I'm not sure if owning horses was something my dad always dreamed about as a child or if the opportunity just presented itself, but when I was 12-13 years old my father began collecting retarded horses. I say retarded because each one of them had an interesting mental capacity or personality disorder that made riding them a lesson in fear/idiocy. Just to name a few, there was a horse named Ho that was not only temperamental but she would fart every time she would startle. There was an Arabian horse that was blind in the left eye, which freaked him out any time something approached him from the left side. Another horse ate dog food and was then struck by lightning not too much later. The horse Ho had a colt that was fairly well behaved but could spook easily. Last of which was the horse named Satan.
My sister Brittany was riding Ho, who apparently didn't want to be ridden. Ho decided the best way to get Brittany off was to take her through some trees with low-lying branches. Sure enough the plan worked and Ho came galloping back from the stand of trees with an empty saddle.
The Arabian horse wasn't too bright. On a trail ride where my dad was riding this horse, there was a large embankment on the right side and a large drop off on the left (the horses blind side). In order to avoid the embankment the horse veered to the left and down the drop off, taking my dad with him. Stupid horse!
So, after our horse named Midnight was struck and killed by lightning my sister Brittany became very concerned anytime a thunderstorm occurred. Ho just had a baby colt and was out at pasture when a forecast for a thunderstorm occurred. I was instructed by my father to go and get the baby colt and his mother (Ho) and put them in the stalls.
Upon arrival Josh and I soon learned that we could easily catch the colt, but Ho was a bit more difficult. We finally caught Ho but she didn't want to listen to two 13-15 year old's and wasn't about to go easily into the stalls. So . . . we tied her to the metal fence post and focused our attention on the colt. The colt was easy to catch and was small enough to carry. I picked him up and began to carry him towards the stalls.
Now . . . for those of you who aren't familiar with getting between an animal and her young you should know that this isn't a good idea. Ho saw me with her baby and became infuriated. She broke the thick horse rope that we used to tie her up and she came charging at me. Fortunately I looked back in time to see her coming. I threw the colt to the side and ran like H#$$.
Josh and I had enough, we called our dad who was able to coax Ho into a stall, the colt following dutifully behind. Stupid horse! Apparently horses were a privilege. Our price to pay for this privilege . . . Josh and I mucked out horse manure every week!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
The Grocery Store
While at Walmart a couple days ago I noticed a young boy crying and squealing for some item his dad wouldn't buy him. I don't ever recall throwing a tantrum for something I wanted at the store, but I sure did have my fair share of instances that embarrassed my parents. The incidents mostly involved fighting with Josh.
I was pretty young when these grocery store fights would occur but I do remember them occurring. Apparently these fights were frequent enough that my mom relegated my dad to taking Josh and I to the store. This, I believe, was an effort to get revenge on my father for giving my mother two rambunctious boys. It might have also been an effort to get my dad to only make one trip to the store. My father had a habit of forgetting what he was sent to the store to get. The most famous of these instances being when my dad was sent to the store to get milk. The first time he came back he had some devil's food cookies, chips-ahoy, and potato chips. He was sent back to the store when my mother discovered that he had not completed the assigned mission. The second trip he came back with some beef jerky, some salami sticks, cheese, and some cereal. Upon return his stash of junk food was looked upon with disdain and he was immediately mobilized by commander in chief mom back to the store. On this third and final trip he completed his mission, this time with some ice cream and soda-pop en tote.
Anyway, the fighting I remember occurred at a local grocery store. My dad liked to go to a store called Stan's Market. It was a smaller mom and pop's type grocery store that also happened to be one of the stores nearest to our house. I was sitting on the bottom of the cart and Josh was pushing the cart from behind. Josh and I started to argue about who was steering the cart (me with my legs, or Josh by pushing from behind- it only makes sense that the guy under the cart should be the one to steer, right!?). Pretty soon there was pushing and assorted punching and kicking involved. We were arguing and yelling and making a pretty big scene in the small quiet store. Before I knew it I noticed that my dad and the cart were nowhere in sight. We had been abandoned at the grocery store!
