This week our family traveled from Oregon to Utah and back – almost 2000 miles – to a family reunion. Wendy drove about 1800 of those miles, while I acted as co-pilot, checking distances and refilling her water bottle.
Obviously I have no Chauvinistic hang-up with having to be the driver on family outings “because I’m the man”. Wendy and I did have disagreements about this in the early years of our marriage. I like to drive and she likes to drive – nothing wrong there, it’s something we have in common. It’s just that there are some stylistic differences between her driving and mine.
Wendy’s driving style is to drive a safe speed, notice everything, put no excessive strain on the engine, and provide a smooth ride for her passengers. Mine is to get to the intended destination without physically making contact with other vehicles or embedding small animals of more than 50 lbs mass into the grill.
Wendy’s observation skills are amazing, to say the least. She notices wildlife near the road, such as deer, pheasants, and mice. She notices billboards and landmarks, and she notices wrecks and dangerous objects from miles away.
But mostly she notices police.
She notices police driving, or especially parked in sneaky locations behind shrubs or on overpasses. She sees them whether they are in patrol cars or unmarked cars, on a motorcycle or out of uniform watching their child play soccer. When Wendy sees the police while driving, everyone knows because she’ll stomp the brakes to slow down from five mph under the speed limit to ten mph under, and she’ll yell, “Everybody DOWN!”
This is because the kids might be doing absolutely anything illegal or dangerous, such as sitting in a seatbelt not approved for small children, or touching their sister.
Still, the reason I generally let Wendy drive is not because she’s the better driver, it’s because I’m the better passenger. If the car takes a sudden lurch or gets a little close to another vehicle while I’m the passenger, I just look at it like an amusement park ride. When it’s over, we’re all safe, and we can go get a corn dog.
As my passenger, Wendy’s take on the experience probably aligns nicely with her view of airplane crashes – I haven’t asked her, but I’m judging by the screaming, the hyperventilation, and the grip she places on the entry handle.
You know, if she would just close her eyes, it would probably be a lot more comfortable for her.
She also insists on giving me a lot of directions, such as “Stay within the lines, please!” or “Watch the road, would you!” Sometimes her directions are self-contradicting, like “turn right at the next light”, and “Do NOT turn right across three lanes of traffic!”
In the last few years I have had the opportunity to have my co-workers as passengers, and, as it turns out, Wendy’s view of my driving is not unique.
Mike told me “I can understand using the shoulder to go around a car turning left – and I can even understand doing that at 60 mph, but not when there is another car using the shoulder!”
Tom says, “Stop far enough behind the other vehicle that you can still see its tires, please!”
They both claim to get muscle strain from involuntary attempts to hit the brakes.
Officer Cummins of the OHP has a different view of my driving. He hasn’t seen me driving while thumbing through my notebook looking for phone numbers, or using both hands to scratch that itch under my left shoulder blade. He simply thinks I should slow down.
He and I chat about it every few weeks on Highway 99 between Rickreall and Amity. He’s a good man, in his 30’s, with a wife and two children. He loves his job, and recently bought a wood smoker.
I admit it, Wendy is a very good driver, and I'm needing improvement. So in the interest of marital harmony, and general laziness, I let Wendy drive about 28 hours of barren Western landscape.
In addition to my copilot duties I played Sudoku on my blackberry and learned how to solve the Rubiks cube. I also worked on my observation skills, so that I can one day become as good a driver as Wendy. I’m getting better! I even noticed a lady having a baby on the freeway – with three patrol cars, lights flashing, and feet up against the side windows.
. . . After Wendy pointed it out.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I rolled up a log
Saturday Wendy was driving home from Bend with the kids. Chad was in a silly mood, and was perhaps driving the driver a wee bit insane, so she called me and said, "Chad wants to talk to you. Here you go!"
I played along. "Howdy Chad!"
"Hi, Dad! What did you do today?"
I told him "I wrote a blog."
Cell phones are a little indistinct sometimes, and they were in a bad cell zone. He said, "I can't hear you. What?"
"I wrote a BLOG!" I yelled.
"You rolled up a log? What are you talking about?"
He must have laughed for five minutes. I waited patiently, and eventually he said, "OK - what else did you do today?"
"I rode my bike to the grocery store."
"Dad! You Rock! You rode your bike through the grocery store? That's awesome!"
This was becoming a fun game. In fact, we might be on the verge of patenting a new game for the hearing impaired.
Actually, someone made this into a game already. It's called "Mad Gab", and I am the champion at it. When someone verbalizes, "Stub Her Neigh Same Yule," I easily translate to, "Stubborn as a mule" and win the round. On the other hand, if they actually say "Stubborn as a mule", I am just as likely to hear, "It's a rubber vestibule." Chad may have this hereditary defect.
This kind of thing seems to happen to me often.
Once, when Wendy was not feeling well, she said, "My stomach hurts. My thighs are greasy." Only, the thighs weren't her own, they belonged to the chickens we ate for dinner an hour earlier.
On another occasion I asked, "Need anything from the store?"
She was happy I asked. "Bring me some Carmex."
"What kind of corn mix?"
Less happy now.
It happened quite frequently when I lived in Japan, where they have a national shortage of sylables. Once my host family was already in the middle of dinner when I arrived home, with only a few minutes until an appintment came. The host mother asked me, "kuru made tabetara?" meaning "why don't you eat until they come?" But I heard, "kuruma de tabetara?" meaning, "why don't you eat in the car?"
I was a little offended.
This (dis?) aility may have come to me as a child when my family begain reciting the story "Ladle Rat Rotten Hut."
Wants pawn term, dare worsted ladle gull, hoe left wetter murder honor itch offer lodge, dock florist.
Ladies and gentlemen, don't adjust your sets. You read that correctly. It makes perfect sense when you know how to translate it. It is the story of "Little Red Riding Hood" and this is the first sentence: "Once upon a time, there was a little girl, who lived with her mother on the edge of a large, dark forest."
You're getting the hang of this now, arent you?
Here's what I think. Any future hearing loss I experience will be accompanied by an equally offsetting entertainment value, and kids will come from all over to talk with me.
"Hey, kid - I see you bought a new Toyota."
"That's right, Mister Boyack, and I hear you had a really amazing coupe."
"Yes, I did, after the Ex Lax took effect."
So after all, communication is a four part exercise. The intended message, the actual spoken words, the actual heard words, and the interpreted meaning.
If any one of those goes wrong, you can have a lot of fun.
I played along. "Howdy Chad!"
"Hi, Dad! What did you do today?"
I told him "I wrote a blog."
Cell phones are a little indistinct sometimes, and they were in a bad cell zone. He said, "I can't hear you. What?"
"I wrote a BLOG!" I yelled.
"You rolled up a log? What are you talking about?"
He must have laughed for five minutes. I waited patiently, and eventually he said, "OK - what else did you do today?"
"I rode my bike to the grocery store."
"Dad! You Rock! You rode your bike through the grocery store? That's awesome!"
This was becoming a fun game. In fact, we might be on the verge of patenting a new game for the hearing impaired.
Actually, someone made this into a game already. It's called "Mad Gab", and I am the champion at it. When someone verbalizes, "Stub Her Neigh Same Yule," I easily translate to, "Stubborn as a mule" and win the round. On the other hand, if they actually say "Stubborn as a mule", I am just as likely to hear, "It's a rubber vestibule." Chad may have this hereditary defect.
This kind of thing seems to happen to me often.
Once, when Wendy was not feeling well, she said, "My stomach hurts. My thighs are greasy." Only, the thighs weren't her own, they belonged to the chickens we ate for dinner an hour earlier.
On another occasion I asked, "Need anything from the store?"
She was happy I asked. "Bring me some Carmex."
"What kind of corn mix?"
Less happy now.
It happened quite frequently when I lived in Japan, where they have a national shortage of sylables. Once my host family was already in the middle of dinner when I arrived home, with only a few minutes until an appintment came. The host mother asked me, "kuru made tabetara?" meaning "why don't you eat until they come?" But I heard, "kuruma de tabetara?" meaning, "why don't you eat in the car?"
I was a little offended.
This (dis?) aility may have come to me as a child when my family begain reciting the story "Ladle Rat Rotten Hut."
Wants pawn term, dare worsted ladle gull, hoe left wetter murder honor itch offer lodge, dock florist.
Ladies and gentlemen, don't adjust your sets. You read that correctly. It makes perfect sense when you know how to translate it. It is the story of "Little Red Riding Hood" and this is the first sentence: "Once upon a time, there was a little girl, who lived with her mother on the edge of a large, dark forest."
