The Tooth Fairy

 

Twice last month, the tooth fairy forgot about my kids.  Twice!  Once is bad enough, but twice?  That’s ridiculous.  Once is an oversight.  The second time was unforgiveable. 

The first time happened about two weeks ago.  I got the terrible news when my six year old came in, crying about how the tooth fairy had not come.  I was livid.  How cold!  How uncaring can this individual be?  I explained to my daughter that perhaps the tooth fairy was extra busy last night and was still on her way.  “It’s still pretty early,” I suggested.  “Maybe she had to pick up so many teeth last night that she is running behind.”  (Note: I use ‘she’ herein as a general reference term.  Because I have never met the tooth fairy face to face, I cannot be sure what gender he, or she is.  I did almost see her once, when I was a boy, but it was from behind and kind of dark in the room, so I wasn’t able to come to any decisive conclusion.  But, that thought assumes my children have the same tooth fairy as I did, which, I suspect is probably unlikely.  In any case, please substitute ‘he’ for ‘she’ if you feel so inclined.)

Of course telling my daughter the tooth fairy was busy was a lie (something I very much dislike about being a parent and avoid whenever possible).  Obviously, the tooth fairy just fell down on the job and misplaced the information about coming to our house that night.  But that was way too crushing for my sweet daughter to hear, and way too complicated for me to explain when I had just woken up. 

In the end, everything turned out okay because the tooth fairy came through while everyone was gone from the house.  In addition to the traditional one dollar bill, she even threw in an extra ten cents for having messed up so bad. 

You would think she would have learned her lesson.  And you would think she would want to try harder to hang onto her extra ten cents.  But no, like a week or ten days later, it’s the same old, same old around here.  This time it was my son who was ripped off.  But he’s a little older, and tougher, and I think also a little more forgiving.  He seemed to be okay with it and nonchalantly mentioned the incident at breakfast that morning. 

“Again?” I shouted.  Maybe it wasn’t a big deal to him, but I was infuriated.  “This is an outrage!  Who does one complain to about these things?”  I gave him the same old, worn out speech about the tooth fairy being busy.  He seemed to be okay with that.  Besides, I think he was excited about the possibility of an extra dime. 

Later that night, as he went to bed, he casually asked, “Is the tooth fairy a man or a woman?”  Without giving us time to answer, he mentioned that if we saw the tooth fairy tonight, maybe we could remind him or her that he had lost a tooth.

“I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman,” I said.  “And we probably we won’t see him or her before we go to bed.  But, if we do, we will let him or her know.” 

Fortunately, without any prompting from us, the tooth fairy did make it to our house that night.   And again, he or she left a little something extra for my son’s troubles. 

Last month, all totaled, the tooth fairy came to our house four times.  Twice she caused a stir and twice she did her job flawlessly.  I’ve had a thought that makes me reconsider my position on the whole thing.  In baseball, a 50% average gets you instantly inducted into the hall of fame.  So maybe it’s not as bad as it could have been.

Come to think of it, it’s probably a tough job keeping track of all those kids and teeth and dollar bills.  And it’s got to be hard trying to never get caught, and then never getting any credit for all that sneaking around and stuff.  I suggest, everyone just forgive the tooth fairy for a little mistake here and there.  Maybe she’s new to the job or maybe it’s just a second job to help make ends meet.  Whatever her problem is, please forgive if you can.  But, if that’s too much to ask, maybe we should all just cut her a little slack. 

Clark

Photo fo the Day - Tree in a Snowy Field and a Pair of Eagles

I've been driving a lot for work lately.  Today I had to stop for a minute and take a few photos of this tree.  

Today I'm also going to do a bonus photo.  Not a great shot but definitely a great subject.

 
A few minutes before I took the photo of the tree in the snowy field, I saw a Bald Eagle, with what I assumed was a juvenile Bald Eagle.  Before this, I took a few photos of the adult as it flew around.  After I got home and downloaded the photos, I found a third Eagle on a fence post that I hadn't even noticed before. 

Clark

Feel the Fear

First I have to say this photo doesn't even remotely do this waterfall justice.  My daughter is about 40 feet above the pool at the bottom of the fall and about 50 feet away.  She's roughly at the same height as the big, red rock on the other side of the gorge. 

