I met a real Barbie one day. It wasn't so much how she looked—if she really looked like Barbie, she'd probably have lower back problems and fall over a lot. Rather, it was her lifestyle that brought the comparison. It happened when my older daughter, Miara, needed a ride home from a friend's house. I'd already changed into my pajamas and didn't want to change back, so I put on an old army-style coat that I'd gotten from a friend who wanted to throw it away. I couldn't find my shoes, so I stepped into my winter snow boots. I'm sure I looked right at home—that is, if my home was under a freeway overpass.
I drove up the steep hill, past the country club, to the friend's house. All the houses there were very nice, very big, and each one very unique. They must have had restrictive covenants requiring meticulous landscaping and Range Rovers. The view of all the lights in the valley below was pretty awesome.
I rang the loud, clanging doorbell and Ken and Barbie answered. Barbie had immaculate hair and makeup, even at that late hour. Ken's sporty sweater hadn't a wrinkle on it. They invited me in to the parlor, where I stood on the shiny hardwood floor next to an equally shiny Steinway. Two very well behaved dogs strode in and sat quietly.
By all measures, it was the perfect couple, with a perfect house, in a perfect neighborhood, and perfect dogs. I'll bet they even trained the dogs to use the toilet. Despite how nice it was, I felt extremely uncomfortable and out of place. It wasn't my clothing, but more like I'd stepped into a totally different reality. They told me how much the girls had enjoyed their time down in the theater room all evening. Ken asked what I did for a living. I told him I drove trucks for the landfill.
Luckily Miara soon emerged from the palace basement and rescued me. Once she saw my attire, she said goodbye to her friend and pushed me out the door. After that, she always asked Mom to pick her up.
A few months later, my younger daughter Ro Ro needed a ride home from a friend's house. This neighborhood was the exact opposite of Barbie On The Hill's. It was sandwiched between a freeway, a hotel, and a refinery. The houses in the cul-de-sac were originally all the same, but several sported additional rooms and sheds attached to the main structure. Toys, bikes, lawnmowers, and dogs cluttered the yards. One house had an old muscle car on blocks in the driveway with an engine dangling above it. The sidewalk had some cool skateboard and bike ramps where tree roots had lifted up the concrete slabs.
I parked in the single-car driveway and held the screen door steady so I could knock on it. A half-dozen kids rushed to welcome me in. I gathered that they lived in nearby houses but used this one as their second home. The living room had a mess of toys that the kids were having a great time playing with. A slobbery, crotch-sniffing dog lumbered around and knocked stuff down with his tail.
The mom walked out of the kitchen and my first impression was of Mrs. Pillsbury—Poppie Fresh. She wore a stained apron and carried a spatula. Bobbie pins held her greying hair back. Her bare feet looked used to stepping on Hot Wheels and jacks.
She immediately related how much fun it was to have the kids all there and invited me to stay for dinner. It smelled wonderful, but we had to leave. For those few minutes I was there, though, I felt completely at home. It was like I'd known the family my whole life.
I don't want to force a value judgment on these two families. I'm sure Ken and Barbie were wonderful people that I could have become good friends with—if I had season opera tickets. And I have a lot of respect for someone who's ambitious enough to afford that lifestyle. I'm also sure Poppie Fresh sometimes wished she had a bigger home and someone to cook for her once in a while. But it struck me that Poppie's home was so much more inviting because she wasn't out to prove anything.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Strawberries vs. Juniper Berries
Two of my sisters-in-law are in town for a few weeks from Taiwan. They're both very nice and generous, and have enjoyed traveling many places, particularly in Asia and Europe. During a conversation, they talked about The Strawberry Generation in Taiwan—referring to many young people who can't seem to do anything on their own. The strawberries live with their parents, can't find a decent job, and rely on others for everything. The comparison to strawberries comes from the fact that strawberries go bad after a very short time if not stored in optimal conditions.
