an average of four hours each Saturday uncovering our little garden from the ravages of red-root, morning glory, dandelions, and other weeds, I vowed to find acceptably priced geese to assist in this never-ending task. Over the course of the next few weeks I found one goose that was a couple blocks from dad’s place, and another four geese that I could pick up in Salt Lake. The one goose was offered at five dollars, and the three kids went with me to pick up “Chuck”. The other four were put into a cat-carrier and were about two pounds a piece and were devoid of any feathering and were covered with a fine greenish-down coupled with my first experience with “s--- through a goose”. It is not important to mention, yet I will, I also experienced the rancid taste of goose by-product when I went to catch the little beggars out of the dog-crate and transfer them into the large rubber-maid tote in the back of my car.

Upon arrival back at the chicken-ranch/garden haven, much to my dismay I discovered that the four small geese could easily walk right through the four-inch field fencing around our garden. In fact, not only were they not encumbered at all by the fencing, neither was their surrogate mother, Chuck, now more aptly referred to as, “Charlene”. In addition, preliminary evidence showed that Chuck and Company not only preferred to dine on the sweet tops of our carrots, they pretty much ignored any and all of the seemingly succulent weeds lying easily within reach. Realizing that the efforts here-to-fore exerted on the garden were in peril, we created a small make-shift pen to keep Charlie and her followers away from the most tender of our garden sprouts until a more suitable enclosure could be had. The next weekend I installed a small two-foot tall poultry fence as an adjunct to the sizeable garden. This enclosure as it was reasoned, would serve two purposes. One, that Charlie and Company would eat the prevailing grass within the enclosure; and two, that goose by-product would serve as fodder for an even larger garden in 2009, once we reclaimed additional pasture, and refigured the foot-print of the original garden enclosure to include Chuck and Companies’ new digs. It also should be pointed out, that I had every intention of putting in an application for “Green Credits” with Ex-Vice President Gore. However, I lost the original paperwork, and when I went back to his website it had been shut-down due to a three-way litigation between Gore, the Sierra Club, and the Arbor Foundation over the proprietary rights to reducing carbon footprints through planting trees, shrubberies, and as it turns out, Zucchinis. It was at that moment that I realized that even if I WAS the only one that could prevent forest fires, some dill-weed back in the Belt Way had a better idea as to how to manage anything green out West anyhow and I would probably end up in Federal Court if I let on that I was contemplating killing a rare variant of Kentucky Blue Grass.
About this same time, our little nuclear family accompanied the vast majority of Stacey’s clan to visit Yellowstone National Park at the latter end of July. I felt horrible about leaving dad alone with the new residents, however in the meanwhile, I had a lead on some young turkey’s that were becoming available in the immediate future. We visited Yellowstone and had a wonderful time.


Upon our return, within one week I had to attend my unit’s Annual Training for two weeks. Prior to my departure, I picked up two six-week old turkeys for the bargain price of four dollars each. Josh named one aptly, “Tom” and quixotically, the other, “Jerry”. Immediately prior to my departure for our Annual Training, I relocated the two new residents into the chicken house, only to discover that despite anything stated in the most recent of our chicken-ranch publications, Tom and Jerry were summarily handed their respective posteriors as soon as I placed them within the hen house. At issue, were the as-yet, un-dead twenty-five roosters were now feeling their oats and establishing, and re-establishing a pecking order every four or five minutes without ceasing. At this point we removed the turkeys from the garrison portion of the ranch and placed them down-range in the garden.
During my A.T., I was unable to return home for the first week despite the locality of training being only fifteen miles away from our home. However, during the second week of A.T., I vowed that all roosters that acted out of turn while I was visiting the ranch would make the short-list for those that were freezer-bound. One night after I had vowed to take out three of the little peckers at one time, I ended up with twelve-weeks of Rooster-Rage that resulted in seven dead at final count. Within the aforementioned chicken rancher publications, was the recommendation to boil a large pot of water in order to dip the chickens into it to release the feathers from the chicken carcasses. This would allow the, “easy” removal of feathers from the carcasses. I can testify to you, that all this accomplishes is a wet-smelling chicken, with feathers that stick to your pants, shirt, face and other areas. You still end up with an anemic looking yellow pigeon that appears only vaguely similar to the plump and festive one in the meat case at your local grocery. After the fourth or fifth chicken, I realized that it was far easier to just skin the chickens out and be done with it. However, after removing legs, skin, heads, and other sundries, the breasts on these chickens, combined with their spindly legs amounted to around three pounds of the most un-palatable, nearly free-range, but highly- organic dead parrot.
After “processing”, at last count, twenty of the ornery little cusses I directed my brother to give away the remaining seven or so birds to some of his more latin-american co-workers just to be rid of the cock-sure little beggars.
It is important to note at this point, that during this same time-period, the “Better Boy” tomatoes that were planted somewhere in paragraph two had now began to bear fruit of the highest quality, and with proliferate results. Stacey, or as she’s now known, “Sister Stacey” (currently awaiting canonization) went to work elbows-deep in canning tomatoes twice a week. Not only did the Patron Saint of Canning work miracles with mason jars and tomatoes, she also set to work on the burgeoning pears, plums, and pickles that now littered the garage on a continuous basis. During this same time period, Sister Stacey also cracked the ‘Decaprio Code’ of preserving her infamous salsa. Because this salsa changed tastes after being cooked, I dubbed it, “Second-Best Salsa”. At the time of printing this yearly update, we have not as yet copyrighted the name, nor have we found a distributer for our as yet, minimally produced local salsa. I am confident there is a market for this salsa however as we can clearly boast that we use only locally produced, 100% organic, free-range tomatoes. That’s right, none of our tomatoes are kept in cages, as we just don’t believe it is humane to lock our tomatoes up in a tiny little 1’x1’ cage their entire lives just to satisfy the needs of un-caring, inherently evil, carbon-footprinting, eco-challenged human-types. Anyhow, our marketing strategy is simple: Small pint-sized jars with a little yellow sticker claiming, ‘Second Best Salsa ®’; 100% locally grown with love in every jar. Maybe a small A.M. radio spot on a local station with friends gathered around the television watching some sporting event. The male host reaches into the cupboard for a pint of Second Best. When the wife of the visiting couple asks, “where did you get that? How cute!! David, look at that, Second Best Salsa! I love it”. Then the narrator says, “Second Best Salsa, when good enough is good enough.” I mean, really this is the kind of salsa you have for friends who use the back-door to the house. Friends who are just like family. No airs about them just good fine folks like you know. Anyhow, that’s our niche. I’m just trying to find a way to break the news to Stacey that we’re going to have to plant 1000 tomato plants after this baby goes national to our internet-only customers. I’m thinking we’ll have to go “elitist” and take pre-orders each season and make a 12-jar limit.
During the extended harvest, we also began to shudder at the prospect of finding what the zucchini squash, yellow-squash, crook-necked squash, and butternut squash had done a few nights previous each time I visited, the “Kenworthy Orchard, Garden, and Poultry Hangout (KOGPH). It got so bad that some of the neighbors would see me coming and lock their doors and draw the shades rather than listen to my sales-pitch of free squash and the weekly method of preparation. I began feeding chickens any and all squash products that couldn’t be unloaded on neighbors and loose associates alike.