So the election thing didn’t work out quite like we had expected.  To avoid sounding bitter or discouraged, that’s all I’m going to say about that part of it.

But, I will mention a bit about the great kids who ran in this election.  There were six girls and six boys that made it through the primary election.  On Friday, this was narrowed down to three girls and three boys.  The kids found out right at the end of the school day.  After the announcement was made to the school, the six girls – the three that won and the three that lost - all went out together for a Hawaiian Ice and a movie.  I think this showed some good character and sportsmanship on the part of the girls that lost the election, as well as the girls that won.

Before our daughter came home from the movie, we wrote her a quick letter, telling her how proud we were of her for going after this lofty goal.  Earlier in the week, while she was preparing for her speech, we had talked with her about some of the great speakers of the past.  In the letter after the election, we quoted Winston Churchill, who said, “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”

This has led me to consider the changes in our family over the past couple of years.  For a while now, we have been trying to do more things outside our current comfort zones.  It’s the old idea of feeling afraid and still doing it anyway.  These opportunities can be as small as making a phone call we are uncomfortable with or diving into a swimming pool.  Or they can be big things, like starting a business or writing a book (or a blog).

One of the more recent and dramatic of these was last summer in Yellowstone National Park.  Before we left for our vacation, we heard about a waterfall that you can swim through and hang out behind.  We easily found the place and decided to give it a try.  Everyone put on their life jackets and we trudged down to the water’s edge.

For some reason, I had pictured an easy swim under a thin, clear sheet of smooth water.  This waterfall was anything but; at the bottom of the trail we found a thick wall of turbulent white water, thirty feet tall and twenty feet wide, crashing into a deep, dark pool of swirling, green water.  In addition to that, it started raining and hailing just as we got there.

After the storm passed on, we decided to go for it.  I went first, to see what it was like.  In a few words, the journey through the pounding wall was horrible, amazing, terrifying, thundering, disorienting, and hugely satisfying.  Once on the other side, I swam to the back of the shallow cave and stood on a rock for a minute.  I could not see out of the wall of water and couldn’t hear anything but the roar of falling water on stone and more water.  The spray coming off the back of the waterfall was so intense, I couldn’t face into it for more than a few seconds.  After catching my breath, and regrouping my courage, I headed back out.

On the other side, I found my children, excited and terrified by what was in store.  One at a time, I took them into the deep pool, explained how it would feel, what they would see, and what we should do once we got inside.  No one was forced to go, thought I encouraged each with the understanding that they would either regret not going or feel good about it if they did go.

Two more times I went through the crashing wall into the cave, first with the oldest, then the next oldest, and two more times I came back out.  Finally, it was time for the last run.  My six year old daughter cried as she told me she did want to go.  I could see the noise and the cold water were starting to break her down.  We stood, our eyes at about the same level, her on a rock in knee deep water beside me.  I explained again what she should expect and do as we swam.  Finally, exasperated, she cried out above the thundering noise, “But I’m afraid!”

I leaned close to her and whispered in her ear.  “I’m afraid too,” I confided, “but I just do it anyway.”  She looked me in the eye, amazed by what her dad had just said.  Then, as if something had just clicked into place, I watched her face change suddenly from fear to determination.  She immediately gripped my hand and stepped off into the deep water.

That was a win for her, and for every one of us.  On the other hand, the election this past Friday was not.  One experience makes it easier to try next time, while the more recent example could have just the opposite effect.  Each of us, and especially our jobless politician, will have to dig a little deeper the next time we decide to step again out onto a limb.  But, I’m pretty sure she’ll be just fine.  Besides, she’s already told me she’s running again next year.

Clark

Election Day

I don't have a ton of these reposts left, but I want to get them back on the internet.  So thanks for your patience.  This was first posted on May 29, 2009.

Today is the big day at the elementary school.  Who will be on the next Student Council?  More specifically, will our daughter be among them?  She has her speech all ready and she has practiced it plenty.  She seems confident and has been filled with enough tips and positive mental attitude stuff to last her a lifetime.

Last night, after she went to bed, I was thinking a little about what she has to do today.  For the first time in my life, I got butterflies for someone other than myself.  It was kind of an interesting experience, and reminded me immediately of the first time I remember getting them for myself.  I have had the butterflies many times since then and don’t think about it much anymore.  But that first time, I had no idea what was going on and had to ask my mom what was happening to me.  Now, all these years later, I wonder the same thing.