While they were here, we visited Arches National Park and Dead Horse Point. Anyone who's traveled to Utah's Red Rock Country knows the climate there is hot, dry, high elevation desert. It's beautiful, but extremely inhospitable. We hiked to the iconic Delicate Arch. That trail isn't a particularly long hike, but can be arduous for those not accustomed to hiking, especially in that climate. Our Land Cruiser is well-suited to slick rock four-wheeling so we took it up the relatively mild Gemini Bridges trail and stopped at many of the overlooks and took way too many pictures that we'll probably never look at again. (We didn't take the Cruiser on the Metal Masher trail, because we needed to get back to Salt Lake City in one piece.)
Along with cactus and sagebrush, juniper is very common in Red Rock Country. Junipers (杜鬆屬) are a scrubby evergreen with stringy bark and small green berries. I love junipers—they remind me of many family vacations to Southern Utah in my youth. Junipers can survive the harshest of climes, high and low temperature extremes, deep snow, no water for months at a time, and very poor soil. They're the exact opposite of strawberries.
My daughter Amria and I later talked about our trip and realized that many people fall into these two categories—strawberries and junipers. Some people can't handle the least amount of discomfort or can't function when facing even small adversity. Others, like the mountain bikers we saw on the Gemini Bridges trail, seem to relish hardships. Call it "character building," "learning from experience," "training for the zombie apocalypse," or whatever you want, but perhaps having at least a little adversity in our lives helps prepare us for the big stuff. Like zombies.
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| Delicate Arch |
Along with cactus and sagebrush, juniper is very common in Red Rock Country. Junipers (杜鬆屬) are a scrubby evergreen with stringy bark and small green berries. I love junipers—they remind me of many family vacations to Southern Utah in my youth. Junipers can survive the harshest of climes, high and low temperature extremes, deep snow, no water for months at a time, and very poor soil. They're the exact opposite of strawberries.
My daughter Amria and I later talked about our trip and realized that many people fall into these two categories—strawberries and junipers. Some people can't handle the least amount of discomfort or can't function when facing even small adversity. Others, like the mountain bikers we saw on the Gemini Bridges trail, seem to relish hardships. Call it "character building," "learning from experience," "training for the zombie apocalypse," or whatever you want, but perhaps having at least a little adversity in our lives helps prepare us for the big stuff. Like zombies.
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| Red Rock Country Junipers |
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Life Doesn't Stink
I'm by no means a wealthy or famous person. I grew up in a lower-middle class neighborhood and that hasn't changed much. I've never won any great awards or sporting events. I've never invented anything, though I did make a cool house for our cockatiel Tiki. Probably the most notable thing that's ever happened to me is my elbow was in an episode of the TV show Touched by an Angel.
But every now and again, events happen to remind me that perhaps my life is worth something. One of those happened last week when my oldest daughter got married to a nice and well-deserving young man. Miara and Colton are a great young couple and I know they have many happy years ahead of them.
As children, we don't realize how much we mean to our parents—or how mean we are to our parents sometimes. But once we have children of our own, most of us soon discover that our most important work in life is doing our best to keep our children from crashing and burning. It's difficult enough just to manage our own affairs. But add to that the needs of a spouse, one or more children, a career, a house, friends . . . You start to wonder how anyone makes it through life without going totally nuts.
Miara has always made us proud. She's artistic, funny, smart, pretty, and fun to be with. She often makes very astute statements—Miaraisms—that everyone should take to heart.
"People should be required to take a test before having kids."
"Dad, you can't wear plaid with more plaid."
"Mom, you don't need to teach me the facts of life—I learned all that in fourth grade."
"Can I have a hippopotamus for my birthday?"
"I'm not sure if the Easter Bunny is real. I saw him at the mall, and there aren't any real bunnies that big."
"The planet would be a lot better place if there weren't any people on it."
"The problem with the world today is people don't watch enough Disney movies."
With astute comments like that coming from my offspring, how could I ever feel that my life isn't worth anything? Thanks, Miara, for making everyone around you happy. And thanks, Colton, for making Miara happy.
