Saturday, August 11, 2012
Olympic Dreams
The XXX Olympics are almost over now so here are a few of my musings about them and Olympics in general.
For me, the only redeeming social value of the opening exercises was the torch at the end. So what that it can't be seen from outside the arena. Wah, wah, give it up. The last Olympics in China will forever be the standard by which all other opening ceremonies will be measured...and they will come up short.
There were outstanding examples of true Olympic sportsmanship, especially the kid that traded his name bib with the guy from South Africa with no feet. The runner from Granada who won gold is the epitome of class. Not so much for the gringa vaulter who should have won gold but landed on her butt and didn't have the class to congratulate the winner. She was embarrassing.
Ussain Bolt is not human.
The biggest drawback of the Olympics is the fact that I'm so distracted by shiny objects. Every night when I came home from work with every intention to do the million things I need to do in order to be ready for seminary next week I'd park my fat butt in front of the TV to watch "just a couple minutes". Blink, blink. It's midnight and time to go to bed. Those poor, poor seminary students.
Another good thing is that I /we watch things we'd absolutely never pay to see unless we are related to a participant. Ping pong, badminton, gymnastics, track, water polo, rowing and anything else in the water, volley ball, etc. OK, maybe beach volleyball.
Rhythmic gymnastics is as much a sport as poker or checkers or breathing.
Probably the very best is that there are winners and losers. You don't, as an editorial writer in the Tucson paper suggested, get a medal for participating.
I'm as happy as the rest of us gringos that we won the most medals, but I'm a bit happier for those countries that one their first. Especially Guatemala. Way to walk fast buddy! You should have won gold because the Chinese guy was JOGGING! I'm just saying...
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Shakespeare Saved My Life
Back in the Paleozoic era when I was in high school, there was this thing called the draft. No, it wasn't a pleasant little breeze wafting along to keep you cool. Oh no, it was the way Uncle Sam maintained canon fodder for the rather unpopular war in Vietnam. They could actually force a young man like me into the army. That left us Mormon boys who wanted to go on a mission with a year of jeopardy since we were draft able at 18 but had to be 19 to serve a mission. We had four choices after graduation, go to Vietnam, go to college, go to Canada, or go to jail.
I had seen both Canada and jail and wasn't much impressed with either one but really couldn't afford college since my dad had died that Spring and my grades, though adequate, were less than stellar. My seminary teacher, Brother Empty, rode to my rescue.
He had seen my performance as Nick Bottom, the weaver, in Shakespeare's "A Mid-Summer Night's Dream" and wangled a drama scholarship for me at Ricks College in the frozen tundra of Rexburg, Idaho. That scholarship, coupled with $115 a month from Social Security allowed me to major in draft-evasion and minor in girls until I got my call to the Guatemala-El Salvador Mission. The scholarship was for $200 a semester which covered tuition and most of my fees and books.
While in Guatemala, they came up with the lottery system for the draft. They put all 366 possible birthdates in a big fish bowl then pulled them out one at a time. When they drew the one with your birth date on it, that became your draft number. They drafted numbers 100 to 150 each year. My number was 256. They would draft women and children before me.
Don't get me wrong, I'm no grand peace nick. I wound up joining the Air Force later and served for more than twenty years. I just wanted to serve as a missionary first. Thanks to Mr. Shakespeare and Brother Empty I was able to do just that.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Remembering Jobs
No, this is not going to be about Steve Jobs. He was a remarkable guy but this is, as usual, about me.
Some time ago, as I was trying to fall asleep, my brain fell upon the subject of jobs. I think it had something to do with the fact that both Pete and Danny were between jobs and seeking that elusive "career".
Men in general seem to be defined by what they do for a living whether it's CEO or HOBO. For most of us, or at least me, finding what that defining job was a very difficult process. I doubt many men know from an early age what they really want to be when they grow up.
