Dropping the Ball

When I was in third grade, my older sister, Deborah (a fifth grader) had the coolest friends in the whole school. There was this one boy who would wrestle with me on the playground, and would reply "Touché, mama sow" if you said something cool. She also had another friend who was really into the Talent Sprouts and had a cool leather jacket, but seemed a bit too "slick" to me. But the coolest guy in the whole school was Gehrig (Garret?) Peterson. Gehrig was THE JOCK.

The coolest thing about Deborah's friends was they would let me play baseball with them at recess sometimes. Of course I wasn't as big and strong as they were, but they needed an extra pair of hands sometimes, especially at the positions none of them wanted to play. This meant that when I got to play I usually played catcher.

By the time I reached third grade, I had already played a few years of Little League and I knew my way around the diamond. I wasn't ever the best hitter, but I was a fairly decent fielder and I didn't make mental mistakes, especially when it came to recess ball.

The one moment I remember more clearly than any other recess moment at A.J. Winters elementary school came while I was playing catcher and Gehrig was up to bat. He took a few pitches, and then clipped the bottom of the ball so that it flew into the air behind home plate. I positioned myself under the ball, prepared to make the catch, and at that moment Gehrig shouted "No, don't catch it!". I wanted so desperately to be included. I wanted to be a part of the team. I wanted to be invited back to play again tomorrow. I dropped the ball. I didn't just muff the catch. I opened my arms and let the ball fall straight to the ground. I sold out.

I gave in to peer pressure and sacrificed my integrity to feel included. I should have put Gehrig out. Maybe I didn't realize at the time that putting him out was the only choice THE JOCK would have respected.


(Aside: Deborah will have to correct me on the names.)

ORANG...E

In honor of the Scripps national bee that took place this last week ...

Deborah and I competed in the annual Spelling Bee in Montpelier. I competed in first and second grade. I don't remember what happened in third grade. I missed the fourth grade competition because I missed the word "eschew" in Mrs. Abplanap's (Mrs. A) class competition, but that's a different memory.

In second grade, I was in Mrs. Keetch's class, along with Cody Brown. Cody had won first place the year before, and I had gotten second. I think the following story took place in the second grade competition.

Cody Brown was smart. He had a physical handicap and walked with crutches. Dad told me what he had, and that he probably wouldn't live to see his 12th birthday. I don't remember what it was nor do I remember having him in class after the second grade. Cody was a nice kid, and I won't call him my nemesis. Nonetheless, he was very smart and I knew he was the one kid standing between me and first place.

The spelling bee finals took place on the stage of the old high school. The stage was lit and the audience was dark. We contestants sat on stage waiting for our turns in neat little rows of worn and tired chairs. I was confident. I just needed Cody to made a mistake somewhere. There were first grade words, second grade words, third grade words, and so on. When you exhausted one list, you moved on to the next, until there was only one person standing. I don't remember any of my words, but I clearly remember one of Cody's.

On his turn, he approached the microphone, and the reader announced "orange". Cody was a rock. He spelled "O..R..A..N..G", and then turned to walk away. That was it. Cody was out of the competition. My way to first place was paved. It would be smooth sailing from there on.

Cody took one step, and then another, and then, in desperation, reversed direction and lunged with all of his might back to the microphone. "E!!!!" he pronounced before the judge had issued a ruling. My hopes dashed, I secretly urged the judges to disallow the continuation. It was ruled as correct. I got second place, behind Cody Brown.

-- end of story--

For the record, this is a partial list of my elementary school teachers. If anyone else remembers the names that I left out, post it, so that my record can be complete:
Kindergarten teacher (Summit Elementary): Mrs. Theriot
1st grade (Summit Elementaty): Mrs Vernon
1st grade (A.J. Winters): ???
2nd grade (A.J. Winters): Mrs. Keetch
3rd grade (A.J. Winters): Mrs. Webber
4th grade (A.J. Winters): Mrs. Abplanap (Mrs. A)
5th grade (A.J. Winters): Mrs. Etcheverry
5th grade (Fremont): Mr. Thompson (Mr. T)
6th grade Sep-Dec (Fremont): Mr. Denezio
6th grade Jan-Jun (Fremont): ???

