I Rock!

At least that is what Guitar hero tells me. We were trying to find a good movie to go to tonight, but there just weren't any, so we bought guitar hero II instead. It is an enormous amount of fun, and if you haven't played it, you should give it a try.
Thanks, by the way, to everyone for being supportive. I can't wait for Switz this summer, and I'll be sure to post lots while I am there.
In other news, Nick is coming to live with us next school year, so we will be in TX sometime this summer to pick him and his things up. We're tentatively planning a TX road trip, so we'll keep you posted if we'll be anywhere near Austin. We just might, since we are going to try to visit my bro in Ft. Worth and we'll need some Austin-like culture to counter the right-wingedness of the rest of your lovely Lonestar State.

A good day

So we went to see the Decemberists yesterday at the House of Blues in Mandalay Bay. It was a great show. Interestingly, I have had their most recent album, The Crane Wife, for months now, but didn't really care for it on first listening, but after seeing several songs performed last night, I really, really like it. The thing is, these guys represent something familiar to me, and something really inspirational. They are total middle-aged nerds, and not the cool-nerdy type, but real nerdy types. I mean, just look at their drummer John Moen, or their keyboard girl Jenny Conlee ... not exactly pop-icon stereotypes. The thing that was so inspiring is that such normal looking people found each other and created such rich, amazing music. Now I admittedly know little about music, but I do know quite a bit about literature, and their music is extremely literary in the sense of the complexity of their stories. Those amazing stories, put together with such amazing sounds, really kind of blow my mind. If you haven't listened to them, give them a try. Or, you can simply check out some lyrics.
OK, enough about them. Yesterday, before the show while I was at work, our Spanish teacher came up to our table at lunch and congratulated the another teacher on being selected for an exchange program to Switzerland this summer. Now, I had applied for this same program, and I also was the 1st to apply, 1st to interview, and had seniority over all the other applicants.
Since I had heard no word, my mind went wandering, as it has had a tendency to do in the last several months, towards quitting my job. I'll spare you the details, but I've been feeling quite marginalized lately, and this was close to the straw that broke the camel's back. I was trying to spend the rest of my day focused on work, and on the concert that evening, but it was not easy.
I wrote an email to the director when I got back to my room, just asking for a heads-up. She then replied that yes, it was true, the others were going, but that I was going too! She'd apparently been trying to contact me for a few days. It's amazing how a person's attitude can do such a huge 180 as mine did at 2:00 on Friday afternoon.
So, I am going to be spending about a month in Switzerland this summer. If I don't return, look for me to be operating ski-lifts somewhere in the Alps in Warren Miller's next film!
I must note here that my wife is the coolest wife in the world for not putting up a fuss about my going. I just had to promise not to visit Italy while in Europe, as she want to do that with me some day. I love you Erin!

Fictionalized, but just barely

So I decided to start putting some of my stories down in print again, like I've been saying I'm going to for years now. Bobbing for Chicken was my last, and that was about 2 years ago. So anyway, most of you know Tim, and have heard some, or even all of the stories, but I still want to put them down, not only for memory's sake, but because they afford me an opportunity to practice writing fiction, as I am half-creating dialogue, setting, etc. I spoke with Tim tonight because I couldn't remember his girl at the time's name, and he ok'd it for me to embellish a little if I needed to. Of course, if you know Tim, you know that these stories are about 90% accurate in the details, and 100% true in spirit. So without further adeiu, I present:

A Stone’s Throw

Part 1

I’m sitting on the couch. A high-pitched alarm brings the conversation to a sudden stop. The Lion King is playing on the television, but no one is watching. Instead, everyone’s eyes are on the kitchen, where billowing clouds of white smoke are rising like mushroom clouds from an enormous pan on the stove. Attached to the pan is Tim, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He’s wearing no shirt, a tall chef’s hat, and blue jeans. The cuffs pile up around his ankles.
“Damn dude, I think I burnt these bitches.” He looks at us as though the idea were unthinkable, as though he were in shock.
I get up off the couch and squeeze past Tim’s latest fuck, an under-aged girl named Tara. Stepping over our friend Shannon, who is sitting with his back against the wall, I come up over Tim’s shoulder.
The steaks are indeed burned. Looking into the pan, I see what used to be 2 decent-sized T-bones, their immolated remains laying there like a couple of B-rate movie corpses, still very steak-shaped, but black and crispy, and still giving off little plumes of smoke. One of them suddenly pops, like a campfire log living out its last moments, and makes him jump.
“Gives new meaning to the word blackened,” I joke, but no one laughs. “Just throw them away. You’re filling the house with smoke.” Tim looks from the pan to me and back again.
“Fuck it,” he says, and he carries the pan out of the kitchen, through the living room and to the front door, which Shannon just opened to let out some of the smoke. He leans over the edge of the balcony, like he’s looking for just the right spot, then he heaves the two leathery steaks over the edge.
“Nice toss,” I say, as I look down upon them. He managed to clear the little courtyard and tossed them all the way to the alley. You could see them plainly, the last of their heat having melted little recesses in the ice about 2 feet from the dumpster.
“There a alley cat that lives down there. He’ll eat ‘em,” Tim says, not wanting to go down the icy steps and into the cold to actually pick them up and dispose of them properly.
“Or some fuckin’ homeless guy,” says Shannon, who is now standing with us, looking down on the steaks. He lights a cigarette, and Tim joins in by lighting his as well. They stand on the balcony finishing their smokes, occasionally glancing at the steak as though they expect something exciting to happen. I go back inside and join Tara on the couch.

Jesus...

... is what reading the following blog post made me think.
Click here.

Fuck-all Ugly

Erin's sister arrived on Wednesday and is visiting for two weeks, and it it's nice to have her around. I like Erin's family alot, and Deidre is good company. AND she cooks good snacks and made me coffee this morning while I was getting ready for work. I think we'll keep her around for awhile.
Oh, by the way, the title of this post is NOT about her (I know at least one of my smart-ass readers was fabricating a connection) but about a line from the movie Hot Fuzz, which was made by the guy who did Shaun of the Dead, which we saw tonight. It was very funny,so long as you like Brit humor. Go see it if you want to have a laugh and hear some especially witty dialogue.

Hmmm. What else?
Well, two of our 4th grade girls, in honor of Earth Day , organized a "clean up the wash day" by convincing our headmaster that they wouldn't get mugged, stuck by needles, bitten by rattlesnakes or otherwise damaged while scouring the wash outside our school for trash. It really was all their idea, though I really didn't think there'd be enough trash to keep 58 kids busy for 45 minutes, and I doubted that most of them would actually be willing to pick up anything even slightly unsanitary.
How much more wrong could I have been?
In the first place, although I look out on our wash every day, I haven't really seen it until today. Years ago I used to cart my class down for water samples for science class (cool little microscopic critters in there!) but I haven't been down there in a long time. There was so much trash there that I was literally amazed. Honest. I was just dumbfounded that I could look out there every day and not register that there must be literally tons of visible trash in the mile or so I can see from my classroom window. There definitely was NOT going to be a shortage of trash to go around.
Then, to my surprise, these kids, who by any and all acounts live very sheltered and very pampered lives, were not afraid to go after any bit of trash they saw. Dozens of them actually crawled into the center of these thorny desert bushes to get at pieces of trash. They also picked up all kinds of icky things, from bags of doog poop to dirty undergarments (while wearing gloves of course) along with other things stranger still. Among the weirdest were a plastic model lighthouse, a large porcelain figurine of a girl looking into a well, a well-preserved tortoise shell with bones still inside (the odd thing about it is that this species isn't found in Nevada!), a heavy duty HD motorcycle boot, a Sega dreamcast controller, and a faded Chinese newspaper (one of my Chinese speaking students identified it as such.) I was horrified that there was so much refuse right there in front of me, and I somehow missed it . I think it becomes second nature not to see it, because dwelling on the magnitude of the problem (or even acknowledging it) for any length of time makes you feel like we're totally and completely fucked as a species. Keep in mind that this trash all came from a wash, a good 1/4 mile from the road, and with no vehicle access. Fascinating, and scary.
All in all, we collected 32 large bags of trash. We only covered the wash from the road out to the boundary of our school property, a distance of maybe a sixth mile, and we didn't even really put a dent in the total amount of trash in that limited area, but still... I was proud of (and surprised by!) my students, and 32 bags is a good start.