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| Little Miara (and Bumper) |
As children, we don't realize how much we mean to our parents—or how mean we are to our parents sometimes. But once we have children of our own, most of us soon discover that our most important work in life is doing our best to keep our children from crashing and burning. It's difficult enough just to manage our own affairs. But add to that the needs of a spouse, one or more children, a career, a house, friends . . . You start to wonder how anyone makes it through life without going totally nuts.
Miara has always made us proud. She's artistic, funny, smart, pretty, and fun to be with. She often makes very astute statements—Miaraisms—that everyone should take to heart.
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| Big Miara |
"Dad, you can't wear plaid with more plaid."
"Mom, you don't need to teach me the facts of life—I learned all that in fourth grade."
"Can I have a hippopotamus for my birthday?"
"I'm not sure if the Easter Bunny is real. I saw him at the mall, and there aren't any real bunnies that big."
"The planet would be a lot better place if there weren't any people on it."
"The problem with the world today is people don't watch enough Disney movies."
With astute comments like that coming from my offspring, how could I ever feel that my life isn't worth anything? Thanks, Miara, for making everyone around you happy. And thanks, Colton, for making Miara happy.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Getting Soaked in Mexico
We had the opportunity last summer to visit Puerto Vallarta, Mexico as a family. It was one of the funnest vacations we've ever had. We stayed in a hotel on the beach, swam with dolphins, rode horses through the jungle, sailed on a pirate ship, met a sea turtle laying her eggs in the sand, and a bunch of other fun things.
One day, we went up into the jungle to try out the zip lines. Our youngest son, Tian Tian, has Down Syndrome and was eleven years old at the time. We really worried he wouldn't be able to do it. The first zip line was purposefully designed to be easy and slow, to help prepare people for some of the others that can go at speeds nearing forty-five miles an hour (over 70 kph). We hoped that by starting out with that line, Tian Tian wouldn't be too frightened to continue to the others.
One of the zip guys got into the harness and helped Tian Tian in with him. It was raining a bit and he really doesn't like to get wet. He looked at us like we were sending him to his death. Everyone thought he'd cry or panic. But as soon as he was out in the air and zipped across the canyon, he cheered and yelled with delight. Once we joined him on the opposite side, he immediately told us he didn't want our help on any other lines—he wanted to ride with the zip guys who'd just become his best friends.
We rode fifteen or so very steep zip lines back and forth across a deep canyon. It was a blast and the zip guys were great. They helped Tian Tian with each line and made sure he had just as much fun as everyone else. By the time we finished, we were all soaking wet from the tropical heat and the rain. But everyone was happy and had a great time.
After riding all the zips, the guide steered our group toward the tequila tasting bar. My wife and I have never been drinkers, mostly because our religion frowns on it. But more than that, we had four children with us, none of whom were drinking age.
So while everyone else went to the bar, our family went down to the river and found some big rope and vine swings. For the next hour, we hurled ourselves out over the river and dropped into the warm water. Even Tian Tian had fun sitting under a short waterfall and riding the swings.
Eventually, it was time to head back down to the city and we boarded an open-air bus that had a tarp suspended above the seats. It was raining even harder at that point—the warm rain of the tropics—and everyone was soaked. And our kids got an instant education in what it's like to be around a bunch of people who'd gotten soaked in a different way. The whole crowd on the bus was quite tipsy from the tequila, and they laughed, sang, joked, and had a ball all the way down the winding mountain road. Every corner we rounded brought down a torrent of water from the tarp onto everyone sitting near the sides, and roars of laughter from everyone in the middle. They never seemed to tire of it, even though the same thing happened at every turn.
We were all pretty tired when we returned to the hotel. But it was a great day, where we'd once again met a bunch of strangers who were willing to go out of their way to assist a young child with a disability. And of course, we also got entertained by all the tequila, even though none of us drank even a drop.
One day, we went up into the jungle to try out the zip lines. Our youngest son, Tian Tian, has Down Syndrome and was eleven years old at the time. We really worried he wouldn't be able to do it. The first zip line was purposefully designed to be easy and slow, to help prepare people for some of the others that can go at speeds nearing forty-five miles an hour (over 70 kph). We hoped that by starting out with that line, Tian Tian wouldn't be too frightened to continue to the others.