You're getting the hang of this now, arent you?
Here's what I think. Any future hearing loss I experience will be accompanied by an equally offsetting entertainment value, and kids will come from all over to talk with me.
"Hey, kid - I see you bought a new Toyota."
"That's right, Mister Boyack, and I hear you had a really amazing coupe."
"Yes, I did, after the Ex Lax took effect."
So after all, communication is a four part exercise. The intended message, the actual spoken words, the actual heard words, and the interpreted meaning.
If any one of those goes wrong, you can have a lot of fun.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Fighting Evil in Sunday Primary
In my church there is no paid ministry, and we are asked to to a variety of jobs. Here's a few that I have done:
Today Sister Nelson used an object lesson that involved a whole garlic. When she told the kids what it was, one eight-year old girl pipes up, "Garlic scares away vampires!".
And then, in a completely unscripted moment, a ten-year old boy on the back row smiled, revealing two rows of platic green vampire teeth, complete with fangs.
I love primary!
- President of the Elder's Quorum (a men's group - actually the younger half of the congregation even though it's called Elder)
- Counselor to a Bishop - something like an assistant pastor
- Young Men's Advisor - working with 16 to 18 year old boys once, and 12-13 year olds another time.
- Choir director - self explanitory
Today Sister Nelson used an object lesson that involved a whole garlic. When she told the kids what it was, one eight-year old girl pipes up, "Garlic scares away vampires!".
And then, in a completely unscripted moment, a ten-year old boy on the back row smiled, revealing two rows of platic green vampire teeth, complete with fangs.
I love primary!
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Bicycling Adventure
Each year the Young Men’s organization in my LDS ward organizes the “high-adventure activity”, which is some extra-challenging expedition to a river, a beach, or a mountain. This is a speculative endeavor because we do things that normally only “fit” people do, like biking, canoeing or backpacking, but with our actual bodies, which are more suited to specialized functions such as punching keys on a keyboard or remote control, or for the young guys, a game controller thingy. But, for this one week each year, we scale mountains, ride rapids, or glide down highways wearing only Styrofoam.
The “High Adventure” is always adventurous, even though we are church-goers who attempt these feats without the aid of alcohol, because it involves males from ages 14 to 60, which is well before the age when the frontal lobe in human males matures and responsible judgment is possible.
Last August, for example, we canoed 100 miles of the treacherous Willamette River, which in the summer is not known for dangerous currents. However, two male priesthood brethren found, within sixty minutes of putting our boats in the water on the very first day, the only rapid anywhere on this river, and, given the choice of two forks in the river, naturally chose the one that would dump their bodies into the churning water and fold their canoe around a tree.
I thought this was pretty funny, and I confess I ribbed those guys a little. Meanwhile my son Chad and I carefully and responsibly piloted our canoe safely for the first day, until that got pretty boring. On the second day I paid attention to my fishing lines long enough to tip the canoe over. After that I was back to being responsible for the remainder of the journey, because I had lost my fishing poles and there was nothing better to do.
So here we are one year later, and the Adventure this year is a five-day, 150-mile bicycle trip on the San Juan islands, which are somewhere in the ocean of Washington state. It is a long-standing tradition, and the group has gone there every third year for the last fifteen years.
This will be my first time, however. I am told we will carry all our gear on the bikes, travelling mountainous coastal roads, ferrying from island to island, and camping in picturesque sites.
I’m also told I better get my fat old body in shape or I will suffer painfully and publicly.
I don’t want to put my son through that, so I bought a bike and have been doing a little cycling this spring. I will be much more prepared than I was when Wendy’s family did their first bike trip fifteen years ago, during which the bicycle seat willfully and repeatedly assaulted me in the most tender and sensitive places.
Last week my family camped at the coast and I brought the bike along so I could get a little more practice. Fifteen miles from the campground to the beach should be a good practice. The family went ahead in the Suburban. I passed up several “last call” opportunities where Wendy called, volunteering to come back and pick me up, saying things like “are you sure, this hill is two miles straight up?”
I bravely told her not to worry, and prepared to mount up. Apparently I forgot to pack my helmet, so I put on a hat to protect me from sunburn. Then my belly and I mounted the bike and headed out of the campground.
I was pretty much exhausted by the time I reached highway 101, less than one mile from the campground. It had been too many weeks. The road was hilly, and the wind was blowing against me.
When I reached the base of the first hill, it was time to pull off for a snack. This was going to be slow going. I surveyed the hill while I munched on unsalted nuts and dried fruits (very healthy, don’t you think? I won’t tell you how often I eat that way). Hmm. Steep hill, breezy day, narrow road, fast traffic, no helmet. What could possibly go wrong?
Then up I went. I was riding right into the wind, as well as uphill, which I thought was a little unfair. My hat was flipping around in the breeze and I thought I might lose it. It’s a manly chapeau in the style of “fishing hat”, with a brim that is identical all the way around all 360 degrees. Same hat I wore on last year’s canoe trip, actually. Good sun protection, but quite the sail in this wind.
So I pulled the hat down tight in front, and took on the challenge. I ascended that hill one inch at a time, one revolution at a time.
Occasionally I saw pairs of bicyclists in shiny Lycra suits, zipping down the hill southward. I had a sweatshirt, denim pants, and office shoes. They had rear-view mirrors mounted on the helmets. My bike has a rear-view mirror mounted on the handlebar, which is really cool. They had matching helmets and gloves. I had a fishing hat, and my right hand was going numb. They were carrying nothing, but I was carrying my belly.
They cast a glance my direction, and I’m sure gave me due respect as I lumbered up the hill in the lowest gear, with my big saddlebags, which they could not have known were totally empty.
Sissies.
Then, that blessed moment. After two miles of climbing, I reached the top of the first breezy hill with the hat safely secured. It was time to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I pulled the hat down again, and upshifted as the road leveled out and began descending.
As my speed built, the hat was talking to me: wippa wappa, flippa flappa. Wow – this is going to be fast. I’m not even to the steep part yet. I really don’t want to lose this hat.
I utilized my rear-view mirror to check out the traffic situation behind me. Going uphill, when the cars were passing me at 50 mph to my one mph, it was easy to stay at the edge of the road and cycle over pinecones and sticks. If I’m going to be going fast down this hill, I don’t want to be riding through that garbage.
All was clear, so I pulled out into the middle of the lane, where cars would be most likely to see me early and wait for a safe place to pass. Luckily the curvy road had warning signs keeping the cars to under 45 mph. I would slow the traffic down a little, but not much.
My speed was building, as was my adrenaline. These curves were a little daunting. I gripped the handles tightly, and felt all the muscles tightening from my fingertips to my eyebrows. This was scary in an exciting sort of way, like an amusement park ride or an intense thriller movie. I have no problems as long as the two wheels stay under me.
I was in top gear, but not applying any effort to the downhill ride.. The hat was now rattling like a flag in a hurricane: wippity wappity flippity flappity.
Here comes another pair of matching sissies southbound up the hill. And look at me, just relaxing. OK John, time to dig in and get some exercise along with the thrill ride. I hunker down to lower my wind profile and put some force on the pedals.
Wippity wappity FLAP!
Suddenly everything went dark. My hat was now silent. Instead of flapping in the breeze, its brim was now wrapped around my face like I’m a blindfolded kid getting ready to whack a piñata.
Straining my eyeballs downward, I could see through a slight opening next to my nose. I could only see the pavement directly below my bicycle.
At 40 miles per hour, cars in front and back, I had a death grip on the handlebars and no visibility to the front. However, I could, in my rear-view mirror, see the semi truck behind me.
I’m the piñata, actually. Did I mention I wasn’t wearing a helmet?
I peeled my left fingers off the handlebar and quickly pushed up my hat. Thank Heaven! The cars ahead of me were pulling away, and as a nice added benefit, I was still on the right side of the road. And I now had one eyeball free of the face-sucking hat.
Now I was John the Pirate Bicycler. The brim of my hat was down on the right, up on the left. Without any depth-perception, I carefully applied the brakes and pulled gently into the sticks and pinecones. The trucks and cars sped up and passed me by.
Wow!
I took off the hat and breathed for a moment. Two eyes are twice as good.
I looked at the remaining hill, and the traffic. I considered the breeze and the sun. I folded the front brim of the hat inside, pulled it back on my head, and my belly and me got back on the road.
I love that hat.
The “High Adventure” is always adventurous, even though we are church-goers who attempt these feats without the aid of alcohol, because it involves males from ages 14 to 60, which is well before the age when the frontal lobe in human males matures and responsible judgment is possible.