My first remunerated employment (one that I got paid for) was as a 7th-grader working on a combine during spud harvest to the tune of 70 cents an hour. I think that had something to do with living in the county in Idaho known as the Potato Capitol of the World. Indeed, over one fourth of the potatoes in the world come from good old Bingham county Idaho.
We didn't live on a farm, thankfully, but they had us completely surrounded. I hauled hay, hoed beets, moved sprinkler pipe, shoveled cow poop, milked cows, harvested spuds, worked in a potato cellar and a potato processing plant. All of which taught me that I didn't want to be a farmer or have anything to do with things that grow from the ground other than to eat them. It was and is far too much like work.
I also worked at a service station. That's what gas stations were called before they became mini-marts and people pumped their own gas. Believe it or not, you would just sit in your car and tell the guy (me) how much gas you wanted and I would pleasantly ask you if you wanted regular or ethel then start the gas a pumping. While that was happening, I would clean your windshield, check your oil and tire pressure. I would automatically put any needed air in your tires (since the air was free) but if you needed oil I was required to show you the dip stick so you would know I wasn't just trying to milk you out of 25 cents that you really didn't need to spend. You would hand me the money and I would go get your change and bring it to you. They even had new-fangled things called gas cards (this was way before Visa or Master Card). They were only good for a single brand of gas so you had to have a separate card for Texaco or Shell or Utoco or whatever. There was no magnetic strip on the back of the card either. That's what those raised numbers and letters on the card were all about. We had a gizmo to put the card in, slap a multi-part form on top of it, set the numbers to the proper dollar amount, then run a roller across the form making a permanent record of the transaction. A return of your receipt, a smile and tip of my hat, and our business was complete and you were on your way. What a country.
I seem to have rambled enough for this installment and have only covered my employment up to high school graduation. I'll have to break this saga into palatable chunks. To quote Mr Jobs' last words, "Wow, oh wow."
Some time ago, as I was trying to fall asleep, my brain fell upon the subject of jobs. I think it had something to do with the fact that both Pete and Danny were between jobs and seeking that elusive "career".
Men in general seem to be defined by what they do for a living whether it's CEO or HOBO. For most of us, or at least me, finding what that defining job was a very difficult process. I doubt many men know from an early age what they really want to be when they grow up.
My first remunerated employment (one that I got paid for) was as a 7th-grader working on a combine during spud harvest to the tune of 70 cents an hour. I think that had something to do with living in the county in Idaho known as the Potato Capitol of the World. Indeed, over one fourth of the potatoes in the world come from good old Bingham county Idaho.
We didn't live on a farm, thankfully, but they had us completely surrounded. I hauled hay, hoed beets, moved sprinkler pipe, shoveled cow poop, milked cows, harvested spuds, worked in a potato cellar and a potato processing plant. All of which taught me that I didn't want to be a farmer or have anything to do with things that grow from the ground other than to eat them. It was and is far too much like work.
I also worked at a service station. That's what gas stations were called before they became mini-marts and people pumped their own gas. Believe it or not, you would just sit in your car and tell the guy (me) how much gas you wanted and I would pleasantly ask you if you wanted regular or ethel then start the gas a pumping. While that was happening, I would clean your windshield, check your oil and tire pressure. I would automatically put any needed air in your tires (since the air was free) but if you needed oil I was required to show you the dip stick so you would know I wasn't just trying to milk you out of 25 cents that you really didn't need to spend. You would hand me the money and I would go get your change and bring it to you. They even had new-fangled things called gas cards (this was way before Visa or Master Card). They were only good for a single brand of gas so you had to have a separate card for Texaco or Shell or Utoco or whatever. There was no magnetic strip on the back of the card either. That's what those raised numbers and letters on the card were all about. We had a gizmo to put the card in, slap a multi-part form on top of it, set the numbers to the proper dollar amount, then run a roller across the form making a permanent record of the transaction. A return of your receipt, a smile and tip of my hat, and our business was complete and you were on your way. What a country.