I know I just wrote the other day about how she is so wonderful and special and means so much to me.  And, of course, she is all of these things and more.  But it amazes me that someone can be such a part of me, of who I am, and of what I feel and think, that I actually get butterflies when she is taking the stage.  Wow.  That’s incredible to me.

I actually don’t like the butterflies.  I don’t hate them or anything, but it’s definitely a feeling I don’t love.  At the same time, it’s a feeling I wouldn’t ever avoid.  For me the butterflies are a way of knowing I’m alive and that I’m doing something that will help me grow and learn more about myself or the world.

Today it won’t be me standing in front of the audience, but the butterflies are still letting me know I’m alive.  I’m growing as a parent, and as a person.  And it’s nice to also recognize that my capacity to love and feel for another human being is also growing.

So this morning I think I’ll sneak into the school during the assembly.  I’ll stand in the back doorway of the auditorium and watch her speak.  I’ll feel some of what she feels and experience for myself some of what she is experiencing.  My first baby is growing up and I want to be there to feel it.

Clark

Rock Rock Chair

Sleep-eating a carrot in the rock rock chair

This was first posted May 30, 2009 on my other, now dearly departed blog.

I slept most of the night in the baby's room, sitting awkwardly in the big rocking chair.  The baby wasn’t feeling well, though we never did find out what was going on.  He would cry every time we set him down in bed so it was just easier to hold him.  We did try letting him cry for a little while to see if he was just messing with us, but it was hard to listen to his crying.  Because he’s such a good baby, and normally so great about just plopping down in bed and going to sleep, we figured it must the real deal.

Normally the chair rips my back or neck apart and after one night of sitting there, I pay for about four days.  But this morning I actually don’t feel too bad.  As I sat there, I thought about when we first bought that chair, just over nine years ago.  Our oldest was a bad sleeper and needed to be rocked to sleep every night.  This is a luxury reserved only for the oldest child.  I’m not sure if that’s because you don’t have as much time with the second child, or if you just learn your lesson and get better at saying, no.  Probably a bit of both.

Every night I would settle into the chair and she would lie across my lap.  She would use one armrest as a pillow and the other for her feet.  Most nights I would get up within 30 minutes or an hour and drop her in her bed.  But some nights I would fall so deeply to sleep that I would end up spending the entire night there, sitting in the chair.

We bought this chair a few months after Kris died.  My mom got some money in an insurance settlement and gave some to each of her boys to buy something to remind us of Kris.  With part of the money, I bought a nice watch at a pawn shop.  Kris spent a lot of time in pawn shops, so I thought it would be a good way to connect with him.  I found a store near his home, one I assumed he had been in from time to time, and there found just the right watch for me.

With most of the rest of the money, we bought a big, blue, rocking recliner chair.  I remember standing years ago at his grave, crying and telling him how we would rock our children to sleep in the chair and tell them stories about the uncle they never met.  If not perfectly, this is a promise I have tried hard to keep.

In many ways, this chair has come to represent, or even take the place of my brother.  It has become literally, his contribution toward raising some of his nieces and nephews.  Bought with the most precious money I have ever held, this chair has served our family well.  And all these years later, it’s still fairly nice, though a little dated, and showing signs of those many, long hours service to our family.

It won’t be long until our baby doesn’t need to be rocked each day for a few minutes at bedtime.  And eventually the long nights of rocking a sick child in the chair will only be a memory.  But, even when the old chair’s productive years of service have passed, we will still keep it around for a long, long time.

Clark

Snowy Parking Lot

He left his wife in the crowded doorway and stepped into the snowy night.  On the slushy, slippery path, a long-time friend from work walked a step or two behind him.  He pointed his elbow back toward her and offered that she take it. 

“No,” she said, more out of habit than pride. 

He slowed his pace and allowed his elbow to linger there, where she could easily take it when she changed her mind.

"Maybe I will,” she said, and grabbed, more onto his coat than his arm. 

At that very moment her footing slipped, and he felt a firm tug at his coat.  AI guess, at times, I do need a man to lean on," she joked as she quickly regained her balance.

An awkward silence lingered a moment in the wind and snow and cold. 