Last August, for example, we canoed 100 miles of the treacherous Willamette River, which in the summer is not known for dangerous currents. However, two male priesthood brethren found, within sixty minutes of putting our boats in the water on the very first day, the only rapid anywhere on this river, and, given the choice of two forks in the river, naturally chose the one that would dump their bodies into the churning water and fold their canoe around a tree.
I thought this was pretty funny, and I confess I ribbed those guys a little. Meanwhile my son Chad and I carefully and responsibly piloted our canoe safely for the first day, until that got pretty boring. On the second day I paid attention to my fishing lines long enough to tip the canoe over. After that I was back to being responsible for the remainder of the journey, because I had lost my fishing poles and there was nothing better to do.
So here we are one year later, and the Adventure this year is a five-day, 150-mile bicycle trip on the San Juan islands, which are somewhere in the ocean of Washington state. It is a long-standing tradition, and the group has gone there every third year for the last fifteen years.
This will be my first time, however. I am told we will carry all our gear on the bikes, travelling mountainous coastal roads, ferrying from island to island, and camping in picturesque sites.
I’m also told I better get my fat old body in shape or I will suffer painfully and publicly.
I don’t want to put my son through that, so I bought a bike and have been doing a little cycling this spring. I will be much more prepared than I was when Wendy’s family did their first bike trip fifteen years ago, during which the bicycle seat willfully and repeatedly assaulted me in the most tender and sensitive places.
Last week my family camped at the coast and I brought the bike along so I could get a little more practice. Fifteen miles from the campground to the beach should be a good practice. The family went ahead in the Suburban. I passed up several “last call” opportunities where Wendy called, volunteering to come back and pick me up, saying things like “are you sure, this hill is two miles straight up?”
I bravely told her not to worry, and prepared to mount up. Apparently I forgot to pack my helmet, so I put on a hat to protect me from sunburn. Then my belly and I mounted the bike and headed out of the campground.
I was pretty much exhausted by the time I reached highway 101, less than one mile from the campground. It had been too many weeks. The road was hilly, and the wind was blowing against me.
When I reached the base of the first hill, it was time to pull off for a snack. This was going to be slow going. I surveyed the hill while I munched on unsalted nuts and dried fruits (very healthy, don’t you think? I won’t tell you how often I eat that way). Hmm. Steep hill, breezy day, narrow road, fast traffic, no helmet. What could possibly go wrong?
Then up I went. I was riding right into the wind, as well as uphill, which I thought was a little unfair. My hat was flipping around in the breeze and I thought I might lose it. It’s a manly chapeau in the style of “fishing hat”, with a brim that is identical all the way around all 360 degrees. Same hat I wore on last year’s canoe trip, actually. Good sun protection, but quite the sail in this wind.
So I pulled the hat down tight in front, and took on the challenge. I ascended that hill one inch at a time, one revolution at a time.
Occasionally I saw pairs of bicyclists in shiny Lycra suits, zipping down the hill southward. I had a sweatshirt, denim pants, and office shoes. They had rear-view mirrors mounted on the helmets. My bike has a rear-view mirror mounted on the handlebar, which is really cool. They had matching helmets and gloves. I had a fishing hat, and my right hand was going numb. They were carrying nothing, but I was carrying my belly.
They cast a glance my direction, and I’m sure gave me due respect as I lumbered up the hill in the lowest gear, with my big saddlebags, which they could not have known were totally empty.
Sissies.
Then, that blessed moment. After two miles of climbing, I reached the top of the first breezy hill with the hat safely secured. It was time to enjoy the fruits of my labor. I pulled the hat down again, and upshifted as the road leveled out and began descending.
As my speed built, the hat was talking to me: wippa wappa, flippa flappa. Wow – this is going to be fast. I’m not even to the steep part yet. I really don’t want to lose this hat.
I utilized my rear-view mirror to check out the traffic situation behind me. Going uphill, when the cars were passing me at 50 mph to my one mph, it was easy to stay at the edge of the road and cycle over pinecones and sticks. If I’m going to be going fast down this hill, I don’t want to be riding through that garbage.
All was clear, so I pulled out into the middle of the lane, where cars would be most likely to see me early and wait for a safe place to pass. Luckily the curvy road had warning signs keeping the cars to under 45 mph. I would slow the traffic down a little, but not much.
My speed was building, as was my adrenaline. These curves were a little daunting. I gripped the handles tightly, and felt all the muscles tightening from my fingertips to my eyebrows. This was scary in an exciting sort of way, like an amusement park ride or an intense thriller movie. I have no problems as long as the two wheels stay under me.
I was in top gear, but not applying any effort to the downhill ride.. The hat was now rattling like a flag in a hurricane: wippity wappity flippity flappity.
Here comes another pair of matching sissies southbound up the hill. And look at me, just relaxing. OK John, time to dig in and get some exercise along with the thrill ride. I hunker down to lower my wind profile and put some force on the pedals.
Wippity wappity FLAP!
Suddenly everything went dark. My hat was now silent. Instead of flapping in the breeze, its brim was now wrapped around my face like I’m a blindfolded kid getting ready to whack a piñata.
Straining my eyeballs downward, I could see through a slight opening next to my nose. I could only see the pavement directly below my bicycle.
At 40 miles per hour, cars in front and back, I had a death grip on the handlebars and no visibility to the front. However, I could, in my rear-view mirror, see the semi truck behind me.
I’m the piñata, actually. Did I mention I wasn’t wearing a helmet?
I peeled my left fingers off the handlebar and quickly pushed up my hat. Thank Heaven! The cars ahead of me were pulling away, and as a nice added benefit, I was still on the right side of the road. And I now had one eyeball free of the face-sucking hat.
Now I was John the Pirate Bicycler. The brim of my hat was down on the right, up on the left. Without any depth-perception, I carefully applied the brakes and pulled gently into the sticks and pinecones. The trucks and cars sped up and passed me by.
Wow!
I took off the hat and breathed for a moment. Two eyes are twice as good.
I looked at the remaining hill, and the traffic. I considered the breeze and the sun. I folded the front brim of the hat inside, pulled it back on my head, and my belly and me got back on the road.
I love that hat.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Bedtime Story. I wrote this two years ago and a few things have changed since then, but I don't think this ever saw the light of day after I wrote it
I am a dad. That’s how I think of myself. I know I am a husband first, and a child of God foremost – not to mention a member of the Common Family of Man, but none of these aspects has quite the same impact as being a dad. Daddiness (n: The condition of being surrounded by a large flock of children) drives my days and permeates my dreams. Every morning I try to wake them. Every night I try to get them to go to sleep. Most nights my twelve-year old son Chad is trying to talk to me half an hour after I went to sleep, or Lillian – currently age four and President of the local Boyack Children’s Association – crawls in bed with me sometime during the night, to snuggle me with her bony elbows and knees, moved betimes with sharpness.
I talk to them on the phone as I commute home. When I’m traveling I write to them via email and stay in touch with them via chat in the evening. They prescribe all my social outings – which is OK considering otherwise I wouldn’t go anywhere there are people – and they monopolize the time of my sweetheart, with whom I last had a date in 1997, when we were the parents of three. We have since added two to the collection, and all five are screwed up in their own little ways. Juuuussst kidding . . . (mostly). What are the chances they’ll read this, anyway?
I worry and fret and think and plan . . . because I have no other skills. But, also, because I love them. Want proof? I get out of bed and leave them for twelve hours a day! You men are connecting with this, right? Children are great because they bring out all the good qualities that were latent inside us until we became daddies. Hmm – actually, the wife brings those good qualities out of us by explaining the needs of the children using a vocal pitch that causes the bones of our skull to vibrate and threatening us with the Icy Stare. Children need things like beds: “No, she can’t just sleep doubled up on the baby bed. She’s twelve, dear.” Or clothes: “well, I don’t know, are you still wearing the clothes your mother received at your baby shower?”
Anyway, as you know, if it weren’t for all these other people, Wendy and I would be living comfortably in a small apartment with a big-screen TV and a grill on the balcony. And I could work part time! Well, Wendy would have to work too, but I assure you, she’d be doing about one tenth the work she does now as the Mom and Queen of the home.
So when I say that I think of myself as a dad, it is because it’s my occupation. It’s not how I earn my living, but it definitely occupies my life. For an example, let’s examine the process of “tucking in” President Lillian. This is how I handled it last night:
Wendy, Kimber (16), & McKay (13) were already in bed. Chad(12), Hannah (9) & Lilly form the “Bedtime Resistance Force”. Last night, per usual as of late, Hannah & Chad flanked me while Lillian took the offensive.