Poems no less... Poems, everybody! The laddie reckons himself a poet!

As I was reading Elaine's poem blog last night, it put me in the mood for some Pink Floyd. So I did something I've been meaning to do for a while, which is Download some complete Floyd albums off a BT site. I got Works and Ummagumma and Meddle, all albums I haven't listened to in years, but which I have always been in awe of. I used to listen to them and write poems. I'm envious of the kind of talent that can convey such stark and naked emotion so powerfully.
It got me to thinking about myself as a writer. And what I've been ignoring for many years now is that I write poetry. Or at least, I used to.
Before the fire I wrote poetry almost exclusively. Well, poetry and letters. But the letters were how I worked through emotions, and the poetry was how I expressed myself. Prose, short stories, etc. I never really considered because they weren't me. Like Brannon put in my comments, I wrote for me, and because I wanted them read. But once I got into college and started to learn the technique, history, etc. of good writing, I started to write less. In fact, I remember the first time I got a critical analysis of my writing: my girlfriend at the time basically shredded something I'd written, and that had never happened before. I didn't realize it until years later, but from that moment on I started to express myself less, though it wasn't until after the fire that my creativity really went dead.
Then, sometime after I met Erin, I began to remember how much I used to write, and that it gave me a lot of pleasure. So I bought a journal, and wrote a few pages.
Now, years later, my shelves have maybe a half-dozen journals on them, mostly empty, only the occasional anecdote or story written.
In one, I went almost 2 years between entries.
So while reading Elaine's blog I had an epiphany: I have not written freely in over a decade. And while I do enjoy writing arguments, as in my letters to Scott Fyfe, and I enjoy reasoning out my beliefs on paper, as I used to do in my letters and have done recently, and I enjoy trying to write stories as well, none of it has ever done close to the same thing for me that spending all those countless hours of my young adult life writing poems in my notebook did.
I remember the little house on 35th and Elgin, when my only possessions besides my clothes were a used recliner, an egg-crate on which I slept, and a $5 eight-track turntable stereo combo I bought at the flea market. I'd sit in my chair, turn the music up, and write. I'd go to work the graveyard shift at Friends, and after I got my work done around 1, I'd turn the stereo up high, steal a pack of Benson and Hedges Ultra-light 100's, and write. I made the decision to go to college one night at that store while writing a poem about one of my customers. I wrote on old album covers while sitting on the floor after my chair was stolen; I wrote on the beat-up coffee tables at Midtown; I wrote in my lap in the front seat of my car at the rappelling tower... I just never stopped. Until I did.
And now this little revelation's got my attention. So it does.

Guinea Pigs

Forgive me, but you, my devoted 3 or 4 readers, were unknowing guinea pigs in a little experiment I wanted to perform. I got the idea from reading Brannon's most recent blog entry about his music. Let me explain...
OK, so we all pretty much have aspirations to write, and we want feedback that will help us become better. I was sitting here looking over my oldest posts, and at the comments there, and they didn't really tell me anything about my writing. As I thought about how B submitted his song to a site where strangers voted on it, it occured to me that it is very difficult for most people to objectively criticize the artistic endeavors of people they like. One of my character flaws, I believe, is that often in the past I have been brutally honest with the people I care about, often when it was support or loyalty, and not honesty, that they really needed. I know that most, if not all of you can probably recount many times where I said something that came off as insensitive or callous, and I want to thank you all now for still sticking by me in spite of this. Anyway, I bring up my own shortcoming in this regard because it contrasts a common trait in close friends which is exemplified by comments on my most recent (but now deleted) post. What I found was basically what I expected; since we are all close and care for one another, we see each other's work through rose-colored glasses. I appreciate that you sent the supportive comments you did on my story, and noticed that the "critical" comments were very non-harsh. This, though, brings me to the point of my experiment: Beauty (or quality, as the case happens to be) is in the eye of the beholder... Let me explain.
Now, in reality, the story I posted was not my own. It was a section of what is regarded among serious Science Fiction fans as the worst-written story ever put to paper. If you are interested, the story is called The Eye of Argon and it is a cult-classic. In fact, for years people have made a game of trying to see who can read the most out-loud without cracking up. I highly suggest you check it out in its entirety; it will entertain you. Anyway, sorry for fooling you, and I promise I will only write my own words from here on out; but I thank you all for your charity and I hope that whatever everyone is working on, that they will post it to anonymous sites where you can get unbiased opinions. I really do believe that your stories and music are quite good, but I am as biased towards you as you are towards me. :)