“Where are you parked,” he asked, slowing his pace again. 

“I’m parked way out there,” she said, gesturing with her free hand toward the back of the parking lot.

“Good,” he answered, “I’m parked way out there too.”

They walked and chatted with each other like the old friends they’ve always been. 

“It was a nice party, don't you think?”

“Yes,” he responded.  “But I was thinking just today that no one throws a company party quite as well as you do.”  He meant it too.  It had been three years since she was responsible for this annual party, but he thought often, especially at this time of year, about when the company was smaller, and things were somehow easier.  Of course things weren’t easier back then.  But, he sometimes imagined they were.  The recent parties were always nice, but not like in years past.

She thanked him and quickly moved the conversation away from the subject.  “I apologize for the way my staff acted tonight.  They’ve obviously had too much to drink.”

“You aren’t their mother,” he said.  “I think they’re funny to watch.”   

“Since they’re too drunk to drive home, they’re all going to crash here tonight at the hotel.”  She paused a second and then continued, "Three of them have to be at work in the morning."

“That should be fun for them,” he said, thinking of a long, snow-packed drive in the early morning, followed by a long day at work with a well-deserved hangover. 

“Yes,” she agreed.  "And, it doesn’t look like things will be letting up anytime soon."
He smiled, not sure if she had meant the snow, or the party, or both.

She slipped a few more times before they reached the row of cars she was parked on.  She didn’t say anything more about it and he did the same.  Maybe she wouldn’t have fallen, but, maybe she would have.  Either way, he was glad he had offered to help. 

“Here we are at my car,” she said, again gesturing.  “Thanks for your help.”

They were still not close enough to the car that he thought he could just let her go.  He wondered if the comment was her way of letting him off easy. 

But, he also sensed that in the comment there seemed to be a hint of test:  Would he let her go now, or would he follow through to the end?  It was as if she was trying to find out if he really wanted to help, or if he was only performing some act of chivalrous service just long enough to say he had. 

Just as easily, it could be her finely tuned sense of self reliance, coming again to the surface, and forcing her to shake off any sign of weakness or dependence. 

He decided the correct response to all three was to continue on, and turned decidedly toward her car, her hand still gripping tightly to his coat. 

When they reached her car, she loosened her grip and slipped away.  He thought about offering to clear the heavy covering of snow from the windows, but quickly decided he had already done more than she was comfortable with. 

“Well, have a good weekend,” he said, moving back the way they had come. 

"You too,” she said, already brushing snow from the car.  “Thanks for walking me.  I appreciate your help.” 

“No problem,” he said.  “See you soon.”  And turning away, he walked slowly back to his own car.

Clark

Photo of the Day - Pierce's

This old place is in the town next to where I live.  We drive past it on our way to Costco.  It sits on a corner, so while I'm waiting for the light to change, I like to try to figure out all the history related to this place and the building that used to be next door.  There's a great story to be read on the side of this building. 

It was unusually foggy and blah out there today.  The fog seems to have a way of dulling colors and minds and senses down a bit.  But, sometimes the dullness makes other things stand out like they didn't before.  

Clark

Stocker Hands

 This is a repost from my old blog that is no more.  I wanted to get it back up here.

First posted May 24, 2009.

Yesterday I dropped our baby.  On my part, it was a stupid overestimation of his ability, combined with my lack of attention for what is most important. 

Like he’s done a thousand times before, he was sitting on my left arm.  We were in the yard and I was trying to set up his playpen.  He doesn’t love the grass yet so I didn’t want to set him down.  He’s always pretty good about staying up there.  But, he’s also still a little young, so I normally hold onto his leg with my left hand to help him with balance.  For some reason I wasn’t doing this.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe I was using both hands on the playpen.  It wasn’t opening up correctly and I was getting frustrated.  I admit it held more of my attention than it should have.  The reason I know this, is I have no idea exactly how he fell.  I assume he moved one way at the very same moment I moved the other.

In a split second he was completely airborne, his stretched out body falling toward the ground.  His eyes opened wide with surprise.  Instantly my attention shifted from the playpen to the baby.  I needed to act fast. 

After high school I worked in a grocery store as a stock clerk, or stocker as we were called.  There I would drop things all the time: cans, boxes, jars, etc.  Over time, I learned a few things about falling objects: one, catch it if you can, two, if you can’t catch it, get your foot under it, and three, if you can’t get under it, kick it before it hits the ground. 