Other elementary school memories.

- Ryan takes a softball in the stomach (1st grade)
- kickball on the A.J. Winters playground
- walking to school in the snow (getting offered a ride)
- walking to school in the snow (getting stopped by an officer)
- walking to school in the snow (just in general)
- field day at A.J. Winters (losing to J.R. in the footrace)
- playing catcher at recess (dropping the foul ball)
- placing bets with Wendall
- fishing for J.R.'s beltbuckle
- substitute teachers at A.J. Winters
- kissing tag at Summit Elementary

Anjanette is born

By request, this is what I remember about Anjanette being born:

February is cold in Montpelier, Idaho. February is also the month of the Blue and Gold Cub Scout dinner. The night Anjanette was born it was both cold and the night of the dinner.

There is a long tradition at the Montpelier Blue and Gold dinner, which probably plays out across Cub Scout dinners across the country. Boys and their mothers slave over baking the perfect cake, whether it be adorned with all things chocolate or baked in the shape of the Millenium Falcon. The single goal is to have the most impressive cake as recognized by your fellow cub scouts. The scouts admire the cake, individually decide on whose is the most awesome, and then cry if their parents get outbid on their own cake.

As much as it pains the parents of two cub scouts to buy back two cakes (at a relatively high price if they are as awesome as ours were), it is even more painful for the brother whose cake was not bought.

On just such a night in February of 1983, my mother attended the Blue and Gold dinner, 9 months pregnant. She went home, went into labor sometime that night, and went to the hospital where Anjanette was delivered.

The two of them ended up in a wing with a window, and while my father did not take us in to the room, he did help us climb the snow drift outside their room (I told you it was cold) so that we could have a peek at our new baby sister.

I don't remember, but I suppose we may have gone home and celebrated with a slice of cake.

Other memories of Anjanette:
- Anjanette gets poop in her eye
- Anjanette answers the phone
- Anjanette gets baptized

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

Montpelier Phone Number

I can't remember my address from a year ago, but I can remember my phone number from more than 20 years ago.

Eight four seven - twenty three eleven

It kinda bounces along and rolls off the tongue like a good phone number should.

3-in-One: Riding Bikes in Montpelier

Summer time in Montpelier was a glorious time. As my memory serves, our favorite group activity was riding bikes around the neighborhood. I don't remember how old I was, but when I came of age, Dad took me down to the Coast-to-Coast hardware store and let me pick out a bike. I didn't get the one with mag-wheels because it was too expensive, but I got a BMX style blue bike with yellow trim, which served me well for many long years to come.

The best/closest place to ride bikes was near a small grove of trees across from the end of our street. There was a small grove of enormous Cottonwood trees adjacent to a field that seemed to be mostly fallow. This place was known as "Big Trees". There was a small dry stream bed and we would ride our bikes around the field and through the stream bed until a path was well worn. Because of the stream bed, there were at least two places in the path where an experienced rider could get some "air". We would mostly go as a group, taking turns to admire each other's performance and try to out do each other. Once I went there on my own, and there were two older girls using our path. I don't remember being annoyed with them being on our path. I distinctly remember how slowly they were going, getting no air at all, despite their amazement at their performance. On top of that, they were ignoring protocol by monopolizing the path. It was obvious enough to me that I was patiently waiting my turn, but as one girl waited for the other to complete the circuit, she would wait at the head of the trail, preventing me from getting access. The two took turns for a few loops, and eventually let me take a turn. As I rode past, I muttered to myself "Now it's my turn", intent on showing these girls how the course was really supposed to be ridden. As I started on my way, I heard one girls say to the other in disgust "Did you hear what he said?" I was mortified, and made my loop and then quickly proceeded home.

Another favorite place was a large dirt hill behind all of our cul-de-sacs and over nearer to the edge of town (as I remember it). If I remember correctly, there was a small path between the house across from us and the old-folks home. If not there, then at the end of the next street over. We only rode on this hill in the later years, as it was quite large, and Mother preferred that we not ride on it. I had made my way over one evening, and as it was getting dark, I began to head home. There was knee-high (or higher) grass on the sides of the path, and because it was twilight, it was difficult to see the path until the ground was right under the front wheel. I was hustling home as quickly as I could, and didn't see the large rock in the middle of the road until it was too late. I tried to turn out of the way, but my front wheel struck the rock, and the force twisted my handlebars around so that my left handle met my stomach full-force. The rock stopped the momentum of the bike, but not mine, and my entire weight was thrown into the left grip, now facing directly at my stomach. I remember that I was completely stopped mid-air, and sort of fell over onto the ground, not sure if I was going to be able to make it home, hoping it wasn't anything too serious. I guess it wasn't.