Bad Bunny

Cinnamon, or Buttercup as Erin's class has named her, is a bunny which Erin and I share joint custody of; two weeks on and two weeks off. I've never owned a bunny before, but the general consensus is that Cinnamon (Buttercup) is quite unusual in her friendliness and laid-backed-ness. However, I think someone may have secretly supplied her with PCP this week, as she's been acting pretty strange. First, when I let her out of her cage, instead of exploring the room as she usually does, she immediately started running circles around my feet. Then, when I picked her up, she started obsessively licking my arm. After she bored of that, she nibbled on my tie, then started chewing on my shirt buttons. I think she's gone crazy. Oh, and she looks so much like a loaf of bread, that Erin and I couldn't resist doing this:


I brought her home today, for Erin's 2 weeks starts tomorrow. Maybe a little time in the ghetto will straighten that bunny out, and she won't be quite so weird when she returns.

Something cool

I am totally happy for Erin right now, but I didn't get such good news this week. The promise of promotion that I've been hearing for 6 years now has been put off again. Frankly, I am getting a bit tired of it. I won't go into it, as I've spent enough time in my head mulling it over already, and I've come to the conclusion that I am probably going to have to go back to school on order to eventually do what I want to do, which is curriculum design. Actually, I look forward to it, and the idea of getting a PhD. is attractive to me for many reasons, but I am still a bit peeved at the way things are shaping up at work; You know what? I changed my mind; I WILL bore you with the details... just not now.

So the title of this particular post is "Something Cool" and I guess I should try to stay on topic, right?