One of the zip guys got into the harness and helped Tian Tian in with him. It was raining a bit and he really doesn't like to get wet. He looked at us like we were sending him to his death. Everyone thought he'd cry or panic. But as soon as he was out in the air and zipped across the canyon, he cheered and yelled with delight. Once we joined him on the opposite side, he immediately told us he didn't want our help on any other lines—he wanted to ride with the zip guys who'd just become his best friends.
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| Tian Tian & his zip line buddies |
After riding all the zips, the guide steered our group toward the tequila tasting bar. My wife and I have never been drinkers, mostly because our religion frowns on it. But more than that, we had four children with us, none of whom were drinking age.
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| Ro Ro swings over the jungle river |
Eventually, it was time to head back down to the city and we boarded an open-air bus that had a tarp suspended above the seats. It was raining even harder at that point—the warm rain of the tropics—and everyone was soaked. And our kids got an instant education in what it's like to be around a bunch of people who'd gotten soaked in a different way. The whole crowd on the bus was quite tipsy from the tequila, and they laughed, sang, joked, and had a ball all the way down the winding mountain road. Every corner we rounded brought down a torrent of water from the tarp onto everyone sitting near the sides, and roars of laughter from everyone in the middle. They never seemed to tire of it, even though the same thing happened at every turn.
We were all pretty tired when we returned to the hotel. But it was a great day, where we'd once again met a bunch of strangers who were willing to go out of their way to assist a young child with a disability. And of course, we also got entertained by all the tequila, even though none of us drank even a drop.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Junkyard Amigos
I'm not always a sociable person, and often prefer sitting around writing or watching a show to hanging out with people. Even with exercising, I prefer individual sports rather than team sports. (Plus, I'm pretty bad at most team sports.)
Despite that, I still enjoy the small interactions we all have with other people. I'm referring to the talk-with-someone-in-the-checkout-line type of interactions. The kind where you meet someone, have a short social dialog, then you're on your way, probably to never meet again.
I used to own an old Saturn car that we kept for about eighteen years before finally trading it in. It had those strange automatic seat belts that most people hated, and one day, a seatbelt motor broke. So I headed to the junkyard to find a used one.
The boneyard I went to wasn't the type I used to buy parts at when I was in high school. You know the kind—where rusting heaps of vehicles are piled all over in the mud and you're pretty much on your own. No, this one was lined up in neat rows. Each car was propped up on bare rims. Each type of car had its own section. It was like a Walmart, but with better quality merchandise. Even the "aisles" were lined with packed gravel.
I made my way to the Saturn department and immediately found a car with a working seatbelt. I'd brought screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers, and a hammer. But I didn't have a star-drive socket. I noticed another man nearby who seemed to be browsing, rather than looking for any particular parts. And I also noticed he had a big tool case with him.
I asked if he had a star-drive socket. He appeared to be from Mexico and didn't speak much English, but he was happy to let me borrow his tools. In fact, he set down his expensive tool set—probably worth several hundred dollars—and walked away looking for other things while I took the seat belt motor out. I was amazed he'd trust a complete stranger with his valuable tools.
He soon came back and found a truck right next to the Saturn with some parts he wanted, so he started removing them. Another guy came by and needed to get to a car on the opposite side of a nearby trench, and he asked us how to get over the trench. Me and my new best friend looked at each other with "This guy is obviously a newbie" looks. My amigo pointed out the end of the trench where you could walk over it, and the other man made his way across.
I got the seatbelt motor and thanked my amigo for his help, then went on my way. I don't know that I really learned anything from this brief experience, or even what I'm trying to convey in this posting. But as I left, I can say my memory of the junkyard was definitely made more positive because of help from a stranger.
Despite that, I still enjoy the small interactions we all have with other people. I'm referring to the talk-with-someone-in-the-checkout-line type of interactions. The kind where you meet someone, have a short social dialog, then you're on your way, probably to never meet again.