She wandered in and tried to get in bed by Wendy. I told her to go to her bed. She left the room briefly and returned with my digital camera, and pointed it at me. “Can I use your camera Daddy?” I gave her the one-two punch: “No! Put the camera on Mom’s desk, and go get in your bed!” to which she responded by turning her back on me and leaving with the camera and a smile on her face. One Hundred Percent Pure Insolence, from Concentrate. This cannot be tolerated, right? If she proves at age four that I have no authority here, we’re all doomed. So I chased her down, took the camera, and tossed her into bed. (I think that was pretty reasonable and restrained, but she saw it differently). She cried and kicked until I got her giggling – by tucking her in with her feet on her pillow and her head buried in the blankets. Then I helped her with her prayer, including the request “Help me to have happy dreams. And if I have a bad dream I can come to mommy’s bed.” I threw this in for two reasons: A) if she’s thinking of coming to Mommy’s bed, as opposed to Daddy’s, then she’ll squirm in by Wendy and not by me, saving me many aches and pains in the morning. B) Because if she actually sleeps long enough to have any sort of dream before getting into our bed . . . well, then that’s progress.
She calmed down, but she wouldn’t let me turn off the light until I found her several stuffed animals, which I obediently procured. But oh, what fickle promises! She still wouldn’t let me turn off the light without her screaming. I would have left the room with the light on, except big sister Hannah won’t stand for that. I can fix this! I gave Hannah a blindfold. Cool idea, right? I thought the bed-time gods had accepted my sacrifice and I could go to my bed, but just then Hannah made a wonderful sisterly suggestion. She told Lillian to find the Big Tigger with the candle in his hand, which, of course, could be absolutely anywhere in the house. Lilly and I searched the primary toy boxes for five minutes until I said “Enough. I’m done. You’re history, sister. Get in your bed!”
So then Lilly’s mad because she’s got to have just that toy, and then I’m yelling and telling her she has to go to sleep without it, and in the nick of time I see it – on her bed. Hannah tells us how to turn on Tigger’s light: push his tummy. I tuck her in for the second time, this time with a book to read. Now she’s mad because the Tigger Light turns off after ten seconds. I tell her he turns it off because he likes his tummy scratched and eventually she is OK with that.
(I have to interrupt for an editorial note. Please remember that while I apparently command no respect, I am motivated by a survival force not to allow her into my bed.)
Success! I turn off the light and return toward my room. En route, Chad – he’s twelve, remember – heads me off at my door. He has decided he wants to be tucked in – just for old time’s sake. I unclench my jaw and hands, and take a deep breath . . . I can do this. He climbs in the top bunk and I throw his blankets on. I can’t reach him to kiss him, so I kiss my hand and slap his forehead. And turn out the light. Free at last! In my room I don my pajamas and brush my teeth. My blankets are calling me, and I gratefully answer by tucking myself in next to my sleeping wife.
A moment later the light came on. . . . “Guess Who” was at my elbow with a bright smile on her face whispering to me (She doesn’t want to wake up Mom). She gave me two critical pieces of information: First, she accidentally tore a page out of her book. Second, her pajamas are too small because she keeps growing. Then just to make sure I was listening, she then demanded that I tuck her in again.
I am Daddy! Hear me roar!
I talk to them on the phone as I commute home. When I’m traveling I write to them via email and stay in touch with them via chat in the evening. They prescribe all my social outings – which is OK considering otherwise I wouldn’t go anywhere there are people – and they monopolize the time of my sweetheart, with whom I last had a date in 1997, when we were the parents of three. We have since added two to the collection, and all five are screwed up in their own little ways. Juuuussst kidding . . . (mostly). What are the chances they’ll read this, anyway?
I worry and fret and think and plan . . . because I have no other skills. But, also, because I love them. Want proof? I get out of bed and leave them for twelve hours a day! You men are connecting with this, right? Children are great because they bring out all the good qualities that were latent inside us until we became daddies. Hmm – actually, the wife brings those good qualities out of us by explaining the needs of the children using a vocal pitch that causes the bones of our skull to vibrate and threatening us with the Icy Stare. Children need things like beds: “No, she can’t just sleep doubled up on the baby bed. She’s twelve, dear.” Or clothes: “well, I don’t know, are you still wearing the clothes your mother received at your baby shower?”
Anyway, as you know, if it weren’t for all these other people, Wendy and I would be living comfortably in a small apartment with a big-screen TV and a grill on the balcony. And I could work part time! Well, Wendy would have to work too, but I assure you, she’d be doing about one tenth the work she does now as the Mom and Queen of the home.
So when I say that I think of myself as a dad, it is because it’s my occupation. It’s not how I earn my living, but it definitely occupies my life. For an example, let’s examine the process of “tucking in” President Lillian. This is how I handled it last night:
Wendy, Kimber (16), & McKay (13) were already in bed. Chad(12), Hannah (9) & Lilly form the “Bedtime Resistance Force”. Last night, per usual as of late, Hannah & Chad flanked me while Lillian took the offensive.
She wandered in and tried to get in bed by Wendy. I told her to go to her bed. She left the room briefly and returned with my digital camera, and pointed it at me. “Can I use your camera Daddy?” I gave her the one-two punch: “No! Put the camera on Mom’s desk, and go get in your bed!” to which she responded by turning her back on me and leaving with the camera and a smile on her face. One Hundred Percent Pure Insolence, from Concentrate. This cannot be tolerated, right? If she proves at age four that I have no authority here, we’re all doomed. So I chased her down, took the camera, and tossed her into bed. (I think that was pretty reasonable and restrained, but she saw it differently). She cried and kicked until I got her giggling – by tucking her in with her feet on her pillow and her head buried in the blankets. Then I helped her with her prayer, including the request “Help me to have happy dreams. And if I have a bad dream I can come to mommy’s bed.” I threw this in for two reasons: A) if she’s thinking of coming to Mommy’s bed, as opposed to Daddy’s, then she’ll squirm in by Wendy and not by me, saving me many aches and pains in the morning. B) Because if she actually sleeps long enough to have any sort of dream before getting into our bed . . . well, then that’s progress.
She calmed down, but she wouldn’t let me turn off the light until I found her several stuffed animals, which I obediently procured. But oh, what fickle promises! She still wouldn’t let me turn off the light without her screaming. I would have left the room with the light on, except big sister Hannah won’t stand for that. I can fix this! I gave Hannah a blindfold. Cool idea, right? I thought the bed-time gods had accepted my sacrifice and I could go to my bed, but just then Hannah made a wonderful sisterly suggestion. She told Lillian to find the Big Tigger with the candle in his hand, which, of course, could be absolutely anywhere in the house. Lilly and I searched the primary toy boxes for five minutes until I said “Enough. I’m done. You’re history, sister. Get in your bed!”
So then Lilly’s mad because she’s got to have just that toy, and then I’m yelling and telling her she has to go to sleep without it, and in the nick of time I see it – on her bed. Hannah tells us how to turn on Tigger’s light: push his tummy. I tuck her in for the second time, this time with a book to read. Now she’s mad because the Tigger Light turns off after ten seconds. I tell her he turns it off because he likes his tummy scratched and eventually she is OK with that.
(I have to interrupt for an editorial note. Please remember that while I apparently command no respect, I am motivated by a survival force not to allow her into my bed.)
Success! I turn off the light and return toward my room. En route, Chad – he’s twelve, remember – heads me off at my door. He has decided he wants to be tucked in – just for old time’s sake. I unclench my jaw and hands, and take a deep breath . . . I can do this. He climbs in the top bunk and I throw his blankets on. I can’t reach him to kiss him, so I kiss my hand and slap his forehead. And turn out the light. Free at last! In my room I don my pajamas and brush my teeth. My blankets are calling me, and I gratefully answer by tucking myself in next to my sleeping wife.
A moment later the light came on. . . . “Guess Who” was at my elbow with a bright smile on her face whispering to me (She doesn’t want to wake up Mom). She gave me two critical pieces of information: First, she accidentally tore a page out of her book. Second, her pajamas are too small because she keeps growing. Then just to make sure I was listening, she then demanded that I tuck her in again.
