Going After the Lure

When we lived in Montpelier, the Father's and Sons campout was held next to a small winding river (under the reservoir if I remember correctly). The first thing I wanted to do when we got there was pick out my favorite lure and get straight to fishing.

Dad would tell me that the good fishing wouldn't be for a few more hours, but it didn't matter to me. I wanted to be the first to come back to camp with a fish to eat.

I would carefully examine my dad's tackle box for the perfect lure. I wasn't much of a bait guy (boring!). Nor was I too concerned with examining the natural habitat for what the fish my jump at naturally. None of those logical approaches were quite my style. I was all about Flash and Superstition.

The flashy lures were the colorful minnows and the shiny Mepps spinners. Fortunately for me, these were also the ones that I had built up into my head were the luckiest, (thus the role of Superstition). I also knew which lures my dad liked to fish, so these played into the superstition as well.

On this particular hike (I must have been 9 or 10), I chose a colorful minnow. My dad insisted that this wasn't the right lure for the small river, nor would it attract the fish I was trying to catch. I insisted, and my dad only relented after I promised I would go into the river and pull it out if it got stuck.

Of course, it got stuck.

Here's where things get fuzzy, because I've gotten LOTS of lures stuck, and after such a long time, all the stories run together. If I had to piece this particular story together one last time, I'd bet I went in the river all the way up to my neck (or at least my armpits) until I realized I wouldn't be able to reach it (the lure always looks closer than it really is). After getting all wet, I probably tugged on the line a few more times. Maybe it came out (I may have bent the hook), but it probably didn't. I would have left my rod on the bank, and gone for my dad to help me. After his obligatory yanks on the rod, he may or may not have gone in after it. I doubt he would have sent me in again after I already tried. In all likelihood, he probably just pulled out his ever-present fingernail clippers and crushed my spirit by giving up on a $2.00 lure.

I sure feel bad for all of my dad's lures I lost. Hopefully, they weren't too many.

Other Montpelier memories:
- Superman!
- walking home after church
- Asteroids, Space Invaders and the Atari 7800
- half time at the high school football games
- The Unfair Primary President
- cool Deacons sitting by themselves
- cool Blazers singing harmony

Jimmy Atkinson

Through 5th and 6th grade at Fremont Elementary (class of '87), the best athlete and the coolest kid in school was Jimmy Atkinson. He was always picked first, unless a girl was picked first (by mandate), in which case Tara was picked. He was also always last to get out at dodgeball. He would jump and twist and bend his body, and no one could ever throw him out once he was the only one on the court.

He wasn't the brightest kid in the class, but he ended up figuring a few things out without that talent.

Half way through our sixth grade year, our teacher, Mr. Denezio, retired. I don't remember the name of the guy they got to replace him. I remember he had the worst halitosis I had ever experienced in my life. Later in life, as I learned that word for the first time, this guy instantly popped into my head. While Mr. Denezio had a reputation as a disciplinarian, this new guy tried to make friends quick, and some of the misbehaved kids (Jimmy included) took advantage.

The teacher tried to make up for lost ground by administering rather harsh punishments. His favorite was assigning sentences. Often, the entire class would have to write sentences for one kid's mistakes. The sentence was always the same, something long and rambling about whatever he thought was important. I forget.

On one occasion, Jimmy was asking for trouble. He egged the teacher on, until true to form, he snapped and assigned 200 sentences to the entire class. Jimmy, always the class clown, was prepared. He opened his desk and removed 200+ sentences already finished. He counted the ones he needed, handed them over and put the rest back in his desk for safe keeping.

The teacher was furious. While I was rather impressed with Jimmy's preparation (in a Luke 16:8 sort of way), I wasn't too happy that I was being punished for something Jimmy did, and he was already done with the punishment before we got a chance to get started.

Now I just laugh.

Of course, Jimmy got his the next time sentences were assigned, and the teacher changed the wording.

Checkers

This is a second-hand memory, but a good story nonetheless.

When my father was a boy, his father taught him to play Checkers. He played so well in fact that once (at perhaps 6 years old?), he played a man who had recently taken 4th in the California Checkers Championship and won (or perhaps played to a draw?). Admittedly, he had taken the man by surprise, and on a rematch, the man beat Dad handily.

Another time, Grace and John had gone out for dinner and a date and left the children with a babysitter. Somehow, after everyone else went to bed, my dad convinced this young woman that he would only go to bed if she beat him at checkers. She agreed. When his parents came home, and they were still playing, Grace became upset (we can all imagine), while John stood proudly admiring the skills of his young son.