I used to own an old Saturn car that we kept for about eighteen years before finally trading it in. It had those strange automatic seat belts that most people hated, and one day, a seatbelt motor broke. So I headed to the junkyard to find a used one.
The boneyard I went to wasn't the type I used to buy parts at when I was in high school. You know the kind—where rusting heaps of vehicles are piled all over in the mud and you're pretty much on your own. No, this one was lined up in neat rows. Each car was propped up on bare rims. Each type of car had its own section. It was like a Walmart, but with better quality merchandise. Even the "aisles" were lined with packed gravel.
I made my way to the Saturn department and immediately found a car with a working seatbelt. I'd brought screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers, and a hammer. But I didn't have a star-drive socket. I noticed another man nearby who seemed to be browsing, rather than looking for any particular parts. And I also noticed he had a big tool case with him.
I asked if he had a star-drive socket. He appeared to be from Mexico and didn't speak much English, but he was happy to let me borrow his tools. In fact, he set down his expensive tool set—probably worth several hundred dollars—and walked away looking for other things while I took the seat belt motor out. I was amazed he'd trust a complete stranger with his valuable tools.
He soon came back and found a truck right next to the Saturn with some parts he wanted, so he started removing them. Another guy came by and needed to get to a car on the opposite side of a nearby trench, and he asked us how to get over the trench. Me and my new best friend looked at each other with "This guy is obviously a newbie" looks. My amigo pointed out the end of the trench where you could walk over it, and the other man made his way across.
I got the seatbelt motor and thanked my amigo for his help, then went on my way. I don't know that I really learned anything from this brief experience, or even what I'm trying to convey in this posting. But as I left, I can say my memory of the junkyard was definitely made more positive because of help from a stranger.
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| Fixing the seatbelt turned into a whole-family project |
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Same Planet—Different World
I found myself waiting at a train & bus station recently for a little longer than I normally do. The human interaction among the people waiting there was intriguing. And I should add, educational.
One older gentleman wore shabby, dirty clothes and slowly made his way through the small crowd asking for money. Most people ignored him or shook their heads. He passed a young lady who wore stylish clothing and yapped loudly on her phone. When he asked her, she looked at him like he was a disgusting parasite.
"Get the hell away from me. I hate you *$#%@ homeless bums begging all the time." She turned away from him and continued her phone conversation. She made sure her friend—and everyone else there—knew how much the @%^$# homeless guy bugged her.
The man quietly commented that he was just trying to get by and she didn't need to be so rude to him. He then asked me for some help to get bus money. I gave him a couple dollars in hopes he would stay for a minute and talk with me. He thanked me and asked God to bless me, then commented again on the rudeness of his previous client. He went into an interesting speech that I'm sure he'd practiced.
"You know, I don't like panhandling, but I don't have much of a choice. I'm between jobs and doing the best I can. You know, if they banned panhandling back in the thirties during the Great Depression, a lot of people would have starved to death. Then a lot of us probably wouldn't even be here now, you know."
I agreed with him. "We're all on this planet together. I guess we need to watch out for each other now and again."
He gave me a knuckle punch and left, and I noticed he wasn't heading for a bus stop.
Another man stepped over and spoke to me. "I've seen that guy here almost every day, but I've never seen him take a bus."
I figured that was probably the case. "Well, maybe he just needs a drink."
We started a conversation. He'd grown up in the area not far from the train station. It was amazing how much things had changed since he was little. I told him how I'd taken the bus when I was younger and it was only ten cents back then. I also related how I rode the bus to Deseret Gym.
As soon as he heard that, it was like we were sudden kindred spirits. "I used to go there all the time. We could walk to it from my house. They had handball and racquetball and swimming and basketball. That was our hangout spot. It's a shame they tore it down. Now you can't find anything like that for anywhere near the price."
Then a seagull flew over and he ducked. "Watch out—Mormon Dive Bombers."
That was a phrase I hadn't heard in a while. You probably only know what it means if you're from northern Utah.
I asked if he worked in the area, but no, he was between jobs himself. I'd been out of work at one point in my own life, so I could relate with him. He boarded the next bus and I continued my wait.