I am Daddy! Hear me roar!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Boyacks Annual Report, 2009
Forward and Acknowledgements: Since this dang thing is long enough to be a book, it may as well have a forward. And it’s time to acknowledge that John has gone completely cuckoo for Coco-Puffs and is no longer respecting the bounds of Christmas Letter propriety. You know: one page, two sides, lots of photos, short blurbs about the family, hardcopy delivered by the 15th. None of that from me - just one long, long, electronic letter. If it were hardcopy at least you could put it next to the commode and read at your leisure. I hope you’ll forgive the length and format. Since it will take superhuman endurance to read to the end of this letter, I’m prepared to offer a small bribe. Read on and in the letter you’ll be given a code which can be redeemed for a home made cookie – no matter your location. Now how much better does it get?
Hi, everyone! It’s that time of year again! Set up the tree, dust off the angels and elves, hang up the stockings, gather around the fireplace, snuggle up with someone you love, and read the Boyacks’ Christmas letter! These and other time-honored and family-friendly traditions will push away the stress of modern life by reminding you that if your trials this year were too difficult to laugh at, then cheer up! You have friends to laugh at!
What’s new this year? First the dreadful news: I’m being treated with physical therapy for a mass discovered in my midsection. I first noticed it when I took up bicycling on my lunch breaks. Every time a knee came up, there was a big squishy blob getting squeezed between my leg and my chest. It made the bicycling that much more challenging, as I trailed along behind a group of guys ten years younger than me – OK, in truth, they’re not all younger, but they’re ten years “fitter” than me.
Humiliating. But . . . I am a father – I can blame “baby fat”, can’t I?
So, as you would expect, the physical therapy is the treadmill, some weights and calisthenics, and more bicycling. But I am not a willing patient. I need more than a spoonful of sugar to make this medicine go down. WHY ARE THERE SO FEW DONUTS IN MY LIFE THESE DAYS?
Ahem . . . I will have you know that as hopeless as it seems, I did lose three pounds, and I will NOT gain them back (the three I gain back will be completely different).
Meanwhile, in a fitness challenge, Chad is cleaning my clock. He played JV football this year and lost about 10% of his body weight. The competition doesn’t end until New Years Day, though, and football is over, so I still have a chance. I’ll win if he gains, oh – about 20 pounds – in the next two weeks.
It’s time for me to add a few special treats to his Christmas Stocking.
Meanwhile, I’m seeing much success in combating the other effects of middle-age. My short-term memory is improving, thanks to my Blackberry, (A.K.A Tricorder, A.K.A. Liahona). My efforts toward hair-regrowth are paying off, at least in the ears, nose, and eyebrows area. And the top of the head is going to come around soon – I can feel it! And one youthful trait that is not fading into the middle-age sunset: my gift for romance continues to bless our marriage.
Just last month I was on my way to the bathroom to trim my eyebrows , and Wendy suggested we snuggle up and watch a romantic movie together. Thanks to my quick thinking, what could have turned out to be a boring evening turned into something we’ll both remember for a lifetime. I put on some soft music, turned down the lights, and asked my dear Wendy to trim my eyebrow hair. The bonding time was beautiful, and my left eyebrow has almost completely grown back now.
At church I’m the Primary chorister (Primary is the children’s group, and I teach them songs and lead the music). This is normally a woman’s job, but I don’t mind going where no man has gone before. I absolutely love it – it’s my favorite assignment so far (and I have had many). I have made friends with 30 people from ages 2 to 12 who I didn’t know before, and I have two daughters in that group, which makes it even better.
Well, as for the little things: I’m still employed at Merix as an Oracle Business Analyst, which is, in fact, a legitimate way to make a living and not a job title I just made up; I’ve learned a little about finishing wood; I really stink at fishing but I keep going back, and I tried geocaching, Facebook, and blogging.
I write on my blog very infrequently, so it’s more of a periodical than a blog. I do try to make it humorous enough to be worth your visit - hence the infrequency. The problem is I tell all the funny things that happened to us that we didn’t find funny at the time. Some times it takes a few weeks to see the humor! I’ll appreciate any readers that come my way, so please stop by and leave a comment. http://www.trustyplummet.blogspot.com/ is the place to go.
Wendy has been up to her customary multi-tasking. No – that doesn’t quite express it. Let’s call it “omni-tasking”: she teaches the following: Seminary at the Mormon church, voice lessons at home, technical theater at the high school, musical theater at the Dance Studio and, of course, home school to four of our kids. Throw in some child care, intense workouts and daily blogging, and she almost has a full day.
She blogs on Sparkpeople.com, where she has been named a “Motivator”. Her writing is funny and spiritual, and makes you want to be better today than you were yesterday.
She has had a hobby developing over the last fifteen years which is really picking up now: she is an amateur masseuse / chiropractor / therapist, and she gets plenty of practice. She really enjoys it, and so do her “clients”, who now include a professional masseuse and a chiropractor’s wife. She also adjusts attitudes, but those customers – who all live here – aren’t quite ready to give public endorsements.
One thing that I find completely amazing is that she can prepare lessons or write at the same time she is enjoying some random TV murder mystery on streaming video (Netflix). She likes the TV shows OK, but she mostly just does it to show off to me. I can do two things at once as long as one of them is walking. If one of them is TV I pretty much shut down all brain activity . . . OK, and most bodily functions.
Wendy took the lead on many family activities, including canning, gardening, once-a-month cooking, and packing up Sayaka’s stuff and moving her out.
Wendy anchors the faith in our family. Her determination to constantly do works of goodness is an inspiration to me. Her knowledge of the scriptures is a godly gift she shares freely with anyone who asks.
She’s instructing Lillian to take over as the primary caregiver of one of the dogs and all three cats, and is the official cat wrangler when there’s a vet trip.
She got glasses on her eyes to replace the braces on her teeth, except the braces aren’t quite off yet. She’s coping with that, and having a blast in the local YSA ward (young single adult congregation of the church). Her assignment is to lead the weekly Monday night activity. Weirdly, they call it Family Home Evening, because many of these kids are living away from home anyway. She’s making new friends all the time.
One of the most amazing, artistic things you will ever see is a spray-paint shirt designed and made by Kimber. She has always had an creative streak in her, but this is in the next class up. Last year for Christmas she crocheted winter hats for everyone. This year, perhaps with a hint, I’ll get a spray-paint shirt of – oh, I don’t know – an outdoor activity theme?
Kimber has a new grace and confidence, and her kindness continues.
McKay (16) is growing up too fast. She seems to have her life planned out, which means she’s in for some fun surprises. She’s considering a career in massage therapy, in which she has some talent, like her mother. Whatever she does, she’ll make the most of the blessings God has given her – she’s that kind of girl.
She got her braces off, didn’t get glasses, and grew her hair out to approximately eighteen feet. Just Kidding – she’s growing it out for two years, ending next May, to give to Locks of Love. The two-year span coincides with our friend Raymond’s mission service. Come to think of it, Kimber and Hannah also grew their hair. Hannah gave up first and in November cut off a long, fat braid to donate.
McKay is a great driver. At my insistence, she and Kimber both got their permits last year. They have driven the required amount of hours and waited the prescribed twelve months, only to discover that they don’t know anyone who is willing to pay for their insurance. Alack and alas! Oh, the Angst!
I don’t know how they are so patient. In my day driving was a right and a rite of passage. I couldn’t have imagined waiting years for a drivers license as seems to be so common in Oregon these days. Days after was sixteen I was rolling down the road on my own. Then again, at seventeen I was rolling down the road with the top down – and the wheels up.
She takes some classes at the high school, which lightens the load of the home-school teacher.
McKay’s a great singer - she sings in the high-school choir, and some solos. She was way funny in “The Sound of Music” (the lady who bows ten times at the end of the talent show). She got a great part in the upcoming school musical, “Starmites”, which, as it turns out, is NOT actually about giant singing insects that eat space rockets made of wood. It’s about a huge inter-galactic conflict between women and men, and it’s playing in February 2010.
She has been bow hunting for four years, and this year got closer to the deer than ever. She’s learning that it’s a joy to be out in the wild enjoying nature, and a bonus if you get the kill. . . . OK . . . that’s all I should say, but let me just tell you there is a really, really funny story here that McKay will absolutely double over laughing at – in about three decades. . . . But back to the point, she’s got the stealth and know-how, and her accuracy with a bow is absolutely deadly up to 35 yards – which, coincidentally, is the reason I’m not going into any more detail at this time.
McKay is a special person who loves the Lord Jesus Christ. She is not afraid to share the Gospel, and is true friend to all whether they share this interest or not.
Chad (14) and I have done lots of things together this year, including sleeping in a pine scented snow cave, watching Central High’s winning football team, and floating down the Willamette River – sometimes in the canoe, sometimes not.