I seem to have rambled enough for this installment and have only covered my employment up to high school graduation. I'll have to break this saga into palatable chunks. To quote Mr Jobs' last words, "Wow, oh wow."
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Day of Infamy
December 7th was this past Wednesday marking the 70th anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. It has been a significant day in my life because it marked America's entrance into WW II.
I was speaking with my uncle Lloyd Wednesday night. He winters in Hawaii and said there was a lot going on there at the time. He told me how he was ten years old at the time of the attack and remembered it like it was yesterday. He said it was fast Sunday and after church he had ridden his bike down to the blacksmith's shop in Arimo, Idaho and was watching the smith do the cool things smiths do, when the guy's wife came from the house and told them Pearl Harbor had been bombed.
When I was a kid WW II was our "play" war. When we weren't playing cowboys and Indians we were shooting down Japanese Zeroes or Throwing grenades(dirt clods) and machine-gunning the Krauts. I don't know if my boys played war or if their boys do, or who they fought or fight.
For me WW II was huge. Eight of my uncles served during that war from Pearl Harbor to Iwo Jima, Battle of the Bulge to bombing missions over Germany. One served in Burma and another spent the whole war in Canada. All of them came home safe.
My mom's brother Francis, was in the Navy and was at Pearl Harbor for the attack. I never heard him speak about it or his other experiences during the war but I do know he was on survivor's leave three different times. That means he was on three ships that were sunk but he managed to get off in time. He told his brother Arthur, who was a machine-gunner in the Army, that he should join the Navy because that gunner job was too dangerous. Francis was killed years after the war while driving a water truck in California.
My father-in-law, Ernie Parkin was also assigned to Pearl Harbor at the time of the attack but he was in Massachusetts attending his brother's funeral. His brother, Joe had gone down when the Ruben James was sunk.
Ernie died 36 years later, on December 7th.
I was speaking with my uncle Lloyd Wednesday night. He winters in Hawaii and said there was a lot going on there at the time. He told me how he was ten years old at the time of the attack and remembered it like it was yesterday. He said it was fast Sunday and after church he had ridden his bike down to the blacksmith's shop in Arimo, Idaho and was watching the smith do the cool things smiths do, when the guy's wife came from the house and told them Pearl Harbor had been bombed.
When I was a kid WW II was our "play" war. When we weren't playing cowboys and Indians we were shooting down Japanese Zeroes or Throwing grenades(dirt clods) and machine-gunning the Krauts. I don't know if my boys played war or if their boys do, or who they fought or fight.
For me WW II was huge. Eight of my uncles served during that war from Pearl Harbor to Iwo Jima, Battle of the Bulge to bombing missions over Germany. One served in Burma and another spent the whole war in Canada. All of them came home safe.
My mom's brother Francis, was in the Navy and was at Pearl Harbor for the attack. I never heard him speak about it or his other experiences during the war but I do know he was on survivor's leave three different times. That means he was on three ships that were sunk but he managed to get off in time. He told his brother Arthur, who was a machine-gunner in the Army, that he should join the Navy because that gunner job was too dangerous. Francis was killed years after the war while driving a water truck in California.
My father-in-law, Ernie Parkin was also assigned to Pearl Harbor at the time of the attack but he was in Massachusetts attending his brother's funeral. His brother, Joe had gone down when the Ruben James was sunk.
Ernie died 36 years later, on December 7th.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Stanley, My Brother
Now that my summer vacation is over and being inspired my Linda's blog, I figured I'd best be getting back at my "memoirs".
My only brother, Stanley, died a few weeks ago (November 4th) so I have been thinking about him quite a bit and wanted to pass on to whomever would be inclined to read my ramblings some of those thoughts.