Two young ladies walked up and sat on the bench. Both were in high heels, tight jeans, revealing tops, and lots of makeup, piercings, and tattoos. They started talking about the men they'd just been with and the odd things they'd done. I decided it might not be in my best interest to have a conversation with them, although I might have learned something new.
Another young man came by, probably in his mid-twenties. He wore a long, dirty coat and an old hat. He had a different method of asking for help.
"Spare change or dollar bills. Spare change or dollar bills." That's all he said as he meandered through the crowd. I didn't notice anyone give him anything.
Another older man put on some blue rubber evidence gloves and sifted through the garbage can. I found that interesting. Was he looking for food? If so, would the gloves protect him from anything he ingested? He didn't find anything, but was happy when a lady offered him a drag from her cigarette. Then he took the gloves off and walked around the station, politely asking for any help.
A young man sitting nearby and dressed in a tight white teeshirt and dirty work jeans saw this new panhandler. "Hey, you got arms, you got legs, go get a job." He spoke with a heavy accent and was obviously an immigrant, and probably a hard-working one.
A well-dressed lady holding a large binder and standing next to him spoke. "You don't need to say that to him."
The young guy laughed. "These people all get money from the government, then they still come out here and ask for more. I work. I pay taxes. Then the government gives the money to these people."
The lady shook her head. "I work with homeless people all the time, and I don't think it works that way."
The guy was unfazed. "He can get a job. I got a job and I ain't even white."
My bus came next, so I boarded it and rode off to my destination.
We're all on the same planet, but we all come from different worlds.
One older gentleman wore shabby, dirty clothes and slowly made his way through the small crowd asking for money. Most people ignored him or shook their heads. He passed a young lady who wore stylish clothing and yapped loudly on her phone. When he asked her, she looked at him like he was a disgusting parasite.
"Get the hell away from me. I hate you *$#%@ homeless bums begging all the time." She turned away from him and continued her phone conversation. She made sure her friend—and everyone else there—knew how much the @%^$# homeless guy bugged her.
The man quietly commented that he was just trying to get by and she didn't need to be so rude to him. He then asked me for some help to get bus money. I gave him a couple dollars in hopes he would stay for a minute and talk with me. He thanked me and asked God to bless me, then commented again on the rudeness of his previous client. He went into an interesting speech that I'm sure he'd practiced.
"You know, I don't like panhandling, but I don't have much of a choice. I'm between jobs and doing the best I can. You know, if they banned panhandling back in the thirties during the Great Depression, a lot of people would have starved to death. Then a lot of us probably wouldn't even be here now, you know."
I agreed with him. "We're all on this planet together. I guess we need to watch out for each other now and again."
He gave me a knuckle punch and left, and I noticed he wasn't heading for a bus stop.
Another man stepped over and spoke to me. "I've seen that guy here almost every day, but I've never seen him take a bus."
I figured that was probably the case. "Well, maybe he just needs a drink."
We started a conversation. He'd grown up in the area not far from the train station. It was amazing how much things had changed since he was little. I told him how I'd taken the bus when I was younger and it was only ten cents back then. I also related how I rode the bus to Deseret Gym.
As soon as he heard that, it was like we were sudden kindred spirits. "I used to go there all the time. We could walk to it from my house. They had handball and racquetball and swimming and basketball. That was our hangout spot. It's a shame they tore it down. Now you can't find anything like that for anywhere near the price."
Then a seagull flew over and he ducked. "Watch out—Mormon Dive Bombers."
That was a phrase I hadn't heard in a while. You probably only know what it means if you're from northern Utah.
I asked if he worked in the area, but no, he was between jobs himself. I'd been out of work at one point in my own life, so I could relate with him. He boarded the next bus and I continued my wait.
Two young ladies walked up and sat on the bench. Both were in high heels, tight jeans, revealing tops, and lots of makeup, piercings, and tattoos. They started talking about the men they'd just been with and the odd things they'd done. I decided it might not be in my best interest to have a conversation with them, although I might have learned something new.