He had a great time playing on Central’s JV team, which has a tendency to shut out its opponents. He worked hard, had great fun, made friends, contributed to the team, and tore some ligaments in his tailbone. The tailbone injury slowed him down some. But, on the upside, it’s a great reminder of the importance of tying his shoes. Plus, he got to sit on a donut.
We also went fishing together. This is not something we do too often, because, even though he LOVES fishing, and has been trying to learn it for about twenty years, he’s lousy at it, and he never showed me how to catch a fish, and I can’t stand sitting there doing nothing. I’d rather poke sticks into my eyeballs. So when he begs and begs for me to go fishing with him I tell him no way. Take Lilly – she’ll go.
If you’re wondering, Chad took over writing that last paragraph.
But we did go fishing. Actually we went on a week-long canoe trip down the Willamette River. This was the Scouts’ “High Adventure” trip, and it was very adventurous. I was fishing as we paddled our way downstream. Just like driving, you have to keep both eyes on the road, because one log lurking just under the surface can give you quite a surprise. On the second day I was SLAYING the fish, and since with Chad there I could have TWO lines in the water, I started setting up the line. It seems to have slipped my mind to mention to Chad that I wasn’t steering . . . or paddling . . . or watching the river.
Our life jackets were on and tight, our gear was tied down good, and our clothes were double-bagged. So when Chad yelled, and I noticed that we were floating sideways down the river and about to hit a submerged log, I was calm as could be. I did NOT blurt out my favorite potty-mouth word, but jumped gracefully into the water as the canoe tipped, and laughed through the whole thing.
Actually that was a lie, but Chad did laugh. I think he laughed at the shock on my face. But it is true that the gear was tied in well. We kept our beds, clothes, kitchen equipment, food, chairs, even a plastic grocery bag with my shoes in it. We only lost two things. . . . Sigh . . . two fishing poles.
That evening, with a rain shower soaking the camp as we sat inside our tent, we discovered that Chad’s clothes bag was perfectly dry. Mine wasn’t. That morning I had volunteered to put the second plastic bag on each of our clothes bags, and it turned out my clothes were wet inside of only one layer of plastic, and Chad’s were safe and dry inside three. What a great dad I am.
Another activity we enjoyed together was shaving. This month I coached as he shaved his moustache for the first time, and there was hardly any blood. The only shaving he had done previously was the back of my neck with electric clippers, late one memorable evening when everyone else was asleep. As I recall we collapsed into a heap of laughter after he showed me how straight it wasn’t.
Chad is taking three classes at the high school – which is a big change from home schooling through the 8th grade. It’s especially challenging that he has to get up at 5:30 for seminary at the church, when his previous habit was to sleep from midnight to ten in the morning. He’s taking choir and welding – both of which are difficult teach at the kitchen table, as well as algebra.
Chad and I have made a lot of great memories this year, which I will treasure for a lifetime.
Hannah (almost 12) is becoming quite the young woman. She recently got glasses, last month she cut her hair short, and with her own money bought heels and a dressy coat (to wear to church in the winter). So a person (dad) would hardly recognize her for all the changes. But she’s still daddy’s girl, and I still get to tuck her into bed sometimes, and she asks me to listen to her sing and watch her dancing.
She’s a great singer – she is not afraid to sing in front of a big audience, and the audiences enjoy it. Like her sisters, she dances a lot at the Dance Studio in town. In fact she’s an assistant teacher in a beginning class.
She did the most amazing thing this year. She took a cake baking class – for grownups. She had always loved cooking and baking, and the stars lined up so she could take this class. She made some more grown-up friends (which is not hard for her to do) and she now makes the most delicious and beautiful cakes! She hand-made Frogs, swans, butterflies and mice, along with hundreds of flowers and lacy patterns. Some of them were funny, like the “spaghetti cake” she made for Chad’s birthday – it looked like a big plate of spaghetti with meatballs and sauce on it. The meatballs were fudge! She won two blue ribbons at the county fair for a small wedding-style cake and some chocolate cookies.
You can look at our brood of children and definitely say we are blessed, but how lucky can a guy get, to have his daughter make him a cake every week! Unless . . . those were meant for me, weren’t they Hannah? I am very blessed to be Hannah’s daddy.
Her two favorite foods are potatoes and ice cream. In fact, she has extorted ice cream from our home teacher from church. Tricky girl!
Lillian (6) is another singing Boyack girl with dance in her pants, and the youngest to perform in a high-school musical. Which, by the way, is a movie trilogy that got way too much play time at our house this year.
This year the high school performed “The Sound of Music”, and Lillian was cast as Gretyl, the youngest singing Von Trap child. This became a family event, as McKay also had a role, and Hannah sang in the nuns’ choir. Wendy was the stage manager, etc., etc., etc.; Kimber ran sound, and Chad operated the spotlight. My job was to go watch the show every night, which suits my skill set.
It was funny that Lillian was the youngest person in the cast but could make her voice heard throughout the auditorium better than most. The director held her up as the example of how to “project”. Her daddy’s favorite part of the show was “Do, Re, Mi” where she gets to sing “Do” by herself about ten times – at just the right timing, and with her head bobbing to the side. Maybe you had to be there to appreciate it, but let me just say that no head was ever bobbed to the side with more serious conviction – a little furrow in her brow and everything. And sometimes the music would overcome her and she’d add a special toe tapping or shoulder twist.
Lilly does well with her schoolwork. She’s learning to take care of the animals and do her chores, and she loves her baby dolls Patrick and Emily Elizabeth (a big doll hand made by Kimber for last Christmas).
Lilly is learning how much Heavenly Father and Jesus love her, and she is trying to do what’s right.
Other highlights this year were three visits from the Tapasa family, and once when we got to visit them on the Northern CA coast. We toodled there by way of the Wildlife Safari park, and South Umpqua falls, where Lilly found a tick buried in her shoulder. She was very brave, and though we had an unexpected delay getting a doctor’s help, we still had plenty of time left for fun with Taps, Joanna, and the kids.
Last New Years we had the Hewitts visit us from Idaho, and they learned that the phrase “when it rains, it pours,” actually originated to describe the western Oregon weather in winter. We took them to the coast, the aquarium, and the cheese factory. Next year we pack up and head east to Utah for the Boyack reunion. It is wonderful to be with family.
We have been sharing our weekly family home evening with a couple more families in our ward – once or twice a month. It has helped us maintain the habit and brought us new friendships, so thanks to the Earl, Thurston and Depuglia families.
Well, there was so much to be thankful for this year! One letter can’t possibly contain it, but it sure seems like I tried, doesn’t it? Those of you who read this far are gluttons for punishment! Did you find the secret cookie code?. Writing once a year is kind of a lame idea for the reader, but it sure was fun for the writer. . . Tell you what, if you want the cookie deal, send us the code word “three pounds” by letter, email, phone, or canoe.
The most valuable thing we have to share is our testimony. I love the Christmas season because it reminds me of the love God has for us. The miracle of Jesus’ birth is a precursor to the miracle of his atonement for our sins, and his death and resurrection. The celebration of his birth reminds me of the new life he brings. He has certainly blessed me and my family this year, and I give thanks for his blessings and his care.
We love and appreciate all of you. Please accept our sincere wishes for a happy Christmas and a successful new year.
Hi, everyone! It’s that time of year again! Set up the tree, dust off the angels and elves, hang up the stockings, gather around the fireplace, snuggle up with someone you love, and read the Boyacks’ Christmas letter! These and other time-honored and family-friendly traditions will push away the stress of modern life by reminding you that if your trials this year were too difficult to laugh at, then cheer up! You have friends to laugh at!
What’s new this year? First the dreadful news: I’m being treated with physical therapy for a mass discovered in my midsection. I first noticed it when I took up bicycling on my lunch breaks. Every time a knee came up, there was a big squishy blob getting squeezed between my leg and my chest. It made the bicycling that much more challenging, as I trailed along behind a group of guys ten years younger than me – OK, in truth, they’re not all younger, but they’re ten years “fitter” than me.
Humiliating. But . . . I am a father – I can blame “baby fat”, can’t I?
So, as you would expect, the physical therapy is the treadmill, some weights and calisthenics, and more bicycling. But I am not a willing patient. I need more than a spoonful of sugar to make this medicine go down. WHY ARE THERE SO FEW DONUTS IN MY LIFE THESE DAYS?