OK, I forgot something. Early on in the Spring, I also embarked on a 13 yd3 effort to expand our grilling space and potential shed cantonment area behind the house. I liked to refer to it as, “A Patio”. Enlisting the help of my brother, the earlier referenced dump-truck, and a cute little “beetle” excavator, I went to work tearing apart our back-yard in preparation for the mother-of-all patios. Picture it, 1000 ft2 of additional horizontal ‘space’. One could barely imagine the possibilities, should I put up a barn-style shed, should I create a parking area for ATV’s and the trailer? So many opportunities reeled through my mind. Perhaps an awning, something classy with a nice rain-gutter, a grilling area fit for a suburban king. Ultimately I would like a wrap-around stone altar, the kind with a built in sink, mini-fridge, and cabinets. Oh, and stainless steel is the ONLY way to go with DUAL grilling areas. Perhaps a granite top for food preparation… Meanwhile, back at the Hall of Justice, Reality Woman was forming a new plan of attack for Suburban Man. Her plan, was to put the yard back together, or else. So, after I had successfully removed that pesky main-water line for the sprinklers, as well as about five cubic yards of material unnecessarily, I went about forming a plan to somehow break the as-yet pristine $5000 vinyl fence standing between me, a concrete truck, and total world domination. So, after one week of making a large crater in the backyard, the floods came and filled it up every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday for the next six weeks. Each time it would dry out, the next weekend would bring another deluge of hate, despair, and general uneasiness at the prospects of not having followed my earlier intuition to build a nice little ark instead. After week seven of this madness, I vowed to be a better man, and with the help of the vestal Sister Stacey, the Heavens shown down light upon our little hovel, and the rains ceased long enough for me to shovel (by hand along with my 63 year-old father) 20 tons of gravel back into the former, “Lake Kenworthy”. A few short weeks later, after two separate pours, and many Advil, My dreams had in fact become reality. The patio was complete, and I was no longer a zealot, crying “hear ye, hear ye, the day of the patio is nigh!” anymore.
Sister Stacey now tells me that I have droned on and on, and that the majority of our readership long ago threw this yellow journalism onto your kitchen counter in disgust, and that only the very elite are at this time reading this final prose. In all seriousness we have been so very blessed this year. Josh our son turned eight and was baptized. Alexia (Lexi) turned seven and is practicing her wonderful talent for singing. Isabelle is a firecracker to put it mildly. She just turned four and shows every sign of willingness to drive her father into an early grave, and her grandparents into the poor house. We’ve been so very blessed this year. Work has been available and constant, Stacey has been teaching piano lessons and I’m still a Captain in the Utah National Guard. Work this year has taken me to Azerbaijan, Morocco, France, Germany, and even to far-off and exotic locales such as, Baltimore MD. But no matter how far I go, or how long I’m gone, I’m always ready to come home and be with my wonderful, animated, highly- productive and musical little flock.
May your heart be opened and blessed this holiday season. May your New Year be bright and full of promise. May the Lord bless and keep you safe in all that you do, and may you know the comfort of knowing the Savior is watching over you and yours.

God bless and Keep You,

The Kenworthys.