Another young man came by, probably in his mid-twenties. He wore a long, dirty coat and an old hat. He had a different method of asking for help.
"Spare change or dollar bills. Spare change or dollar bills." That's all he said as he meandered through the crowd. I didn't notice anyone give him anything.
Another older man put on some blue rubber evidence gloves and sifted through the garbage can. I found that interesting. Was he looking for food? If so, would the gloves protect him from anything he ingested? He didn't find anything, but was happy when a lady offered him a drag from her cigarette. Then he took the gloves off and walked around the station, politely asking for any help.
A young man sitting nearby and dressed in a tight white teeshirt and dirty work jeans saw this new panhandler. "Hey, you got arms, you got legs, go get a job." He spoke with a heavy accent and was obviously an immigrant, and probably a hard-working one.
A well-dressed lady holding a large binder and standing next to him spoke. "You don't need to say that to him."
The young guy laughed. "These people all get money from the government, then they still come out here and ask for more. I work. I pay taxes. Then the government gives the money to these people."
The lady shook her head. "I work with homeless people all the time, and I don't think it works that way."
The guy was unfazed. "He can get a job. I got a job and I ain't even white."
My bus came next, so I boarded it and rode off to my destination.
We're all on the same planet, but we all come from different worlds.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Drinking Cokes Like an Adult
When I was thirteen, my friend Brent and I thought that since we were so old, we needed to find a way to prove our adult-readiness. We discussed various methods to accomplish this. One was hitchhiking to the west coast where we could swim in the ocean. We decided against that because we'd heard of giant squids there. Another idea was to trek through the high mountains near our house and kill an elk by hand. But we got grossed out thinking about trying to gut it with our Boy Scout pocket knives.
In the end, we decided the best plan was to take a bus from our home out in the suburbs all the way downtown, then see if we could make it back out alive. There used to be a recreation center in the city called Deseret Gym with a pool, handball courts, weight rooms, and other fun and sometimes painful activities. That seemed like a perfect destination.
So we gathered up all the money we could—about four dollars—packaged up all the sports equipment we had—a handball and our swimming suits—and boarded the number 36 bus to the city. The bus was only ten cents and admission to the gym was only about one dollar, as I recall. That left us plenty of money to rent lockers for our stuff and maybe even buy a drink.
We got to the city without incident and walked up Main Street to the gym. We bought a pass, rented a locker, and started our day with handball. I'd never played that sport before, but Brent was an expert, having played with his brother once. We ran around the little room, bumped into each other, tripped a lot, and were very glad the surrounding walls kept the ball from escaping. It didn't take long for us to go look for another activity.
We tried joining a basketball game, but most of the kids were older than us and spent their evenings in a type of gang warfare the locals called Church Ball. That was an activity where they'd chase an orange sphere around a court in a church while yelling, swearing, punching, and fouling. Then they'd return to the same church on Sundays and learn how to be Christlike.
Brent and I didn't last too long with the Church Ball veterans, so we tried demonstrating our might by lifting weights. It was mostly very old men in the weight room—they were all at least thirty—and they could lift weights much heavier than we could, so we gave that up. Besides, the equipment was a little frightening.
We decided to buy a drink then went swimming. That seemed like a safe activity. My regular swimming suit was really dorky-looking, so I had brought a pair of white gym shorts instead. I jumped into the cold water, immediately climbed right back out, and discovered a problem with my gym shorts idea—they became quite transparent as soon as they got wet. I hadn't thought that through too well. I jumped back into the freezing water and stayed there as long as I could.
We eventually decided to call it quits and head back home. As we were changing, we had a new realization even more chilling than the see-through shorts. We'd used the rental locker so many times—at ten cents a pop—we'd depleted all our money and didn't have twenty cents left to ride the bus home. We scrounged around the locker room looking for any fallen change, but couldn't even find one thin dime. We were in trouble. Maybe we should have tried our luck with the giant squids instead.