Ahem . . . I will have you know that as hopeless as it seems, I did lose three pounds, and I will NOT gain them back (the three I gain back will be completely different).
Meanwhile, in a fitness challenge, Chad is cleaning my clock. He played JV football this year and lost about 10% of his body weight. The competition doesn’t end until New Years Day, though, and football is over, so I still have a chance. I’ll win if he gains, oh – about 20 pounds – in the next two weeks.
It’s time for me to add a few special treats to his Christmas Stocking.
Meanwhile, I’m seeing much success in combating the other effects of middle-age. My short-term memory is improving, thanks to my Blackberry, (A.K.A Tricorder, A.K.A. Liahona). My efforts toward hair-regrowth are paying off, at least in the ears, nose, and eyebrows area. And the top of the head is going to come around soon – I can feel it! And one youthful trait that is not fading into the middle-age sunset: my gift for romance continues to bless our marriage.
Just last month I was on my way to the bathroom to trim my eyebrows , and Wendy suggested we snuggle up and watch a romantic movie together. Thanks to my quick thinking, what could have turned out to be a boring evening turned into something we’ll both remember for a lifetime. I put on some soft music, turned down the lights, and asked my dear Wendy to trim my eyebrow hair. The bonding time was beautiful, and my left eyebrow has almost completely grown back now.
At church I’m the Primary chorister (Primary is the children’s group, and I teach them songs and lead the music). This is normally a woman’s job, but I don’t mind going where no man has gone before. I absolutely love it – it’s my favorite assignment so far (and I have had many). I have made friends with 30 people from ages 2 to 12 who I didn’t know before, and I have two daughters in that group, which makes it even better.
Well, as for the little things: I’m still employed at Merix as an Oracle Business Analyst, which is, in fact, a legitimate way to make a living and not a job title I just made up; I’ve learned a little about finishing wood; I really stink at fishing but I keep going back, and I tried geocaching, Facebook, and blogging.
I write on my blog very infrequently, so it’s more of a periodical than a blog. I do try to make it humorous enough to be worth your visit - hence the infrequency. The problem is I tell all the funny things that happened to us that we didn’t find funny at the time. Some times it takes a few weeks to see the humor! I’ll appreciate any readers that come my way, so please stop by and leave a comment. http://www.trustyplummet.blogspot.com/ is the place to go.
Wendy has been up to her customary multi-tasking. No – that doesn’t quite express it. Let’s call it “omni-tasking”: she teaches the following: Seminary at the Mormon church, voice lessons at home, technical theater at the high school, musical theater at the Dance Studio and, of course, home school to four of our kids. Throw in some child care, intense workouts and daily blogging, and she almost has a full day.
She blogs on Sparkpeople.com, where she has been named a “Motivator”. Her writing is funny and spiritual, and makes you want to be better today than you were yesterday.
She has had a hobby developing over the last fifteen years which is really picking up now: she is an amateur masseuse / chiropractor / therapist, and she gets plenty of practice. She really enjoys it, and so do her “clients”, who now include a professional masseuse and a chiropractor’s wife. She also adjusts attitudes, but those customers – who all live here – aren’t quite ready to give public endorsements.
One thing that I find completely amazing is that she can prepare lessons or write at the same time she is enjoying some random TV murder mystery on streaming video (Netflix). She likes the TV shows OK, but she mostly just does it to show off to me. I can do two things at once as long as one of them is walking. If one of them is TV I pretty much shut down all brain activity . . . OK, and most bodily functions.
Wendy took the lead on many family activities, including canning, gardening, once-a-month cooking, and packing up Sayaka’s stuff and moving her out.
- We canned spaghetti sauce, three flavors of salsa, (ALL are muy caliente), four or five flavors of jam, two kinds of pie fillings, grape juice and peaches, and the amazing home-canned tuna. I know what you’re thinking, and I’ll just say “Let the salivation begin!” There was a couple of minor incidents this year involving heat and pressure: One where seven jars of spaghetti sauce exploded into thousands of marinara shards; another which singed McKay’s bangs and eyebrows. There were no injuries, but all the same, don’t try these at home – at least not more than once.
- We grew our most productive garden ever! You name it, she grew it. McKay is an excellent assistant gardener. And we planted grapes and blueberries for the coming years.
- Once-a-month cooking is just what it says. Introduced by Wendy’s friend Char, she does a month’s worth of work in one day and throws it all in the freezer. Yummy and convenient, except for one pan of lasagna that has been stuck to the bottom of the freezer since March.
- Sayaka has moved. Long, funny story told short and boring: after four years with us she left without notice. So we packed her room (80 plus boxes from a 10x10 room, which we did not know was possible) and sent it away. We now have a workout machine, a TV, sewing desk, and a massage table in there. No, I don’t know how that is possible either.
Wendy anchors the faith in our family. Her determination to constantly do works of goodness is an inspiration to me. Her knowledge of the scriptures is a godly gift she shares freely with anyone who asks.
Kimber (18) is all grown up (frownie face from me about that). She finished her home schooling, completed her GED testing and in January she’ll start full-time college classes at Chemeketa Community College. She’s teaching dance classes at the Dance Studio, which keeps her doing what she loves and earns a little cash. She is very good with kids. Her goal is to graduate in Dance from WOU. This is good because she’ll be nearby for at least four years.
She’s instructing Lillian to take over as the primary caregiver of one of the dogs and all three cats, and is the official cat wrangler when there’s a vet trip.
She got glasses on her eyes to replace the braces on her teeth, except the braces aren’t quite off yet. She’s coping with that, and having a blast in the local YSA ward (young single adult congregation of the church). Her assignment is to lead the weekly Monday night activity. Weirdly, they call it Family Home Evening, because many of these kids are living away from home anyway. She’s making new friends all the time.
One of the most amazing, artistic things you will ever see is a spray-paint shirt designed and made by Kimber. She has always had an creative streak in her, but this is in the next class up. Last year for Christmas she crocheted winter hats for everyone. This year, perhaps with a hint, I’ll get a spray-paint shirt of – oh, I don’t know – an outdoor activity theme?
She takes some classes at the high school, which lightens the load of the home-school teacher.
She has been bow hunting for four years, and this year got closer to the deer than ever. She’s learning that it’s a joy to be out in the wild enjoying nature, and a bonus if you get the kill. . . . OK . . . that’s all I should say, but let me just tell you there is a really, really funny story here that McKay will absolutely double over laughing at – in about three decades. . . . But back to the point, she’s got the stealth and know-how, and her accuracy with a bow is absolutely deadly up to 35 yards – which, coincidentally, is the reason I’m not going into any more detail at this time.
McKay is a special person who loves the Lord Jesus Christ. She is not afraid to share the Gospel, and is true friend to all whether they share this interest or not.
He had a great time playing on Central’s JV team, which has a tendency to shut out its opponents. He worked hard, had great fun, made friends, contributed to the team, and tore some ligaments in his tailbone. The tailbone injury slowed him down some. But, on the upside, it’s a great reminder of the importance of tying his shoes. Plus, he got to sit on a donut.
We also went fishing together. This is not something we do too often, because, even though he LOVES fishing, and has been trying to learn it for about twenty years, he’s lousy at it, and he never showed me how to catch a fish, and I can’t stand sitting there doing nothing. I’d rather poke sticks into my eyeballs. So when he begs and begs for me to go fishing with him I tell him no way. Take Lilly – she’ll go.
But we did go fishing. Actually we went on a week-long canoe trip down the Willamette River. This was the Scouts’ “High Adventure” trip, and it was very adventurous. I was fishing as we paddled our way downstream. Just like driving, you have to keep both eyes on the road, because one log lurking just under the surface can give you quite a surprise. On the second day I was SLAYING the fish, and since with Chad there I could have TWO lines in the water, I started setting up the line. It seems to have slipped my mind to mention to Chad that I wasn’t steering . . . or paddling . . . or watching the river.
Our life jackets were on and tight, our gear was tied down good, and our clothes were double-bagged. So when Chad yelled, and I noticed that we were floating sideways down the river and about to hit a submerged log, I was calm as could be. I did NOT blurt out my favorite potty-mouth word, but jumped gracefully into the water as the canoe tipped, and laughed through the whole thing.
Actually that was a lie, but Chad did laugh. I think he laughed at the shock on my face. But it is true that the gear was tied in well. We kept our beds, clothes, kitchen equipment, food, chairs, even a plastic grocery bag with my shoes in it. We only lost two things. . . . Sigh . . . two fishing poles.