Dad, you'll have to correct me when you get the chance.

Dad asks me to help out on a Saturday

Once, when I was in high school, I heard a really funny story about a guy who had to give a urine sample. He snuck in some apple juice, and used that to fill the sample cup. As he went to return the sample, he asked the nurse how she though it looked. She said it looked a little dark and that he might be dehydrated. He said "Well, let me run it through one more time." and drank the cup dry (to the surprise of the nurse).

I thought this was the coolest story of all time.

Not long after, Dad asked me to come in and help one Saturday with the Hilmar Pop Warner physicals. Dad didn't want to drag his staff in on a Saturday, so he go us to come in and help. My job was to stand next to the bathroom door and hand the boys their cups as they went in to fill them. I thought this was a great time to put my humor to good use, so I ran across the street and bought myself a Martinelli's and started drinking it while I handed out cups. My original intent was to pour it into a sterile sample cup and drink it out of that. I never got the chance. Dad caught me after a few sips, pulled me aside, and taught me the first lesson of business:

Lesson 1: "Don't sh** in the cash register"

Apparently Hilmar Pop Warner never called Dad again to do physicals after that. Sorry, Dad.

Other funny memories:
- Aaron consults Dad about a suspected ear infection
- Liz gets asked the typical BYU freshman questions

Going to the Bean Museum in Style

Here's an interesting story from Oregon today:

It reminds me of the time at BYU that we arranged a tour of the Bean Science Museum for a FHE night. We came up short on seat belts, so I volunteered to ride in the trunk. I joked with them that they shouldn't forget about me.

When we got to the Bean Museum, I heard them all get out of the car and walk away. I knew they were joking around, so instead of screaming like a raving idiot, I decided to let them have their fun, and I didn't say anything.

After a few minutes, I realized they must have really forgotten. It was a pretty roomy trunk, and I knew I had plenty of air to last a while as long as I didn't get excited. I was able to pry open a small crack in the rubber seal to give me a bit more air. I felt the backside of the rear seat cushion. It was rather low quality, and I assumed I could open up an air hole rather quickly if the time came. I wasn't worried.

I heard people walk by (we were parked next to the sidewalk), but I let them by. I didn't have a watch, so I tried to estimate how much time was going by so I could set a reasonable limit for when I should start calling out to strangers as they walked by. I figured my group would be in the museum for an hour, and I could wait that long if I had to. Anything more than that, and I guessed I should take some form of action to get myself out.

After about a half hour, one of my roommates looked around and asked the others where I had gone. They thought back, and realized that no one could remember seeing me with the group that whole night. They put two and two together, and came running outside to open the trunk. They were very worried about me. I wanted to know how much time had passed, but I don't remember how far off my time estimate was.

I went into the Bean Museum, but I had missed the cool parts of the tour. We still had a good time. When the night was over, I rode in the trunk on the way home.

The Time I Almost Killed Aaron and Myself

This is not an April Fool's Joke.

There was a time period when Aaron had a thing for Tara Perrett. They've moved now, but back in the day, they lived on a few thousand acres of land out on the other side of Patterson. Occasionally, Aaron wanted to go out for a visit, and on this particular incident, I got to play chaperone, and give him a ride.

Once you get to the Perrett's driveway, you still have a few good miles to drive - all on dirt road. Most of it's flat, and you can speed along pretty well. Occasionally, there are some hills, and you need to be careful of the ravine that the road skirts along.

On our way back, I was hurrying back down the road as quick as the Suburban would allow. I fancied myself a good driver, and I was going much faster than I should. I wasn't at all concerned with oncoming traffic, as you could see the dust of any approaching cars for miles ahead. I was very much enjoying the independence of driving privileges (like when I hit 100+ mph in the GrandAm on our way to EFY somewhere in Nevada). I don't think I was really in a hurry, although I may have been. Mostly, I just like to drive fast.

I took a few turns too fast, and would quickly correct, spitting gravel in the air, slowing for a moment and then continuing on as before. I hit a long straight stretch, and found the gas pedal. At the end of that stretch was a sharp turn. I took it way too fast and hit the breaks hard. The wheels locked up and sent the Suburban careening this way and that as I over-corrected two or three times trying to stay on the road.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we came to a stop. A bit in shock, I unbuckled and stepped out. There, only a foot or two from my front tire was the edge of a ravine that went 100+ feet straight down.

Another two feet and Aaron and I would be memories on a wall.

I drove much slower the entire rest of the way home.

I don't think we ever told Mom and Dad.