Obviously catching is ideal.  But, because everything happens so fast, catching it is also the hardest of the three options.  In the 18 months I stocked groceries, I worked hard to develop what I’ve always referred to as, “stocker hands.”  Stocker Hands need to be quick and accurate or product will be wasted. 

An object pulled by gravity falls the first 32 feet in one second.  In a fall of three feet, you have just over 2/5 of a second before it hits the ground.  At four feet, an object will strike the ground in just over ½ a second.  Adding to the complexity of catching, normally your hand is above the thing when it falls.  You have to get under it quickly, or you have to grab it from above.  To catch from below, you need to be faster than from above.  But catching from above is preferred because it is safer and more accurate than grabbing.  Decisions, decisions.   

If you can’t catch it, stop with your foot.  One thing to keep in mind, especially with hard or heavy objects, is that your foot may get smashed in the process.  But if you lift your toes, it keeps them from being compressed between the object and the ground.  This takes some of the sting out of the impact. 

And if all else fails, kick the falling object just as it hits the ground.  This absorbs and transfers the downward motion laterally, usually saving the item from being dented or breaking.  One word of caution here is to be careful to not kick the object too hard, as this can do more damage than good.

So my son - my baby, who trusts his dad completely and, through no fault of his own - is falling.  He’s about 3 ½ feet from the ground and will land squarely on his back. 

Time slowed down as I recognized he was gone.  I dropped the playpen, turned my attention and my body to face him, assessed the situation, bent down and reached toward him.  I extended both hands under his little falling body, and caught him about 18 inches off the ground.  A little help from the calculator tells me all this happened in about 1/3 of a second. 

Over the years, for one reason or another, I have appreciated stocker hands on numerous occasions.  I’ve dropped tools, jars, chainsaws, whatever.  But, if I only caught one thing in my life, and let fall everything else I ever dropped, this was the one catch I am so, so thankful I made.

Clark

Photo of the Day - Profile

Tonight my oldest daughter had a big chunk of enamel break off one of her remaining baby teeth.  I hadn't even pulled my camera out for a couple days but thought I would try and get a shot of it.  Nancy has been sick in bed for the last 24 hours so I took the camera in to show her the pictures.  She, along with two of the younger boys, and a few days earlier, two of the older children, have had a nasty stomach flu.  Only two of us have been spared so far.  Hopefully things stay that way.   

I found her surrounded by children, all trying to get a little time with their mother today before they head off to bed for the night.  My younger daughter was sitting by the lamp, which gave her this soft, golden glow.  Her hair is a little wilder than usual.  That tends to be the way a lot of things go when I'm in charge around here.

Clark

Jump Up

The eighteen months between high school and the real world were not productive ones for me. I lived with my mother for about six months, with my father for about six, and then back to Mom's house for six more. I thought at the time that my parents were the ones that were hard to live with. In reality, it was me and my attitude that made it difficult for me to stay in one place for any significant length of time. So, just before one parent kicked me out, I left again for the other parent's house and followed my nomadic urges from one end of the state to the other and back.

A bit of a hermit as well, I didn’t really go out in public much. That is, except in the evening, when I headed through the darkened city to my job on the night crew at a grocery store. After work, I would usually head straight home, arriving just as the sun was peeking up over the mountains. I would then go, like a vampire, into my darkened room and sleep the day away.

During the months I lived with Mom, my three younger brothers and I we were inseparable. They understood, or dealt with the attitude, and despite a 13 year gap from oldest to youngest, we all got along great. Ranging in age from 5 to 18, we must have seemed like an odd combination. But we didn’t think about age much and had a great time together.

Almost every day at about 3:30 they would come home from school and we would hang out until they went to bed or I left for work. Sometimes we did things a first grader wanted to do. Sometimes we did things a sixth grader liked, and so on. We played ball together, watched television, went camping, played video games, went sledding, fixed cars, launched model rockets, jumped on the trampoline, and went to the lake - together. So, if not productive, those months with my brothers were very enjoyable and filled with many great memories.

Above all other activities, the thing we did together most was listen to music. While driving in the car, hanging out in the house, or while playing in the yard, music was our constant companion. Always there was some music. Usually it was just in the background, but often listening to music or watching music videos was an activity in itself.