The cool something that happened to day happened after a particularly long day; for reasons beyond my control I lost both my preps today, AND I had to eat lunch in my class, which meant I was with my kids non-stop from 8 to 1:45. I love the kids, but they can drive a guy crazy, so by 1:45 I was totally ready to be rid of them for a bit. They had to stay in the room for PE too, but I was finally able to leave. I went down the street to get a cup of coffee, and when I got back w/ 20 minutes to spare I couldn't go to my room because they were still having PE there (it was raining today) so I just cranked up the music in my van and laid down for a 15 minute cat-nap in the back (it's nice to have a queen-sized bed in your car!) As I lay there listening to "Cult of Personality", mulling over the career news and the day's lessons, I realized that in spite of the lack of enthusiasm from my superiors, what I am doing with my reading and writing instruction is truly excellent, and if they can't appreciate it, that's ok. Not good or fine, but OK. I started thinking about grad school, about possibly starting my own business and spreading to other schools w/ my Science Club after school program, etc. Hell, even thoughts of quitting altogether drifted in and out, though those disappeared as soon as the thought of child support came up... but anyway, the point is I came to feel relatively certain that something big and different is going to happen next school year. What I don't yet know, but something.
So I went back into class at 2:30 feeling a bit less disgruntled. I got rid of my kids, and as I was going back to my class to clean up, another teacher stopped me and asked me if I could rescue a hummingbird that had flown into her room. She has vaulted ceilings, and it was way up out of reach, so I went and snagged one of those butterfly barrels that you use to raise monarchs from one of the kindergarten teachers. I went back to the bird, who was still out of reach, so I cleared all the lookers out of the room and dimmed the lights, hoping that the bird would come down and towards the light from the open door once it thought it was alone. After a few minutes, I saw it flutter down to the counter where it could finally stop beating its wings, and I slowly and quietly slipped into the room w/ the butterfly barrel. I held it over my head and a little in front, and when I got close, the bird flew up and right into it. It was awesome! He was tired, so he perched on the side with his little claws grabbing through the netting. I've seen lots of hummingbirds in my time, and some great photos too, but never up close in person like this. I carried him in the tube outside to show the interested kids, then down to show the K teacher to whom the tube belonged, and then decided it was about time to set him free. I wasn't sure if they had really wide ranges or what, so I figured that setting him free close to the door he accidentally flew in would be best. I walked back to the door of the classroom he was trapped in, then I opened the net tube. He didn't come out. So I reached in and got him to sit in my hand. When I took him out, he just sat there on my palm for several seconds. Long enough for me to really get a good look at him. I really can't describe him well, because he was so much more delicate and small than I'd have guessed, even knowing in my head how small and delicate they are. He was sitting directly in the middle of my palm, on the soft part, yet I couldn't hardly feel his weight. He must have weighed no more than a goose feather, he was so light. His legs were maybe 3/4 of an inch long, and as thin as the fine mechanical-pencil lead my kids regularly leave on their desk rails. Each of his toes was so small I can think of nothing to compare them to. All in all he was about the same volume as a cicada, only most of that volume was feathers, so he weighed much much less. Not at all sturdy like something with an exoskeleton. As I held him, he had his wings extended out and down, not folded to his sides like most birds. His wings were sharp little v's coming out of his sides, and were short like the wings of a fighter plane. His beak was amazing too; almost as long as his body, a curved horn maybe a millimeter at it's widest point, and with a whitish tongue I had seen him stick out when he was still inside the tube holding onto the netting.
His feathers were green, except around his throat, where they were the brightest metallic purple you can imagine. I looked at him, able to take all this in, and then he cocked his head, turned his beak towards my face, and gently buzzed his wings and took off slowy, moving and sounding for all the world just like those jumping-jacks you set off on the 4th of July which sometimes take flight.
Anyway, I watched him rise and move towards the trees in the wash, where he disappeared. I realized that that might be the only opportunity I'll ever have in my life to hold and observe a wild hummingbird. And that is something cool.

Poverty

I had today off, so I decided to take care of several odds n' ends that need tending to... making lesson plans for the next few weeks, getting a smog check, running by the House of Blues to purchase Decemberists tickets, getting a haircut, etc. In the course of the day I had to run downtown to the Dept. of Wildlife offices to pick up a trunk of animal pelts for my Science Clubs this week, and on my way home I decided to take surface streets in order to avoid the cluster-fuck that is the I-15. Anyway, as I was going home, I drove east on Vegas Drive, towards H street. As I progressed east, the homes and businesses began to look more and more forlorn, boarded or barred windows, trash in the parking lots and along the chainlink fences... nothing I hadn't seen on a regular basis in our own neighborhood. Nothing unusual yet... In fact, we live just inside the redevelopment district, in a statistically impoverished area. I occasionally joke about us living in poverty, and my having come through college impoverished (statistically speaking) but I hadn't realized until today how far from true poverty I've gotten in the last several years, and that by comparison, even when I was eathing nothing but oatmeal and day-old discount bread, I was never truly impoverished. Within the gap between having little enough money to be identified as in being poverty and the state of existence of those I saw next is as wide as the gap between The president's Elite and where I am today.
My realization came, I think, as the culmination of three things:
1. I've been reading the comic series Transmetropolitan, and in the recent few I've read the story has boiled down to the fact that politicians either exploit the poor or basically piss on them, while the voters, who are drifting farther towards the impoverished side of the cultural gap, are topo stupefied by the pop consumer media culture to even notice, or to give a shit. It's a cool series, but provokes serious thinking, at least sometimes.
2. I read an article on Yahoo news about hate crimes against the homeless, and how they have increased by like 60% in the last few years, and how most are perpetrated by teens. It went on to discuss how the children who commit these crimes have these latent prejudices against the poor and the weak. Scary stuff.
3. As I continued my drive home, I came upon the worst example of homelessness and destitution that I have personally ever laid eyes on. Worse than downtown LA, worse than downtown Denver... simply worse. As I approached Main Street and Owens, for several blocks the scene began to resemble the footage we sometimes see on TV of Third World nations. Images of Darfur, of El Salvador from the 80's, Kosovo, etc. I am not being overly dramatic here either. There were suddenly people on the streets, more and more as I continued on. They were all dirty, dressed in rags, sitting, standing, some with bags and some with stolen shopping carts... no signs of commerce anywhere, just closed buildings, trash everywhere, chainlink fences surrounding boarded up, run-down buildings... As I went along, more and more people began to appear, by dozens and dozens; sleeping, sitting, hiding from the sun under warped pieces of cardboard if the were lucky, in the slivers of shadow from fenceposts if they weren't. I probably saw no less than 100 people, milling about, walking across the streets, sitting or laying on the sidewalks, some even literally in the gutter, trash everywhere... most of them old, many of them black, fewer white...
I turned right, towards the freeway, a little more shaken than I realized until I had left that scene behind me. I'm not sure exactly how I feel, just a little fucked up that I know in a few hours or days at most, I'll conveniently forget that scene though it will continue to fester, a very real sickness in our social body, and one which will make the whole of our society ill in the end unless tended to.
Too gloomy. I have to go get my hair cut.