He was the second child and first boy born to Pete and Ida Howe who were living in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho at the time. They named him Stanley Clarence Howe. Stanley, after the beautiful Stanley Basin area in central Idaho, and Clarence because that was Dad's real first name and it makes a better middle name. I made up the part about Stanley Basin. It is indeed a beautiful place and my sister Lorna, the firstborn and my only living sibling now, had no idea why.
Since he was 13-and -a-half years years older than me (I know that's grammatically incorrect but it sounds better) I have no recollection of him living at home (trailer) with us. My first memory of him is when I was about six years old and we were moving back to Atomic City from living in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana. He was evidently helping with the move. I remember this because we had to share a small bed in the trailer and he pinched me for crowding him too much. I have photographic proof of this (the move, not the pinching) and will make every attempt to attach it to this post.
My next memory of him is when he got married to his first wife, Lila. I had looked up to Stan even when I grew to be taller much larger that he was. He and Lila had three boys and were kind enough to let me stay at their home in Blackfoot when I was in high school and sometimes got caught without a ride back to Atomic City. They added a girl to their family while I was on my mission. He and Lila later divorced and Stan married several times after that, once to a girl who was in the class ahead of me, and twice to a woman named Peggy. My Mom used to say her current news at any given time was that Stanley got married and Ron & Barbara were having another baby.
Stan was one of the few men I have ever known who was without guile. He was genuine in what he said and what he did. I can't remember a single time he spoke poorly of another person or held a grudge against anyone. He was 76 years old when he passed away and had spent the better part of the last six or seven years of his life in nursing homes. Lorna and I visited him when he was in Salmon and in Pocatello, Idaho and took him to the Potter Family Reunion. He had been in a home in Shelly, Idaho for about a month to be closer to his youngest son, Joe when he passed way in the TV room. He was cremated and wished for his ashes to be spread on the Snake River. I feel I am a better man for having had him for my brother.
Lorna and I are all that's left of our family. Bookends...
My only brother, Stanley, died a few weeks ago (November 4th) so I have been thinking about him quite a bit and wanted to pass on to whomever would be inclined to read my ramblings some of those thoughts.
He was the second child and first boy born to Pete and Ida Howe who were living in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho at the time. They named him Stanley Clarence Howe. Stanley, after the beautiful Stanley Basin area in central Idaho, and Clarence because that was Dad's real first name and it makes a better middle name. I made up the part about Stanley Basin. It is indeed a beautiful place and my sister Lorna, the firstborn and my only living sibling now, had no idea why.
Since he was 13-and -a-half years years older than me (I know that's grammatically incorrect but it sounds better) I have no recollection of him living at home (trailer) with us. My first memory of him is when I was about six years old and we were moving back to Atomic City from living in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana. He was evidently helping with the move. I remember this because we had to share a small bed in the trailer and he pinched me for crowding him too much. I have photographic proof of this (the move, not the pinching) and will make every attempt to attach it to this post.
My next memory of him is when he got married to his first wife, Lila. I had looked up to Stan even when I grew to be taller much larger that he was. He and Lila had three boys and were kind enough to let me stay at their home in Blackfoot when I was in high school and sometimes got caught without a ride back to Atomic City. They added a girl to their family while I was on my mission. He and Lila later divorced and Stan married several times after that, once to a girl who was in the class ahead of me, and twice to a woman named Peggy. My Mom used to say her current news at any given time was that Stanley got married and Ron & Barbara were having another baby.
Stan was one of the few men I have ever known who was without guile. He was genuine in what he said and what he did. I can't remember a single time he spoke poorly of another person or held a grudge against anyone. He was 76 years old when he passed away and had spent the better part of the last six or seven years of his life in nursing homes. Lorna and I visited him when he was in Salmon and in Pocatello, Idaho and took him to the Potter Family Reunion. He had been in a home in Shelly, Idaho for about a month to be closer to his youngest son, Joe when he passed way in the TV room. He was cremated and wished for his ashes to be spread on the Snake River. I feel I am a better man for having had him for my brother.
