Stolen Away

Startled,

Then annoyed.

Following closely on the heels of annoyed is a wave of shame, of guilt, of self-kicking for not doing something different.

Now, it's completely out of your control. Nothing you can do. Nothing except pull your trousers up and  move on. It's life, it's what happens.

And yet, you find it difficult to shake the persistent gnawing - that vulnerability that is attached to being robbed - is nothing safe? I need to move. What else of value do I have? Where can I store it safely? Is there nowhere secure?

That feeling drives you to double-check the doors and windows - securing everything that is ajar. Looking for "ins," calculating how simple it would be to break in, steal, and leave, all under a cloak of secrecy. It drives you to protect what you do have, to value it all the more, and take nothing for granted.

In the wake of such emotional trauma, you search the net to replace what was taken. You find it odd how quickly one forms an emotional attachment to an inanimate object. Why do we long for that which cannot long for us.

A bicycle is nothing more than a well-organized mass of steel, aluminum, and rubber, but you still miss it. Why?

The Adventure of the Winter Cave

                Today’s installment comes from the dead of winter, sometime in January, when snow has blanketed the world in a sheet of white. We find our young hero toiling busily in the backyard of his home.

                Me, I love the winter. The crisp air, the infinitely moldable snow, the way ambient light carries for eternity in the middle of a snowstorm, every bit of winter is magic. Fortunately for me, I live in Utah, and there is a limitless supply of winter adventure material to be found in this great State.

                Which is exactly how I found myself toiling behind a snow shovel, pushing heavy, white masses of the stuff into the center of my yard. I was a man with a plan, and I was not to be delayed.

                The snow had begun to fall as we drove back from Wendover. I had spent the day with Dad and Seth on the Bonneville Salt Flats, filming someone’s interpretation of art. It involved explosives, fireballs, and propane flamethrowers, so I was more than pleased with how the day had turned out. As we left the salt-pan, myself, the 12 year-old racecar driver, piloted our Chevy Suburban over the vast expanse. Flurries of snow began to fall from the sky. As we came to the end of the wilderness, Dad, I assume reluctant to end my budding driving career, insisted that he drive the rest of the way home. I begrudgingly yielded the driver’s seat, and found myself, again, in the co-pilot’s seat. Dad took the wheel, pulled our car onto the highway, and away we flew – homeward bound.

                The snow was still falling as we pulled into our driveway. A purple glow radiated from the streetlights as snow crystals refracted the electric light. I rushed to the garage, grabbed my shovel, and set to work.

                Thus, we find our young adventurer where we left him, shoveling snow into a monumental heap.

                I worked in a circular pattern, pushing the atmospheric bestowal to the center of our quarter-acre plot. Once I had accumulated a sufficient mountain of snow, I swapped out the snow shovel for its agrarian cousin: the garden spade.

                Digging with tenacity unbridled, I began to tunnel into my man-made molehill, shoving the heavy dross behind me. I burrowed for hours, and by the time the snow had ceased to fall, I had a tunnel long enough to conceal my whole frame.

                They say necessity is the mother of invention, and the spade I had employed to get me thus far had outlasted its tenure. In a fury of creative energy, I sprinted to the shop, aforementioned as the house of all Dad’s tools, found a length of aluminum conduit, and set, again, to work. Procuring a hacksaw, I cut off a three-foot length of the pipe, and employed a hammer to flatten two and a half feet of the tube. Bending my new tool into the shape of a saber, I exited the workshop satisfied that I had created just the tool for the job.

                I proceeded to use my aptly-named SnowSword to slice layers of snow from the walls and ceiling of my tunnel, creating an expansive cavern. Sweat beaded down my face as clouds of warm breath accumulated around my head. Claustrophobics had no place accompanying me on this adventure, but the brave adventurer pressed on. Images of Antarctic survival adventures flew through my head as clumps of snow, freed from their heaped bondage, fell on my hands, head, and neck, providing a refreshing coolness that stood in stark contrast to my perspiring body.