Josh and I began the frantic search for my dad, who apparently had decided to completely deny any connection he had with the two ill tempered boys fighting in the milk isle and to move to a different isle while we concluded our fight. We eventually found him and all was right again with the world. His tactic was fairly effective, it ended the fight had we were shopping in peace again. Even though he denies it he must have been distracted by our fighting because he kept asking what is was we had been sent to the store to get; we answered devil's food cookies, chips ahoy, and potato chips!
I was pretty young when these grocery store fights would occur but I do remember them occurring. Apparently these fights were frequent enough that my mom relegated my dad to taking Josh and I to the store. This, I believe, was an effort to get revenge on my father for giving my mother two rambunctious boys. It might have also been an effort to get my dad to only make one trip to the store. My father had a habit of forgetting what he was sent to the store to get. The most famous of these instances being when my dad was sent to the store to get milk. The first time he came back he had some devil's food cookies, chips-ahoy, and potato chips. He was sent back to the store when my mother discovered that he had not completed the assigned mission. The second trip he came back with some beef jerky, some salami sticks, cheese, and some cereal. Upon return his stash of junk food was looked upon with disdain and he was immediately mobilized by commander in chief mom back to the store. On this third and final trip he completed his mission, this time with some ice cream and soda-pop en tote.
Anyway, the fighting I remember occurred at a local grocery store. My dad liked to go to a store called Stan's Market. It was a smaller mom and pop's type grocery store that also happened to be one of the stores nearest to our house. I was sitting on the bottom of the cart and Josh was pushing the cart from behind. Josh and I started to argue about who was steering the cart (me with my legs, or Josh by pushing from behind- it only makes sense that the guy under the cart should be the one to steer, right!?). Pretty soon there was pushing and assorted punching and kicking involved. We were arguing and yelling and making a pretty big scene in the small quiet store. Before I knew it I noticed that my dad and the cart were nowhere in sight. We had been abandoned at the grocery store!
Josh and I began the frantic search for my dad, who apparently had decided to completely deny any connection he had with the two ill tempered boys fighting in the milk isle and to move to a different isle while we concluded our fight. We eventually found him and all was right again with the world. His tactic was fairly effective, it ended the fight had we were shopping in peace again. Even though he denies it he must have been distracted by our fighting because he kept asking what is was we had been sent to the store to get; we answered devil's food cookies, chips ahoy, and potato chips!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Painting
My wife and I have been talking about painting parts of our house. We even have the color picked out for our guest half-bath. I have been less than excited about the whole venture. Painting has never been my forte. Perhaps I have a subconscious block against painting. This block most likely extends from some of the painting fiascoes I had growing up.
The first real experience I had with painting came when I was about 12 years old. My father had just finished the basement in our house and Josh and I were assigned to do the “cutting in” and priming of the walls and ceiling. There were a couple big 5 gallon buckets of paint that were going to be used on our room and parts of the rest of the basement. Josh and I got to work with our paint brushes and a couple rollers. We worked on various occasions for several hours a piece. It seemed that no matter how many layers we put on it really didn't look right- so, we just kept adding layers. We must have painted nearly 15 coats on the walls of that room. Finally we asked our dad to come and inspect our masterpiece. He came to the basement (Josh and I were always given a room in the basement, always as far away as possible from my parents' room). He took a look at the room and asked what we had used to paint the room. We proudly showed him the bucket we had used.
His verdict came swiftly and stung like the whip of the task master he was- we had used primer to paint all 15 coats of paint. We still had to paint the whole room again! Josh and I were none too happy. I think we complained about it for weeks. Dad . . . that slavedriver!
I can't get too upset at my dad. Despite our disaster painting our own room he hired us to paint one of the rooms in his actual business. He had just remodelled a couple office rooms where he does business. The carpets were new but painting still needed to be done. A very nice oil based paint was chosen.