One of the most memorable songs of my last six months, living at Mom's house, was a tune we called, "Jump Around." Actually, I don’t even know if that's the real name. And really, I don’t know for sure why this particular song was a favorite. Kris was the only one that liked that style of music. But we each got a turn being in charge of the remote control, and everyone else listened.

This was a catchy tune, it was different, it was new, and it was true to its name. This song made you want to move. Not only that, it came with its own dance. Now the dance and the song didn’t match at all, but both were interesting, and together they made a memorable combination.


The dance was simply a quick slouch on the beat, while raising one knee. While your body was moving downward, your hands sometimes also came up, out to the sides a little. Before the next beat, you quickly came back up to a standing position, switched legs, and then slouched again on the next beat, raising the other leg, and so on. Now this dance was only done during the chorus, which went something like, “We came to get down, we came to get down, jump around. (Jump, Jump, Jump) Jump around. (Jump, Jump, Jump) Jump up, jump up, and get down. (Jump, Jump, Jump) Jump around . . ." Every time the lead singer said “Jump around," the background singers would chant," Jump, jump, jump, . . ." Maybe the discrepancy between a song where they sing, “Jump around," and a video where the lead singer does this little slouchy marching dance, is part of what was so synergistic and appealing about the whole thing.

As odd as the whole song and dance thing sounds to me now, it all made sense back then. And even if it didn’t make sense, it was fun. We would sing this song, chant the jump chant, and do this dance together on a regular basis. It was to us, almost a brotherly bonding ritual of sorts. The song came on, we did the dance. If we were on the street and someone said, "I came to get down," someone else would take it up from there and we would all dance. If we were in the mall and one of us started the jump chant . . . well you get the idea.

Eventually those six months ended and I moved away from home. In time, we each left Mom's house and headed out on our own, down different paths all leading in different directions. Sometimes our relationships are strained by our different views on life. But we still get together occasionally for a meal, or an activity, or the celebration of a holiday or birthday. When we get together we remember times long past, we tease each other, and we laugh a lot.

One of these days together was at the freestyle aerials competition during the 2002 Winter Olympics. There were just three of us now. Kris's path had been cut short about two years earlier. His death really changed some of the dynamics of our family. In some ways we are closer, and in some ways our relationships are stretched like never before. In light of - or maybe in spite of - our differences, we still try to spend time together when we can. So when the once in a lifetime opportunity of experiencing the Olympics in our home town came, we decided to go together.

That morning we were among the very first on the hill. By calculating a series of factors, including: distance from the event, expected security checkpoint delays and other expected and unexpected delays, the official booklet said to plan four hours between leaving my house and the start time of the event, less than 35 miles away.

In the days leading up to the event, I had heard some of the morning traffic delays discussed on the radio were a little exaggerated. In fact, a couple of my friends were convinced the traffic jams pictured on the news every night were old video files of some unrelated traffic event, shown only in an attempt to get people to stay away or ride the bus to each venue. We decided to push it a little and left only 3 2 hours before the event started. 30 minutes later, we were at the huge temporary parking lot, built specifically for the Olympics. In another 30 minutes, we were stepping off a shuttle at the base of the hill.

Here we met with our first of only two real delays. A wall of ticket scalpers were at the shuttle stop, blocking the way as we exited the shuttle, trying to buy any ticket they could get their hands on. I marched past them, offering only a, "good morning," and a smile.

I was about 50 yards up the path to the lodge when Jake told me to hang on. He pointed down the hill to the group of scalpers; one of them was toe to toe with our youngest brother, Cody. They appeared to be negotiating a big deal. I walked back toward him and watched the action. After a few seconds the scalper walked away and Cody turned and started up the path. Just before he reached us, the scalper ran up to him again and asked him to stop. They squared off a second time, only a few inches from each other. The scalper looked intently up into my brother’s face. They were only a few feet away from us, but all I could hear of the hushed conversation was the scalper’s thick English accent. Finally they separated and we started again up the hill.

"What'd you get him up to?" Jake asked.

"He started at $100. I went to $150 and he turned and walked away. Then he ran back and said, 'Okay, $150.' I just wanted to see how high he would go."

“That’s almost four times what we paid,” I said.