Spring Break recap

OK, so we're back from our trip. Aside from smashing the front of the van, the trip was nice. I hiked 3 miles up the Lower Calf Creek Falls trail, which is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been (and how odd that while looking for a descriptive link, this image should pop up; I wish I'd seen that while I was there!) While Erin stayed in the van, napping or reading or something, I was stalking the skittish brown trout that live in this crystal clear stream. This pic shows a brown trout I caught there on a previous trip; notice how shallow and clear the water is? Anyway, since we've done this hike many times, and she knows how I get when I fish, she opted out, leaving me on my own.

That night we parked the van in Capitol Reef Nat'l Park, just down from the Fruita Schoolhouse on the Fremont river. We did a shortish dayhike to see the Hickman natural bridge, then headed back to the van and on our way to Colorado.

We spent Tuesday lazing around, acclimating before skiing on Wednesday. I caught a fat Rainbow Trout from the Snake River in Keystone, but the river was still half iced over and he was so sluggish it was like hauling in a log, so I quit after I caught him. We went back to my sister's place, then saw 300 (read Gates of Fire and you'll feel quite cheated by the movie, I assure you!) before going to bed.

Wednesday we went skiing. The slushy Spring snow was a little difficult at times, but with views like this, it isn't much to complain about. In fact, I had a fantastic time while Erin was in Ski School, though my knees paid for it by the end of the day. We were both whipped, and got a great night's sleep.

Thursday was going to be another ski day, but we were both worn out, and so we just laid around, went to a BBQ, got blizzarded on, and wound up leaving at around 6. One thing I just love about the mountains is how quickly the weather changes... when we left, it was pleasant and sunny, if not quite warm. We slept at a rest stop in the middle of Utah that night.

Friday we spent mostly driving, stopping in St George, only 2 hours from home, because we wanted to go rock climbing on Saturday. We went to see Grindhouse that evening, very entertaining, then drove to Gunlock reservoir to sleep for the night.

This morning we climbed at Crawdad Canyon, maybe the coolest place on earth. It is a basalt gorge with hundreds of bolted climbing routes. Down the middle of the gorge runs the Santa Clara river, a large creek with a decent population of trout. In the center of the canyon is the Veyo Pool, a natural thermal spring that fills up a nice sized pool with hot mineral water. Some of the climbs can be belayed from patio around the pool. I would be hard pressed to come up with a better place to live in my fantasies. Click on the words "rock climbing park" on their website to cycle through some pics. We knocked out a few climbs, then headed into St George for some BubbleTea, then came home.

However, I am a bit tired and just realized I've been rambling on... if you've made it this far, congratulations. :)

Pffft. Nay-sayers....