Josh and I set down covers on the edges of the new carpet and we taped off the edges, floor boards, removed door knobs, etc. We prepped with primer (remembering our mistake from years earlier) and we began to paint with the nice paint. I set the paint bucket on top of a folding table.
What happened next will live on until both Josh and I no more. My dad's version of this incident is probably the best. He was sitting at his desk doing work and from the other room where Josh and I were working he hears a “thud” and then he heard me say several times “Oh no! Oh no!” and then he saw me running past the door to his office and running back with a handful of paper towels from the bathroom. He knew what had happened as soon as he heard me say “Oh no!”
I had accidentally bumped the table in which Josh and I had set the paint bucket (which was nearly full at the time). The paint bucket fell onto the center of the room carpet where we had not set the tarps. The size of the paint spill was comparable to the recent BP oil-spill- at least it seemed to me at the time.
To my dad's credit he never said a harsh word. In fact, my father has always been a very good man, not to ever put objects and possessions above people. A ruined object (by accident- or not under bad intentions) was no reason to belittle or harshly treat someone.
That carpet stain stayed in that back room for over 10 years. It was in a spot that could never be covered. Maybe that is why that room (which was originally intended to be an office) was used as a storage room.
The first real experience I had with painting came when I was about 12 years old. My father had just finished the basement in our house and Josh and I were assigned to do the “cutting in” and priming of the walls and ceiling. There were a couple big 5 gallon buckets of paint that were going to be used on our room and parts of the rest of the basement. Josh and I got to work with our paint brushes and a couple rollers. We worked on various occasions for several hours a piece. It seemed that no matter how many layers we put on it really didn't look right- so, we just kept adding layers. We must have painted nearly 15 coats on the walls of that room. Finally we asked our dad to come and inspect our masterpiece. He came to the basement (Josh and I were always given a room in the basement, always as far away as possible from my parents' room). He took a look at the room and asked what we had used to paint the room. We proudly showed him the bucket we had used.
His verdict came swiftly and stung like the whip of the task master he was- we had used primer to paint all 15 coats of paint. We still had to paint the whole room again! Josh and I were none too happy. I think we complained about it for weeks. Dad . . . that slavedriver!
I can't get too upset at my dad. Despite our disaster painting our own room he hired us to paint one of the rooms in his actual business. He had just remodelled a couple office rooms where he does business. The carpets were new but painting still needed to be done. A very nice oil based paint was chosen.
Josh and I set down covers on the edges of the new carpet and we taped off the edges, floor boards, removed door knobs, etc. We prepped with primer (remembering our mistake from years earlier) and we began to paint with the nice paint. I set the paint bucket on top of a folding table.
What happened next will live on until both Josh and I no more. My dad's version of this incident is probably the best. He was sitting at his desk doing work and from the other room where Josh and I were working he hears a “thud” and then he heard me say several times “Oh no! Oh no!” and then he saw me running past the door to his office and running back with a handful of paper towels from the bathroom. He knew what had happened as soon as he heard me say “Oh no!”
I had accidentally bumped the table in which Josh and I had set the paint bucket (which was nearly full at the time). The paint bucket fell onto the center of the room carpet where we had not set the tarps. The size of the paint spill was comparable to the recent BP oil-spill- at least it seemed to me at the time.
To my dad's credit he never said a harsh word. In fact, my father has always been a very good man, not to ever put objects and possessions above people. A ruined object (by accident- or not under bad intentions) was no reason to belittle or harshly treat someone.
That carpet stain stayed in that back room for over 10 years. It was in a spot that could never be covered. Maybe that is why that room (which was originally intended to be an office) was used as a storage room.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
The Chemistry Set
My father ambitiously gave Josh a microscope and me a chemistry set for Christmas one year. I loved my chemistry set. My dad helped us make a concoction of cobalt which changed colors with heating and cooling. It was the coolest thing ever. Josh and I attempted to do our own experiments with the chemistry set. We would mix rubbing alcohol with various chemicals found in the set. This mixture, in a test tube, we would then put a cork to seal the mixture. We would shake it and then heat the alcohol mixture over a flame.