We went outside and walked down Main Street. It shouldn't take more than two or three hours to get home, we figured. About four blocks later, we realized that bus drivers knew the route home but we didn't. We needed a better plan. My mom worked downtown and I briefly thought of finding her office and asking for two dimes. But our whole purpose was to prove our adult-ness. We stopped near a small grocery store to rest, and after some discussion, came up with a fantastic plan.
The grocery store was one of those tiny family shops you don't see too often anymore. An older man sat on a stool behind the counter reading a newspaper. I casually went inside and talked to him about bus schedules and other important things, while Brent meandered over to the soda pop cooler. When he thought I'd sufficiently distracted the shopkeeper, Brent slipped two bottles of Coke into his gym bag, then strolled back outside.
I thanked the man for his help and joined Brent. We ran down the street until we found a pay phone, and used the change return slot to open the Cokes. We then strutted around an empty lot, drinking the Coke and toasting our brilliant plan. As soon as we finished, we went back into the same grocery store, returned the empty bottles, and got back two dimes.
Then, our money in hand, we boarded the next number 36 and headed back to the suburbs. Not even an adult could have come up with an excellent plan like that!
In the end, we decided the best plan was to take a bus from our home out in the suburbs all the way downtown, then see if we could make it back out alive. There used to be a recreation center in the city called Deseret Gym with a pool, handball courts, weight rooms, and other fun and sometimes painful activities. That seemed like a perfect destination.
So we gathered up all the money we could—about four dollars—packaged up all the sports equipment we had—a handball and our swimming suits—and boarded the number 36 bus to the city. The bus was only ten cents and admission to the gym was only about one dollar, as I recall. That left us plenty of money to rent lockers for our stuff and maybe even buy a drink.
We got to the city without incident and walked up Main Street to the gym. We bought a pass, rented a locker, and started our day with handball. I'd never played that sport before, but Brent was an expert, having played with his brother once. We ran around the little room, bumped into each other, tripped a lot, and were very glad the surrounding walls kept the ball from escaping. It didn't take long for us to go look for another activity.
We tried joining a basketball game, but most of the kids were older than us and spent their evenings in a type of gang warfare the locals called Church Ball. That was an activity where they'd chase an orange sphere around a court in a church while yelling, swearing, punching, and fouling. Then they'd return to the same church on Sundays and learn how to be Christlike.
Brent and I didn't last too long with the Church Ball veterans, so we tried demonstrating our might by lifting weights. It was mostly very old men in the weight room—they were all at least thirty—and they could lift weights much heavier than we could, so we gave that up. Besides, the equipment was a little frightening.
We decided to buy a drink then went swimming. That seemed like a safe activity. My regular swimming suit was really dorky-looking, so I had brought a pair of white gym shorts instead. I jumped into the cold water, immediately climbed right back out, and discovered a problem with my gym shorts idea—they became quite transparent as soon as they got wet. I hadn't thought that through too well. I jumped back into the freezing water and stayed there as long as I could.
We eventually decided to call it quits and head back home. As we were changing, we had a new realization even more chilling than the see-through shorts. We'd used the rental locker so many times—at ten cents a pop—we'd depleted all our money and didn't have twenty cents left to ride the bus home. We scrounged around the locker room looking for any fallen change, but couldn't even find one thin dime. We were in trouble. Maybe we should have tried our luck with the giant squids instead.
We went outside and walked down Main Street. It shouldn't take more than two or three hours to get home, we figured. About four blocks later, we realized that bus drivers knew the route home but we didn't. We needed a better plan. My mom worked downtown and I briefly thought of finding her office and asking for two dimes. But our whole purpose was to prove our adult-ness. We stopped near a small grocery store to rest, and after some discussion, came up with a fantastic plan.
I thanked the man for his help and joined Brent. We ran down the street until we found a pay phone, and used the change return slot to open the Cokes. We then strutted around an empty lot, drinking the Coke and toasting our brilliant plan. As soon as we finished, we went back into the same grocery store, returned the empty bottles, and got back two dimes.
Then, our money in hand, we boarded the next number 36 and headed back to the suburbs. Not even an adult could have come up with an excellent plan like that!
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