                This arctic explorer had carved a shallow cave out of the ice heap when a muffled, but familiar, voice filtered through the fast-thinning walls of snow.

                “Joseph, it’s getting late. It’s time to come in!”

                “But Mom! I’m not done yet!”

                “The snow will still be here tomorrow, Joseph. Come in, it’s late.”

                It was a circular but an effective argument, and I obeyed, extricating myself from my fortress of solitude.

                “Okay, I’ll be in in five minutes.”

                In the last stroke of the evening’s genius, I ran inside, filled a spray bottle with cold water, and returned to my arctic abode. I proceeded to spray a mist of water molecules into the cold night, hoping to add a layer of icy protection to my creation. Tomorrow, the sun would prove a mighty adversary, and I had best prepare for that inevitability now.

                Fortress sufficiently secured, I returned to the warmth of my home. Shaking off my snow gear, I anticipated the dawn and the coming completion of the best igloo the world had ever known.

The Adventure of the Pinball Wizard

     Ah, the magic that surrounds Christmas. It is my absolute favorite holiday, and today’s post has its origins in a Christmas long ago.

                One Christmas morning, we awoke to the usual treasure trove of toys placed lovingly about our living room. Our childlike attentions, though, quickly zeroed in on one gift in particular, a gift that stands as a testament for Santa Claus’ ability to bend the laws of physics. See, the Jolly Old Sprite had somehow managed to wedge a full-sized pinball machine down our chimney. I’ve done the math. It shouldn’t have fit. Yet, there it was, basking in its own electric glory. Whirlwind.

                After the initial excitement wore off, and, believe me, that took some time – by the third day I was thoroughly sick and tired of neighbors coming over and not giving my brand new Lego rocket ship the attention it deserved. Anyway, as I said, after the initial flurry of excitement had died down, the scoreboard showed a high score of 15,000,000 points. Blinking next to this obscenely high score was the moniker of the dastardly fiend who had set such accolades so far out of reach as to be unattainable by a mere mortal such as myself. These three little letters seemed to mock me every time I inserted my quarter to have another go; they read D-A-D.

Time progressed, Whirlwind migrated from our living room to the basement, but the high score remained. Second, third, and even fourth positions were filled with my glorious initials, JGH, but that top spot eluded even my most valiant attempts. Occasionally, I would return to the machine after a busy day of school only to find an SWH, initials associated with my younger brother, Seth, flashing on the LED display. With pure pinball skill flowing from my fingertips, however, I easily ceased his unworthy tag from profaning my scoreboard.

                I awoke one morning to find that my pinball machine had discovered a voice. The LED matrix displayed the following taunt: Dad Rules! Joseph and Seth Droolwind! The word ‘Droolwind’ flashed violently, tormenting me – haunting me. Something had to be done, but as I said before, the standard was set so high, I could not, of current ability, attain the peak.

                So, practice ensued. I became consumed with working the table, milking it for every point I could get it to give me. As I played, Dad became ever the smugger, going so far as to offer a $20.00 cash reward for anyone who could successfully claim the top spot. I was determined to get it.

                One fateful evening, as sunlight streamed through the small windows, illuminating the playfield with a movie-quality intensity, I went on a roll. Seth, my faithful companion, blustered with excitement as I broke 5,000,000, and sprinted to the adjoining computer room as I passed the 10,000,000 mark. Lights flashed, storms of electricity arced up and down the slanted surface as I moved digital storms across the table. Multiball after multiball, followed by a number of extra balls propelled my perspiring form toward the number 1 seat. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, excitement and anticipation caused me to tremble with delight. I was going to break the record!

            Then, the inevitable happened. From the world above, a bellow,

“Kids, dinner’s ready!”

Almost in unison, the entire party – consisting of every other member of my family – yelled,

“Just a minute, Mom!”