As the alcohol evaporated from the heat it built up pressure inside the sealed test tube. The concept of heating a liquid in a sealed container was foreign for the likes of a 5 year old. All-of-a-sudden it happened . . . the cork blew off the top of the test tube and the alcohol mixture with it! The flame from the heat source ignited the fumes and the liquid spewing from the test tube. The burning alcohol was spread all over the walls. Combined with the cobalt and various metals and salts dissolved in the alcohol the flames were beautiful colors, purple, blue, red, violet, and orange. Despite the beauty of the flames the fear of burning the house down prompted us to quell the flames. Josh and I rushed to smother the flames, and luckily we did. My parents didn't find out about how close we had come to burning down their house until just recently. In fact, I better give a preemptive warning to my parents if they read this blog that there might be stories here that they've never heard before. We kept them secret for a reason. And boy, there were some close ones!
As the alcohol evaporated from the heat it built up pressure inside the sealed test tube. The concept of heating a liquid in a sealed container was foreign for the likes of a 5 year old. All-of-a-sudden it happened . . . the cork blew off the top of the test tube and the alcohol mixture with it! The flame from the heat source ignited the fumes and the liquid spewing from the test tube. The burning alcohol was spread all over the walls. Combined with the cobalt and various metals and salts dissolved in the alcohol the flames were beautiful colors, purple, blue, red, violet, and orange. Despite the beauty of the flames the fear of burning the house down prompted us to quell the flames. Josh and I rushed to smother the flames, and luckily we did. My parents didn't find out about how close we had come to burning down their house until just recently. In fact, I better give a preemptive warning to my parents if they read this blog that there might be stories here that they've never heard before. We kept them secret for a reason. And boy, there were some close ones!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
I guess I am a little late, I should have posted this on the 4th of July. I guess that living in a very humid and wet state has made me forget about the dangers of fire associated with fireworks. We went to a couple parties. One of those parties included a ton of sparklers for the little kids, some of which were running around in bare feet. This reminded me, not that I needed much reminder, of when I stepped on a recently used phosphorus sparkler. It hurt pretty bad, and now when I see a kid with a sparkler and no shoes I cringe.
So, back to the story! (By the way, I'm not sure anyone knows I was responsible for this, there are a few stories to come in future blogs that will feature stories that no one knows about. I feel that enough time has expired to keep myself from getting into trouble- the statute of limitations has expired!) It was the 4th of July and we were out in front of the house lighting off a mixture of legal and illegal fireworks. I think I was about 5 years old at the time. It was great fun! We had flowers, tanks, bottle rockets, and sparklers. I was waving a sparkler around, writing my name in the dark evening. I was having a good ol time. It had been a little dry that summer, no more than usual for Salt Lake, but it hadn't rained in a couple weeks. Our neighbors across the street didn't take care of their lawn and it had grown all spring without being mowed. Combined with the dry climate his yard was a nice tenderbox waiting for my just burnt out sparkler.
I had gone on my way after tossing my sparkler over their fence. Some of the adults noticed that smoke had started to come from the neighbor's otherwise empty yard. Soon flames were visible as their dry grass became fuel for my sparkler which was still clinging to some semblance of purpose, beit destructive or entertaining.
While the adults were scrambling with their garden hoses and buckets I was trying to act cool, like the innocent boy I was. I felt bad at the moment, but I never said a word. The back spot in their yard was an improvement! Good ol sparklers!
So, back to the story! (By the way, I'm not sure anyone knows I was responsible for this, there are a few stories to come in future blogs that will feature stories that no one knows about. I feel that enough time has expired to keep myself from getting into trouble- the statute of limitations has expired!) It was the 4th of July and we were out in front of the house lighting off a mixture of legal and illegal fireworks. I think I was about 5 years old at the time. It was great fun! We had flowers, tanks, bottle rockets, and sparklers. I was waving a sparkler around, writing my name in the dark evening. I was having a good ol time. It had been a little dry that summer, no more than usual for Salt Lake, but it hadn't rained in a couple weeks. Our neighbors across the street didn't take care of their lawn and it had grown all spring without being mowed. Combined with the dry climate his yard was a nice tenderbox waiting for my just burnt out sparkler.