Lorna and I are all that's left of our family. Bookends...
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Olio (not to be confused with Oleo)
It's amazing what a difference one letter can make to a word even without changing the pronunciation. I really don't plan to write about butter substitute.
I'm quite excited to head East for Jeremy Jr's graduation. I have been working far to many hours and will enjoy the vacation. When Babs left for Alabama last Friday she told me to take it easy so I can recover from the pneumonia. I took her advice and wound up watching all 29 episodes of the TV series "Jericho." That's right, ALL 29 episodes. Fortunately I watched them on Netflix so there were no commercials. Still, 44 minutes a whack is still a lot of time to spend in a Lazyboy. I loved every minute.
Sometime Saturday during the Jericho marathon Benjamin called and asked if I would watch their five kids for a couple hours on Sunday morning so he and Lesley could go to separate meetings. No problem. I have had more kids that that of my own to watch at times.
Ok, I forgot that Bekah, Dan and Pete would all be gone. I was on my own. The kids were really rather fine. They picked out a church video to watch and settled down it the family room. All was well until the first video finished and one of them came to ask me to put the next one on.
As I walked into the family room it was like walking into a wall of absolute solid odor. I coulden't believe so much foul stench could come from cute little AJ. I was even more amazed that the other kids were completely unfazed by it. In the Air Force I had been exposed to a room full of tear gas without a mask. It was not as bad as little AJ.
Much water has passed under yon bridge since I changed a "soiled" diaper but I had no qualms of leaping into the breach since Ben ad left some fresh diapers and I remembered that we keep a package of wipers in the hall bathroom.
It turned out to be quite an easy process once I got past the gag reflex and put the offending nappy into the trash outside. I guess it's a like riding a bike. I didn't even have to call in reinforcements. I think I did quite well, thank you.
New subject. I noticed the other day something that I have lived with my whole life but now I feel the need to find out how many of my progeny have been affected by it.
My second toe is longer than my "big" toe. As a kid I remember being confused as to which one was the big toe. Did they mean the short, fat one of the long skinny one? So, I interested in knowing how many ad who of our ten kids have this condition as well as the same information about the 26 grandchildren.
Only Bekah's left foot counts, but it still counts. Pete says it's not that my second toe is long, my big toe is just way short.
Please let me know. It's not earth shattering or anything, I'm just curious.
I'm quite excited to head East for Jeremy Jr's graduation. I have been working far to many hours and will enjoy the vacation. When Babs left for Alabama last Friday she told me to take it easy so I can recover from the pneumonia. I took her advice and wound up watching all 29 episodes of the TV series "Jericho." That's right, ALL 29 episodes. Fortunately I watched them on Netflix so there were no commercials. Still, 44 minutes a whack is still a lot of time to spend in a Lazyboy. I loved every minute.
Sometime Saturday during the Jericho marathon Benjamin called and asked if I would watch their five kids for a couple hours on Sunday morning so he and Lesley could go to separate meetings. No problem. I have had more kids that that of my own to watch at times.
Ok, I forgot that Bekah, Dan and Pete would all be gone. I was on my own. The kids were really rather fine. They picked out a church video to watch and settled down it the family room. All was well until the first video finished and one of them came to ask me to put the next one on.
As I walked into the family room it was like walking into a wall of absolute solid odor. I coulden't believe so much foul stench could come from cute little AJ. I was even more amazed that the other kids were completely unfazed by it. In the Air Force I had been exposed to a room full of tear gas without a mask. It was not as bad as little AJ.
Much water has passed under yon bridge since I changed a "soiled" diaper but I had no qualms of leaping into the breach since Ben ad left some fresh diapers and I remembered that we keep a package of wipers in the hall bathroom.
It turned out to be quite an easy process once I got past the gag reflex and put the offending nappy into the trash outside. I guess it's a like riding a bike. I didn't even have to call in reinforcements. I think I did quite well, thank you.