No sooner were the words out of my mouth when Jake jokingly turned and took a few steps down the hill. He was our ride home, so fortunately we convinced him to stay.

Further up the hill, the next and last delay in getting up to the ski jump was at the security check, which hadn’t even opened yet. We stood at the beginning of an ever-growing line, telling jokes and jogging in place to stay warm. The sun wouldn’t even come up over the hill for another hour. On the side of this cold mountain, my brothers and I were glad for good company and many warm layers of clothing.

After a few minutes, the check point opened and we shuffled through, finally on our way up the last snow-covered slope, toward the massive 6 or 8 story tall, grandstand. This huge structure, large enough to hold thousands of spectators, had been erected for the viewing of the Olympic Slalom, Moguls and Freestyle Aerials competitions. It would be dismantled as soon as the Olympic flame had been snuffed out a week later. Even more impressive than the massive temporary structure, was the gigantic banner, picturing an upside down skier in mid jump, which draped over and covered the entire back of the grandstand.

Our tickets though, weren’t for the bleachers; we were assigned to the standing-only areas in front. We arrived to our section so early that we ended up in the front row. Here we had an unmatched view of the landing area, only a few feet in front of us. Almost straight up and to our left, were the six, huge launching ramps that would catapult the aerialists into the air above us.

After a while the section started filling up. Eventually the standing crowd was so packed together that there was scarcely a space between each of us. The shortest of my Mom's boys is over six feet tall. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we must have looked like some great three-headed wall of warm clothing. I kind of felt bad for the people standing behind us. That is, until I realized the action we came to see was almost all straight up, well above our heads.

Freestyle Aerials, aside from being an insane activity, is an unusual and interesting sport. Prior to each run, the athlete stands on the hill, high above the launch point. A huge built-up, curving ramp of hard-packed snow, waits below to toss him or her high into the air over the crowds. The athletes name and the jump they will be attempting are announced. In anticipation of the jump, loud music starts to play over the speakers. When ready, the jumper skis down the hill toward the huge ramp at full speed. The aerialist launches off the end of the ramp and flies through the air, doing any number of twists, back flips and somersaults. Then, most of the time anyway, the skier straightens out and lands, feet first onto a steep, snow-covered, slope. Quickly he or she regains control and stops before taking out a section of spectators in front of the bleachers. The entire jump lasts only a few, intense and exciting seconds.

As you might expect from such a unique sport, freestyle aerials also has a lingo of its own. Terms like single, double, lay, flip and tuck are all added together to create fantastic and amazing aerial maneuvers. With no training beforehand in the vocabulary of an aerialist, we were completely lost when the first few jumps were announced over the loudspeaker. "Full Double Full," or, "Rudy Half Full," meant nothing to us at first, and we had to concentrate to figure out what was being said.


Jake was the first of us to figure out what all this freestyle mumbo jumble meant and was now teaching Cody and me. After defining the phrases, he quizzed me by asking if I would translate the next jump. The announcer called out the next Olympiad and said she was attempting a Full, Full, Full. I translated this into plain English; "He said she would do three flips and three twists. That was an easy one." As we intently focused our gaze on the ramp above our heads, I began to say something else. But, at that very moment, the music for this jumper filled the air, and I stopped talking right in the middle of a word.

I turned and looked at my brothers. Cody was looking back at me. He knew I was thinking about Kris.

After an almost successful landing, Jake turned and asked what I had said. “This song reminds me of Kris," I answered. Cody nodded.

"It does?" Jake asked.

"Yeah, remember in Reno?"

"Oh, yeah," he said.

I started to sing along and Cody joined in. We sang and listened for a couple of seconds and then I started doing the dance. Slouch, with one knee up, and a quick straighten up for the next beat, slouch, and so on. This was a bit much for my brothers, so I stopped after a few slouches. We all stood and just listened - and remembered.

A few days later, when I told my mom about this part of the day, she got a little choked up and asked me if I thought Kris was up there with us. I thought for a second before I answered, "No." I paused a second or two and then added, "but we sure thought about him a lot."