One thing that we only did occasionally was race our bikes. I don't know why, but perhaps this experience helped to contribute. We raced our bikes, three or four at a time, from our house (at the dead-end side of the street) to end of the road, with the finish line being the beginning of the intersection. The street wasn't too busy, but it was one of the main roads in town, so we stationed an observer at the finish line. The primary job was NOT to determine the winner, but rather to wait until traffic looked clear to start the race and to stop the race should any traffic be approaching. The observing duties were passed to one of the younger members of the group after some time, I seem to remember it was Aaron, but it very well could have been John Vermaas's younger brother (I don't remember his name). At any rate, the race finished, but bikes went into the crossroad, right as a car came by. It was a small town, and despite any effort on our part to disguise our identities, an older lady ended up at our front door to report our dangerous activities involving riding blind into cross traffic. I was amazed that Mom didn't understand that the blame rested squarely on the observer an no one else. We had obviously taken the necessary precautions in posting an observer. If they had only done their job, there would not have been any problem at all.

Montpelier topics for future posts:
- flying kites
- going to Peagram
- Shawn Lloyd
- Jason/Justin Smith and The Karate Kid
- Dustin Christensen and the garage door
- snow forts
- M-Hill at Christmas
- Aaron and Deborah's big spill
- re-building jumps

Turlock topics for future posts
- not getting paid to kiss Laurie Spencer
- Marco Polo
- observing C-Sections
- not driving Roger Lewis's new Lexus
- election convention
- Milton Hugues vs. Brian Wilkenson

Aaron's concussion

After a few years in Montpelier, a new family, the Patterson's, moved in on the next street over. If I remember correctly, Bro. Patterson was the principal of the new high school. They had a few kids around our age. I remember they had a younger boy named Gabe, a boy Aaron's age, and an older girl and an older boy. They also had a trampoline.

I don't remember the rules about the trampoline. I remember that there were a lot of families that put limits or enforced rules about trampolines after John Vermaas did the splits on a slippery trampoline and ended up in a body cast - or was that cast from the time he took a nose-dive off his mom's bike when he was taking it down M-hill? Whatever it was (the trampoline incident may not have been John at all) - some of the families removed their trampolines entirely after the accident.

At any rate, Aaron ended up on the trampoline with the Patterson girl, who was at least a few years older than him and probably outweighed him by 50 lbs or more. The story goes that she bounced Aaron, he did his own nose-dive and came down head-first on the trampoline rail - knocked out cold.

He ended up face-down, gripping the grass. I remember having him home, saying a prayer, hoping he would be alright, knowing how serious the situation was, and still thinking it was funny that he didn't know his own name, or where he was, or any number of other mundane questions that we would ask him, and he would answer with some random response. I guess I didn't take things too seriously when I was that age.

Obviously, we were all very happy that Aaron ended up being OK.

moving to Montpelier

We lived in Montpelier, Idaho from December 1981 to December 1985. We moved into the last house on the left of a dead-end street, Crystal Drive (phone number 847-2311). We had a very roomy backyard (big enough to play kick-ball in) and a huge sandbox on the side. We arrived at the new house late at night, and when the neighbors came over to introduce their son (John Vermaas) to me, mom and dad had to get me out of bed. John and Brig Thomas (our next-door neighbor) would end up being the neighborhood kids I would hang out with most often, with Brig being my best friend for the four years we were there. Brig and John were both a grade ahead of me, even though we were roughly the same age.

I was 7 years old and in the middle of the first grade. I can't remember if we attended school before Christmas vacation or not. I know I felt like I had 20 instant friends on my first day there. I liked Idaho. The move to Modesto in 1985 would end up being a much more difficult transition.

That's how I remember it.