Regaining my focus in an instant, I surged forward, the Spirit of Tommy guiding my every flick. Flippers raced in concert, bumpers ricocheted the ball from one end of the deck to the other, bonus points tallied their way in rapid succession onto the scoreboard, but, despite my best efforts, the little metal sphere that contained my entire destiny took one wrong turn and dropped down the gutter.

It was over.

But, with as much triumph as I could muster, I screamed for joy, knowing that I had shattered the record! The special rock music blasted from the speakers, confirming everything I had worked my entire kid life for: I had dethroned the King.

I gloated, I bragged, I waved that $20 bill under everyone’s nose. My initials occupied top spot. I no longer ‘drooled wind.’ I had slain the Beast. Whirlwind was mine. I had emerged from the melee triumphant. I was a Pinball Wizard.

At least I was until the following week, when my glory was yanked out from under me by my turncoat younger brother. Yup, SWH broke 20,000,000, and I was left to rise, in manner most triumphant, from the ashes of defeat.

But that’s a story for another day.

Baseball

Standing in a chalked box. Heart pounds, eyes watch.

Waiting for delivery, hoping for something sweet. Arm extended, Ball set on flight, and years of mechanics take control. The ball sails forth, crossing the feet and inches in the blink of an eye. Looks good. Head down, eye on ball, swing.

Miss.

Strike One.

Failure to connect.

Stepping out of the batter's box, signs are received. Coach swiftly moving hands, swiping arms, broadcasting gibberish. Hand to brim, touching hat now. Indicator. This one's for real. Swipe across chest. Go-ahead for a hit-and-run. Nod.

Striding across the chalk once more, a niggling voice begins to chatter. Get out of your head, watch for the breaking ball. Could be a fastball high and inside. Don't choke. Gotta make contact.

Pitcher sneers from the stretch. Wink. Bring it.

He begins his movement. Weight shifting slightly, the boxed offender lifts a foot as ball is hurled forward.

Ball set on fire. Fastball, low and inside. Perfect.

Right foot instinctively strides forwards only an inch or two, weight put in motion. Quick pivot, early turn. Good batspeed connects with inside pitch.

Ping. It goes ping. Cheap bat, cheap aluminum. It goes ping.

But it goes.

Driven hard down the right-field line, just behind the Runner who is busy making dust as he rounds second and goes for third.

Return to Ball. It sails overhead, dropping fast onto the grass. Bouncing with all kinetic fury. Dribbling now, it rolls to the fence, fair.

Sinew and muscle pulled taught, Batter, in heroic fashion, rounds first, sprints a few paces, then breaks stride. Short, pattering steps kill momentum, as ball is brought back in close proximity.

Don't be stupid, don't get greedy. Nice hit.

Returning to first, I turn my back to the field. My foot instinctively finds bag. Safe.

Observe, all, as another steps into the chalked box, ready to stake his claim against the nine.

The cycle repeats.

Baseball.

The Adventure of the USS America

The following is the inaugural post in a series of stories from my growing-up years. I've thought it would be an interesting experiment to try to capture and preserve some of the memories of my childhood, and I thought y'all might get a kick out of hearing of my early escapades. Have a read, tell me what you think, and enjoy!

~ Joe

                I remember an afternoon in the dog days of summer. I’m pretty sure it was a Tuesday, but as far as month, year or other specific date, I couldn't say for sure. I was still living in Midvale at the time. Not a surprising fact, seeing as I lived in Midvale for the entirety of my childhood. The Zitting family was still living across the street, which helps date this story a little. They moved when I was 11. That was a big day; they used our trailer; there’s still a gouge in their asphalt driveway from where the hitch bottomed out as they drove away. This story, though, isn't about them moving. It does, however, revolve around their youngest son and my best friend, Josh.

                Josh and I had been friends since, well, birth. He’s 10 days older than I, his parents were one of the few couples in the neighborhood with whom my parents were actually friends, and, thus, we spent a majority of our summers in each other’s back yard. This is where we find a young me, and a young Josh, huddled over a weathered plank. It was a two-by-four that had been sitting in Josh’s back yard for ages. I think we found it by the butt-warmer, next to the stinky shed. Yup, we were boys of the purest sort. Potty jokes, baseball, and double dares were what we were all about.