On the front row that day, my brothers and I, along with about 15,000 other spectators, stood and watched a piece of history unfold. All of us, faces pointed up into the sky, waiting for a whoosh of snow, and a skier, hurtling from off the top of a giant ramp. After flying, twisting, flipping though the air, the jumper would land, their skis slapping down on the packed snow. More often than not, they would pull off this landing and slide smoothly down the hill toward the grandstand. At the bottom of the hill, they would make a wide, sweeping turn, a wall of snow flying up from under their skis, their arms held high, triumphantly in the air. Then, after a perfectly timed stop in front of the television cameras, the ten second run would end with cheers and applause from the crowd and big smile on the face of the athlete.


I heard an old saying recently that says no one is ever really dead as long as someone is thinking about them. I don’t hear that old jump-around song very often these days, maybe once a year or so. But, before that day had ended, this song was played two additional times over the loud speaker, more than any other song blasted into the air above us. In fact, I don’t remember another song that was even played twice, let alone three times.

More than any other song, this one reminds me of good times with my brothers. More than any other song, this one reminds me of Kris, who introduced us to it and taught us the dance.

Who knows, maybe Kris was up there that day, with us on the mountain. But, even if he wasn’t there in person, he was definitely there in our collected remembrance of him. For a few short hours, that cold, February morning, Kris was alive and well, even if only in the thoughts and memories of his brothers.

Photo of the Day - Candle

A candle on the dining room window sash, reflected in the main and storm windows. 

Clark

Photo of the Day - Our New Computer Desk

This desk is what I did all day today.  Actually it's what I've done three of the last four Saturdays.  It's done now though, and I'm sitting at it this minute, typing away.  Painting will have to wait for warmer weather.

I just realized I should have put the doors back on for this photo.  It turned out pretty good for being built entirely of scrap materials.  Except for two sets of drawer guides and a drill bit, I didn't spend any money on materials. 

Almost all of the lumber has a history.  I used to build quite a bit of furniture for family, friends and clients, but haven't built anything worth noting for about two years.  But we needed a new desk to keep us better organized so I cleaned out the shop and went to work. 

Because all the lumber was left over from other projects, some of it has a history worth noting:
 - The frame is old reclaimed pine I got from my neighbor, Jim, across the street.  He salvaged it years ago from an old Boy Scout office and gave it a few years ago to me. 
- The white parts are left over melamine from two winters ago when I built bookcases downstairs.
- The base trim is left over from when I changed all the base in the house about five years ago.
- Beadboard on the sides and in the doors was left over from a wainscot in my daughter's room, which was finished with the rest of the basement about 18 months ago in anticipation of a new baby.  
- The front edge of the keyboard drawer was salvaged maple from a shop where a friend works.
- Parts of the cabinet and door frames are alder, left over from the trim I made for my uncle and aunt when they remodeled their house several years ago. 
- Last, but most meaningful, is part of a large, thick, glued up spruce panel.  I glued the boards together about 12 years ago, intending to use them in a headboard for my brother Kris. 

I never built the headboard.  Later, he needed a table for his kitchen.  But, this too, I never got around to making for him.  When he died, I hung onto the piece of wood, and always considered it his.  I never could, until now, bring myself to use it in a project.  Even included as part of a desk for my family, it took me a long time to finally break down and use it. 

While I stood and tried to decide if I was going to finally use this particular board or not, I brushed off years of accumulated sawdust, and thought about my little brother.  I stared a long time at the old board, and talked out loud, in reverent tones to it, as if it were actually Kris with me, and not just a piece of wood.  

Photo of the Day - Shed Window

I've thought a lot about doing a photo every day this year.  But, the daily time requirements to do it right are more than my schedule can handle.  So, I'm not going to do one every day, but I am going to do one as often as possible.

Today I was hauling some stuff from my dad's garage to his shed.  Between loads, he and I rested and talked for a few minutes in his back yard.  The window of the old shed, partially hidden behind the overgrown hawthorn tree, then caught my eye.

2010

December is over . . . finally. 

Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas and the Holidays.  We've had a wonderful week or so around here.  I just don't love the hectic chaos that is December.  Maybe you can tell by the 26 day lapse between postings how crazy-busy it gets around here.  And this past December was relatively tame. 

But that's old news now, I'm looking forward to the future.  2010 is here (twenty-ten as they call it at work).  A new year, a new start, and a new set of goals to work toward. 

I better go, I have some important stuff to finish in the next 365 days and can already feel the time passing away. 

Clark