Bad Hair

Recently I have finally been able to scan a few pictures from my childhood into my computer. As we were going through the pictures my wife notified my that my family wasn't too great on hairstyles. I have to agree. As proof I have chosen a few examples. Enjoy!

Whoah, I always thought it was real!

The 80's was no excuse

        Cramer???

    What are you looking at?

A good 2 for 1 pic- priceless!!

    Lynsie's She Mullet!!

Taylor after he pulled out a chunk of his hair with an electric drill! He looked like my dad!

Ha Ha Ha. Don't worry, more embarrasing photos to follow!!!!

You'll shoot your eye out!

My father loves the movie Christmas story. I can remember watching that movie every Christmas season for as long as I can remember. My dad also instilled in my brother and I a healthy respect and thirst for guns. So, naturally when I was a young boy I wanted a BB gun just like Ralph on The Christmas Story. When I turned 8 my dreams came true and my dad bought Josh and I BB guns for Christmas. I was so excited and I went outside to shoot it. I set up a wooden board against the fence and took aim and FIRED!!!! Wouldn't you know it . . . that darned BB bounced back and hit me right underneath the left eye! Man it hurt! I can't remember if I ever told my parents. I'll be sure to let MY kids know that shooting against a flat hard surface is a bad idea, and I'll make them wear safety glasses, but I'll still buy them their BB gun!

Skiing

When I was 11 years old my neighbors invited Josh and I to go skiing with them. Living in Utah we were obliged to accept this request and I really did look forward to it. My dad took us down to Deseret Industries (a Salvation Army-type of store) to buy us some skis. The skis that we got were at least 15 years old with old bindings and boots and none of the new fandangled features that skis had. The bindings were old with strap leashes that would prevent runaway skis from jetting down the hillside if separated from the skier- rather than the new fork system if the boot became unbound (see picture).

So, with our new old skis and a desire for adventure we set out with our neighbors to the ski resort Solitude up Big Cottonwood Canyon. It was mid morning and the slopes were just opening up for the morning. Josh and I followed our friends to the lift. Having no idea what to expect we hopped on the high speed quad.

As we got off lift I was quick to discover that even dismounting the lift would take some practice. It is hard to remember but I think I might have fallen down there too- it all seems to blur together now. There was a nice map that showed the various routes we could take to the bottom of the mountain. Apparently the lift we were on was the largest lift and provided the rider with the most skiing/lift time. The trails were all blue, black, or double-black lines (which meant nothing to me at the time). My friends pointed out that since it was our first time we would go down a blue trail since blacks were for experts. I must have fallen a dozen times in the first 200-300 yards of that blue trail- my friends weren't much for teaching as they only instructed us to stop falling down. The blue trail turned out to be harder than I had anticipated but I figured I would be able to make it down to the bottom. After all there really wasn't any other alternative, unless I wanted to ski down on a black diamond slope.

After about half a mile of what other might not call skiing we came to a fork in the trail. This fork was marked by a sign designating which trail was what on the map- HOLY CRAP!!! The only trails we could continue on were black diamonds! There was no turning back. My friends, knowing that we were struggling, gave us the only instructions they could think of . . . “just use your 'snowplow' [method].” We just hunckered down and headed down the hill.

These new trails were MUCH steeper. Josh and I were inching our way down the hill, which happened to be pretty icy as well. Our friends, tired of waiting for us, decided to just go down the hill and ditch us for the day- we never saw them again! Pretty soon I took a pretty good fall and I didn't stop for about 100 yards of tumbling. I looked back and saw Josh tumbling down the trail just to my left. He had hit and taken out another skier and was on course for taking out a ski patrolman- and sure enough he did. In the tumble my skis had come off but were held to me by the ancient leashes made of mammoth or sabor tooth tiger hide. Josh was no so fortunate with one of his skis which in the chaos become separated and was zooming down the mountain at 100mph. It disappeared into the soft power of the trees never to be seen again.

The ski patrolman (Josh's new friend) was livid. He threatened to kick us out of the resort (which honestly wouldn't have bothered me much at that point) but instead he just instructed us to walk the rest of the way down, which we were happy to do- besides- skiing was actually slower for me than walking anyway. Josh spent a bit of time searching for his ski. We spent the rest of the day on the bunny hill, which actually was good for us as we started to actually learn the basics and we didn't hurt ourselves doing it.

Years later now black diamonds are no longer a scary prospect for me and I actually enjoy them the most. I took some friends skiing for the first time a couple years ago . . . the first trails I took them on were blue and black!

Horses

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!

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!

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 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!