I had gone on my way after tossing my sparkler over their fence. Some of the adults noticed that smoke had started to come from the neighbor's otherwise empty yard. Soon flames were visible as their dry grass became fuel for my sparkler which was still clinging to some semblance of purpose, beit destructive or entertaining.
While the adults were scrambling with their garden hoses and buckets I was trying to act cool, like the innocent boy I was. I felt bad at the moment, but I never said a word. The back spot in their yard was an improvement! Good ol sparklers!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Gasoline
One winter evening my brother and I told my parents we were going to play out in the back yard in the snow. We did just that and we built a snowman, but Josh and I weren't building the snowman just to build a snowman. We had plenty of experience building snowmen- a regular snowman was boring! No, this snowman actually served a purpose! He was our target for target practice for our bows and arrows. It was getting dark and we decided that we needed something to help us see where our arrows were going. We found the solution was to put toilet paper on the end of the arrows, dowse it in gasoline and have flaming arrows.
My dad was in the kitchen and noticed a flame going shooting from one end of the yard to the other. And then another. He came out to investigate and found Josh and I with a can of gasoline with our bow and several arrows prepped with paper and gasoline ready to go. Our snowman with a couple arrows already sticking out of him with some residual burning toilet paper.
My dad was in the kitchen and noticed a flame going shooting from one end of the yard to the other. And then another. He came out to investigate and found Josh and I with a can of gasoline with our bow and several arrows prepped with paper and gasoline ready to go. Our snowman with a couple arrows already sticking out of him with some residual burning toilet paper.
We got a good lecture about how dangerous gasoline was. This was the first time I remember hearing that lecture, but it definitely wasn't the last time either. A few years later, after having heard the gasoline lecture a few times, my brother and I were playing around with the large plastic cars that my parents had bought as toys for my younger brothers and sisters. These cars are the ones that are big enough for a child to get inside. You propel yourself in these cars with your feet like the Flintstones. Josh and I decided to fill the consul on these cars with gasoline- light them on fire and send on a quick trip down the hill in the back yard. When the cars hit a bump it would slosh around the burning gasoline and would make the fire much bigger. We would dowse the burning car in water which would just spread the flames. Eventually the cars just melted and burned after having done this a few times. This time there would be no lecture, apart from the angry look on his face I remember him saying, “I'm tired of talking!”
Monday, July 5, 2010
Ghostbusters
Josh and I loved (still love) the movie Ghost Busters. We would watch the movie over and over again. We would play ghost busters with our backpacks and parts from mom's vacuum cleaner. The family garden was also a favorite playground. We would dig holes in the garden and then fill the holes with water. We would then take the dirt we had taken from the holes and put it back in and mix it all around to make mud. But this was no ordinary mud. My father had decided to fertilize our garden using chicken manure, which, like cow manure, provides nutrients for a variety of garden plants, it also has the added property of increased aromaticity . . . i.e., it stinks really bad. In fact the aroma from this chicken manure would cause people getting off the bus walking by to gag. My dad even witnessed one person running to the other side of the street while attempting not to throw up.
So it was just natural that Josh and I used this situation to our advantage. We sat waiting for our unsuspecting victims. Our backpacks on with the tube to mom's vacuum somewhere nearby in the garden. We sat quietly. Who would suspect children anyway? The nice men and women getting off the bus in front of our house, in their nice suits and skirts after a long day at work. Walked by our fence, and then . . . . that mud we had concocted, with chicken manure and sopping wet went flying over the fence by the shovel-full as Josh and I shouted, “YOU'VE BEEN SLIMED!!!” I'm not sure if sliming people was in accordance with the Ghost Buster code, but we sure got busted.
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