                At this point, our attentions were consumed by only a couple of thoughts: 1) we were bored, and 2) we were tired of being bored. Thus we found ourselves hunched under the shade of his back porch, scheming over a piece of driftwood.

                “Let’s make it a battleship,” suggested one of us. I’m going to say it was me, because I usually came up with our most brilliant of schemes.

                “Naw, it should be an airplane,” said Josh, who was really the one who came up with our most brilliant schemes.

                “But an airplane would be too hard, plus we don’t have enough wood. If we make a boat, we can float it down the canal when we’re done.”

                The canal in question was an irrigation ditch that ran through the northern half of our neighborhood. On the other side of the green, murky water was Josh’s elementary school. Most every kid in the neighborhood went there, and the Canal, being a forbidden playground for most moms in the neighborhood, held an irresistible attraction. I looked for just about any excuse to get over there.

                “If we don’t build an airplane, I don’t want to play with you anymore. You can go home.”

                Josh was one to demand, and usually get, his way. Not wishing to spend another summer dodging Mom’s “If you’re going to mope around the house all day, you can do your summer homework,” bit, I thought quickly.

                “Listen, if we make a battleship, you can name it.”

                “Meh, I don’t want to,” came the unimpressed reply.

                “A-and you can put it in the canal all by yourself when we’re done with it,” I countered, with a shade more desperation showing in my voice.

                “But an airplane would be so cool.”

                He was not one to be easily swayed.

                “If we do the boat, we’ll do a home run derby after, and you can start with 20 home runs. I’ll even pitch first.”

This was the nail in the proverbial coffin. In the economy of kid summers, wiffle ball was the Gold Standard. For those of you who didn't have much of a childhood, wiffle ball is baseball played with a skinny plastic bat and a plastic ball covered in holes. The ball didn't go super far, and when it hit something, like a window in a suburban neighborhood, it didn't break anything, making it an ideal backyard game. As baseball players, Josh and I couldn't get enough of it. It was usually only when we got bored of pitching to each other that we found ourselves doing something else, like debating whether to build a battleship or an airplane out of a piece of scrap wood.

                “Fine, but I get to do all the designing.”

                “Deal.” With all that settled, and Josh on board, we set to work.

                This little build started with a raiding party to my house. By trade, my Dad is a filmmaker. He does, however, moonlight as a woodworker. It started as a hobby, but as his film career got more and more sparse, he bowed out of the universe of tinsel and became a self-employed carpenter. He, for a short period, made Shaker-style furniture out of our garage, turning his hobby into full-time employment. Through his stint as a hobbyist, and fueled by this career change, my Dad had amassed a stockpile of tools. The power tools were off limits, but, growing up in this shop, I was allowed to play with most of the hand tools. I had my own set, but that didn’t keep Dad from finding his good hammers dripping with morning dew in the front yard.

                Knowing this was where today’s adventure would begin, Josh and I sprinted through my kitchen, grabbed the house keys from the top drawer of the right-hand cabinet (the one that’s to the right of the stove, and to the left of the garbage can – the phone sits on that counter now), and unlocked the shop door.

We didn’t bother to turn on the lights. There was more than enough ambient light coming through the gap in the door to the backyard. This door was old, broken, and didn’t lock properly. There was, as I mentioned, a gap of at least three inches where the thin, brittle wood had been kicked away by some unnamed scamp. The white paint was peeling away in long ribbons, and you’d get splinters from it if you weren’t careful. Such was the back door to the garage.

In the dimness, Josh and I rummaged. We found a hammer, a hand saw, some nails, a few scraps of wood, and some tempura paints that I had gotten for Christmas years before. We escaped the sawdusty garage, tools in tow, and scampered off across the street. As we opened Josh’s white vinyl gate, Jennifer Lee and Natalie Zitting (one of Josh’s three older sisters) strutted up to us. They had, they proudly announced, just come back from Activity Days, a weekly get-together activity put on by the church we all went to, where they and the rest of the neighborhood girls had an enviously good time. They made it very clear that boys were not allowed at Activity Days, and then nosed around our business.