Some dear old friends of mine doubt the reality of my last post, so I offer this pic as proof.

I would also like to point out the continuation of my personal life-long trend of having the worst things happen in the best way. Here’s a list of some past examples:


1. Our dog bit and tore a hot-tamale-sized chunk off the lower lip of a new acquaintance of ours… but it happened to be Bill, probably the only guy in the world cool enough to laugh off a permanent facial scar and not be phased by it; no law suit, no nothing.
2. Oil plug falls out of Samurai 100 miles south of the border while I have none other than drama-queen Amy in my car; miraculously, engine stops knocking until about 8 miles this side of the border, when the engine explodes; Long story short, we get a 200 mile tow to SD, and get a new engine put in in time to return from Spring Break with about 8 hours to spare before school begins again.
3. Alternator seizes up ½ between Clayton and Raton New Mexico; I drive 40 miles to Clayton, only to find they have no western union; charge up battery, drive 100 miles to Raton, where guy at gas station happens to be in AA, sees my key tag, and tells me he has some “Mexican cousins” who can install a new alternator for me for only $15. He then drives me to W. union, then to Napa to buy alternator, and day is saved.
4. Blah blah blah. If you know me, you fill in the blanks; there are many to fill.

So ANYWAY, yes, we hit a deer, smashed the shit out of our van (whom we’ve christened “Bango Skank” because she’s a bad-ass) and it could have been a disaster, but now I’m sitting in my Sis’s living room in Colorado, going skiing or fishing tomorrow and the next day, and carrying on with only about ¾ a day lost. AND I caught 3 browns yesterday, as well as hiked 6 miles of beautiful canyon yesterday and 2 today before hitting the road again. Life’s good.

Charity is alive and well in Small-town Utah

So Erin and I are on our way to Colorado for Spring Break. We decided to drive through Southern Utah, one of our favorite places in the world, to do a little hiking and fishing. Late last night, as Erin was sleeping in the back of the van, a deer leaped out in front of us and we hit it doing about 60 mph. We killed the thing, and smashed up the front of the van. We don't have full coverage insurance, and we are about 100 miles from the closest town with a commercial garage. So anyway, after we hit it, we are looking over the front of the van when a fellow traveller pulls up behind us and offers to follow us into "town" a few miles farther down the road. "Town" is Mt. Caramel Junction, a fork in the road with a gas station, motel and, oddly, a golf course. We are just east of Zion National Park, a mountain range between us and St. George, the closest city of any size. We slept in the van last night, poorly, not quite sure what the hell to do. I am not sure how badly the van is damaged. It could be all cosmetic; the grill and headlights are smashed... or it could be more serious. It is making a loud "thwacking" sound when the engine is on, which could be serious trouble, or just some debris caught in the fan. I don't want to drive it, and I'm sure a tow-job to St. George will be at minimum several hundred dollars.
So we decide to have breakfast in the golfcourse cafe, and to figure out what to do next. A man, Ed, comes to pour our coffee and asks us how we're doing, and I tell him not good; I tell him about the deer, and he says he'll get a list of numbers for us. After breakfast, he tells us he made some calls, and he couldn't get hold of the guys he had in mind, but another friend of his, who has no phone, may be home. He sends one of his employees to the guy's house to look for him, and he tells us, don't worry, he'll get someone to fix the van for us. In the mean time, Ed says, "Do you like caves? There's one down the way that is fun to explore, and there's a Samurai with the keys in it out front and you should take it to explore the cave while my friend works on your van." Let me repeat that; this guy, Ed, has found a mechanic for us, on SUNDAY, and has offered us his 4x4 with directions to a cave to explore while we wait for his frien to fix our van for us. All of this Ed just offers up, without our asking. It is simply amazing. Then, THEN he gives us two of the best mochas we've ever had, free of charge, and just tells us to "take care of his friend." Now that, my friends, is an example of humanity at its finest. That is the reason I want to move back to a small town. Ed is an inspiration, and I want to remember his kindness and pass it on in kind at the first opportunity.