New subject. I noticed the other day something that I have lived with my whole life but now I feel the need to find out how many of my progeny have been affected by it.
My second toe is longer than my "big" toe. As a kid I remember being confused as to which one was the big toe. Did they mean the short, fat one of the long skinny one? So, I interested in knowing how many ad who of our ten kids have this condition as well as the same information about the 26 grandchildren.
Only Bekah's left foot counts, but it still counts. Pete says it's not that my second toe is long, my big toe is just way short.
Please let me know. It's not earth shattering or anything, I'm just curious.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Pneumonia, Feels Like the Same Old Monia
I still think silent letters in any language are beyond stupid. All they do is make spelling hard.
Last Sunday morning around 2:30 I awoke coughing and with my windpipe on fire. Not just burning but shooting three-foot flames out like some kind of dragon. I tried some Pepto but it just cooled my throat and turned my poop dark. Evidently I had acid reflux and aspirated some. I'd had that happen before but never that bad. It kept me up all night hardly able to breathe.
I spoke with the on-call nurse at the Base and she said to call 911. I thought she was crazy at first but then realized she was right. After all, if an old fat diabetic guy called me about having chest pains I'd have him call 911 too.
It was cool knowing the siren I could hear was actually coming for me. The EMTs wired me for sound (EKG) and found no heart problem (phew) and said I should to the ER. My favorite way to kill a few hours. By this time my shortness of breath was the big problem so off we went to St Josephs Hospital.
If you ever want to be seen quickly at an ER, show up as an old fat guy with shortness of breath and chest pains. It works like a champ. It didn't get me out any sooner, but I did get seen quickly. The nurse must have gone to the Marquis de Sade School of starting IVs. I was way dehydrated so I know it would be harder to find a vein to hydrate me, but sweet Florence Nightingale, that's me under there.
It turned out to be pneumonia in my left lung so they pumped me full on antibiotics and sent us on our way with instructions for me to rest for a few days. I only worked two hours on Monday, six on Tuesday, and seven on Wednesday and Thursday. By then I was so tired of not being able to breathe that I stayed home today (Friday). I'll take it easy for the next two days even though it means missing the fine and pleasant misery of the father and sons camp out.
I do enjoy the time with my sons and grandsons but I really would like to breathe normally again
Last Sunday morning around 2:30 I awoke coughing and with my windpipe on fire. Not just burning but shooting three-foot flames out like some kind of dragon. I tried some Pepto but it just cooled my throat and turned my poop dark. Evidently I had acid reflux and aspirated some. I'd had that happen before but never that bad. It kept me up all night hardly able to breathe.
I spoke with the on-call nurse at the Base and she said to call 911. I thought she was crazy at first but then realized she was right. After all, if an old fat diabetic guy called me about having chest pains I'd have him call 911 too.
It was cool knowing the siren I could hear was actually coming for me. The EMTs wired me for sound (EKG) and found no heart problem (phew) and said I should to the ER. My favorite way to kill a few hours. By this time my shortness of breath was the big problem so off we went to St Josephs Hospital.
If you ever want to be seen quickly at an ER, show up as an old fat guy with shortness of breath and chest pains. It works like a champ. It didn't get me out any sooner, but I did get seen quickly. The nurse must have gone to the Marquis de Sade School of starting IVs. I was way dehydrated so I know it would be harder to find a vein to hydrate me, but sweet Florence Nightingale, that's me under there.
It turned out to be pneumonia in my left lung so they pumped me full on antibiotics and sent us on our way with instructions for me to rest for a few days. I only worked two hours on Monday, six on Tuesday, and seven on Wednesday and Thursday. By then I was so tired of not being able to breathe that I stayed home today (Friday). I'll take it easy for the next two days even though it means missing the fine and pleasant misery of the father and sons camp out.
I do enjoy the time with my sons and grandsons but I really would like to breathe normally again
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