Remember, in our boyhood minds, girls were the enemy, and it was against all protocol to let them have last bragging rights. We, therefore, boasted wildly about our ship-building adventures, told them to get lost, ran across the threshold of the back yard, and hastily shut the white gate behind us. We then put our tools down on the cement at the foot of the sliding glass doors that led into Josh’s den.

Proceeding in a fury of activity, fueled by a determination not to have less fun than a group of girls, we cobbled together a bridge, guns, and a flight deck lined with half-penny nail runway lights. In a brilliant creative swing, Josh took the saw, swung it like a hammer, and gouged the teeth into the wooden planks, creating a realistic bullet-hole effect. We called her the USS America, and painted her a brilliant red, white, and blue.

We talked of baseball and Pokemon, Playstation games, cartoons, and skateboarding as we waited for the paint to dry. Josh’s parents had taken half of their back yard and covered it in cement, creating a multi-sport patio of epic proportions. We played a few games of horse while we waited, and I got skunked. Josh was a natural-born athlete, surrounded by siblings who hit home runs, had mean tennis serves, who were good at volleyball, football, dance, and basketball. He, therefore, was intensely competitive and pretty darn good at everything. I envied his abilities, and could never quite match him for skill. That didn’t keep us from having a great time, but the kid was an all-star. I tended to bask in his glory and walk in his shadow.

Paint finally dry, we took our proud destroyer up the street, around the corner, and out to sea. As Josh shoved our ship into the water, we hummed the national anthem and sprinted down the banks, watching the current speed our boat down the canal. We lost sight of it as it crossed under a bridge, and bid it farewell.

Trudging back home as the day began to settle into evening, I was filled with a satisfaction of a summer day spent with my best friend. Definitely a day well spent.

Furnace

The Master, with nearly deceptive ease, moltens a life of perfection. Complete in every regard, lacking not even in the most minute of detail.

Myself, I struggle with gauntleted hands to forge a masterpiece. Perspiration beads, pauses, then tracks a downward path from brow to the precipice of the chin. Hammer, flame, and forger's tongs blur together in the struggle of creation

Failure.

Human frailty is reflected in its marred and imperfect surface. Another unpleasant stepping stone to perfection is taken in stride.

Deficiency is thrown again into the merciless flame; it is consumed.

At length, glowing, shapeless matter is removed from Vulcan torment. Another venture is made to mold the molten element, dripping with unbounded potential, into something of immortal greatness. A testament to the ages. A true masterpiece.

Weakness is discarded, Dross is comsumed. and through ceaseless revision, a form emerges. Imperfect still, but a touchstone closer to greatness

Set again in fervent heat, the process continues. Perspiration ceases not; arms and tools move in heightened harmonic symphony.

Improved Failure.

This is the all consuming denominator. The Engine of Creation, the Element of Pure Refinement.

Progression.

Deep Morning Reflection

2:00

On the dot.

Gently humming, a cool electric breeze brushes past my legs. I lay, basked in a dim digital glow, images of people flashing before closed eyes.

I wait, more for the seclusion of slumber than the coming of day.

The washroom beckons.

Sailor, shaky on new legs, blinded by darkness, meanders carefully through the portals, well known to the sleepless traveler. Brilliant light illuminates pink tiles.

Return steps taken in greater confidence. Toes smash noisily into dark, shapeless, lifeless matter. No pain, merely annoyance. Concern for the potential disturbance of slumber, well earned by those so blessed, momentarily flashes through the mind.

Never mind, their sleep is deep.

Fortunate.

I return to bed, bathed once again in digital winds and electric light.

Momentarily, I contemplate the future, then turn to the images, seeking their company as I pass through another restless night.

2:09