That evening, with a rain shower soaking the camp as we sat inside our tent, we discovered that Chad’s clothes bag was perfectly dry. Mine wasn’t. That morning I had volunteered to put the second plastic bag on each of our clothes bags, and it turned out my clothes were wet inside of only one layer of plastic, and Chad’s were safe and dry inside three. What a great dad I am.
Chad is taking three classes at the high school – which is a big change from home schooling through the 8th grade. It’s especially challenging that he has to get up at 5:30 for seminary at the church, when his previous habit was to sleep from midnight to ten in the morning. He’s taking choir and welding – both of which are difficult teach at the kitchen table, as well as algebra.
Hannah (almost 12) is becoming quite the young woman. She recently got glasses, last month she cut her hair short, and with her own money bought heels and a dressy coat (to wear to church in the winter). So a person (dad) would hardly recognize her for all the changes. But she’s still daddy’s girl, and I still get to tuck her into bed sometimes, and she asks me to listen to her sing and watch her dancing.
She’s a great singer – she is not afraid to sing in front of a big audience, and the audiences enjoy it. Like her sisters, she dances a lot at the Dance Studio in town. In fact she’s an assistant teacher in a beginning class.
She did the most amazing thing this year. She took a cake baking class – for grownups. She had always loved cooking and baking, and the stars lined up so she could take this class. She made some more grown-up friends (which is not hard for her to do) and she now makes the most delicious and beautiful cakes! She hand-made Frogs, swans, butterflies and mice, along with hundreds of flowers and lacy patterns. Some of them were funny, like the “spaghetti cake” she made for Chad’s birthday – it looked like a big plate of spaghetti with meatballs and sauce on it. The meatballs were fudge! She won two blue ribbons at the county fair for a small wedding-style cake and some chocolate cookies.
Her two favorite foods are potatoes and ice cream. In fact, she has extorted ice cream from our home teacher from church. Tricky girl!
Lillian (6) is another singing Boyack girl with dance in her pants, and the youngest to perform in a high-school musical. Which, by the way, is a movie trilogy that got way too much play time at our house this year.
This year the high school performed “The Sound of Music”, and Lillian was cast as Gretyl, the youngest singing Von Trap child. This became a family event, as McKay also had a role, and Hannah sang in the nuns’ choir. Wendy was the stage manager, etc., etc., etc.; Kimber ran sound, and Chad operated the spotlight. My job was to go watch the show every night, which suits my skill set.
It was funny that Lillian was the youngest person in the cast but could make her voice heard throughout the auditorium better than most. The director held her up as the example of how to “project”. Her daddy’s favorite part of the show was “Do, Re, Mi” where she gets to sing “Do” by herself about ten times – at just the right timing, and with her head bobbing to the side. Maybe you had to be there to appreciate it, but let me just say that no head was ever bobbed to the side with more serious conviction – a little furrow in her brow and everything. And sometimes the music would overcome her and she’d add a special toe tapping or shoulder twist.
Lilly does well with her schoolwork. She’s learning to take care of the animals and do her chores, and she loves her baby dolls Patrick and Emily Elizabeth (a big doll hand made by Kimber for last Christmas).
Lilly is learning how much Heavenly Father and Jesus love her, and she is trying to do what’s right.
Other highlights this year were three visits from the Tapasa family, and once when we got to visit them on the Northern CA coast. We toodled there by way of the Wildlife Safari park, and South Umpqua falls, where Lilly found a tick buried in her shoulder. She was very brave, and though we had an unexpected delay getting a doctor’s help, we still had plenty of time left for fun with Taps, Joanna, and the kids.
Last New Years we had the Hewitts visit us from Idaho, and they learned that the phrase “when it rains, it pours,” actually originated to describe the western Oregon weather in winter. We took them to the coast, the aquarium, and the cheese factory. Next year we pack up and head east to Utah for the Boyack reunion. It is wonderful to be with family.
We have been sharing our weekly family home evening with a couple more families in our ward – once or twice a month. It has helped us maintain the habit and brought us new friendships, so thanks to the Earl, Thurston and Depuglia families.
Well, there was so much to be thankful for this year! One letter can’t possibly contain it, but it sure seems like I tried, doesn’t it? Those of you who read this far are gluttons for punishment! Did you find the secret cookie code?. Writing once a year is kind of a lame idea for the reader, but it sure was fun for the writer. . . Tell you what, if you want the cookie deal, send us the code word “three pounds” by letter, email, phone, or canoe.
The most valuable thing we have to share is our testimony. I love the Christmas season because it reminds me of the love God has for us. The miracle of Jesus’ birth is a precursor to the miracle of his atonement for our sins, and his death and resurrection. The celebration of his birth reminds me of the new life he brings. He has certainly blessed me and my family this year, and I give thanks for his blessings and his care.
We love and appreciate all of you. Please accept our sincere wishes for a happy Christmas and a successful new year.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Slushy, Spinning Memories
December 12 is my brother Lorin’s birthday. Congrats, bro! Today was a cold, icy day in Western Oregon. And coincidentally, it’s 25 years since a momentous day in my life – a snowy afternoon which found me traveling from Provo to Springville on a lonely road.
But not lonely enough.
It seems one of Springville’s many conservative drivers, contemptuously referred to as “adults”, had chosen this slushy road to plod along with an overabundance of care. He probably left work two hours early just for this exercise, and was headed home to sip hot cocoa with his family and gaze at the snowfall. Meanwhile, I was an important high-school singing star, and had places to be. I was seventeen, and like most seventeen-year olds, 7/8 of my brain was still in a cryogenic sleep exactly as I had placed it age 13, and it was at least 2 years until the thaw would start.
I was driving my mom’s brown Datsun B-210, and as I came up behind a small pickup truck, I slowed the car down to a tortuous 40 mph. “Unbelievable. How could anyone drive this slow? The road isn’t even snow-covered! It’s just a little slush, and I can clearly see strips of pavement exactly where my tires have to go, so it’s perfectly safe. Speed UP!”
He wasn’t listening.
My next response can be explained by the primitive instinct all teenagers have to selectively deny the existence of certain laws of physics. This has been the case since Cain and Abel, who, before their unfortunate disagreement, used to dare each other to jump their cows off of ramps built of rocks.
I pushed the pedal down and pulled out in the center. Just as I moved up alongside the rear of the pickup truck, the car became freakishly free of all influences from the road. The steering wheel moved in my hands as if the wheels were floating on air, and suddenly I was just a passenger en route to some lofty destination chosen by the car. “I’M FLYING!” I shouted. Then the car knocked out a road sign, turned sideways and slid off the left side of the road and down an embankment.
I was a little surprised when the horizon began to rotate before my eyes, and the ground reached up and pounded the top of the car, crushing the windshield. At this point my latent spirituality blossomed, and I started to see the future. I had a vision of myself groveling before my father, and of him sentencing me to clean the basement for the rest of my natural life.
I decided at that moment, as I fell onto the ceiling of the car and closely examined the sage brush and snow through the cracked windshield, that the force of gravity was unfairly arbitrary. I also decided that my dad would not settle for a clean basement, and that I should immediately hitchhike to some faraway forgotten place.
The car finished its roll and landed on its wheels. I walked up the slope to begin my trip. . . . How about Nebraska? But I was interrupted by a sudden stream of visitors who wanted to meet the kid that rolled the car.
Soon I was being examined by EMT’s, who asked all kinds of personal questions. I really wasn’t hurt at all, but at their insistence, I was eventually able to identify a pain on my back. The consequence of saying “my back” when you’re in a wrecked car is that you get strapped to a board and taken to the hospital.
Going to the hospital by ambulance may seem a little overkill, when you consider the pain I was feeling was a tiny mole on my back that got torn when I was bouncing around in the car, but it was actually desperately needed. You see, this was the finger of providence that changed the path of my entire future life.
The 911 dispatch operator arranged for my parents to come stand by the road and watch as I was carried on a stretcher up the hill to the ambulance. As I passed by my parents, I felt something very special. I saw tears in their eyes, and tears came to mine. A great peace settled over me as I realized that seeing me like this had removed their will to have me hanged by the neck until dead for wrecking their car.
I knew at that moment I was off the hook.
In fact, my parents were very accommodating. They met me at the hospital, my mom took me home from school the next day when I realized I felt like I had been in a car accident, and my dad found me a six hundred dollar car that I could crash any time I wanted to.
But not lonely enough.
It seems one of Springville’s many conservative drivers, contemptuously referred to as “adults”, had chosen this slushy road to plod along with an overabundance of care. He probably left work two hours early just for this exercise, and was headed home to sip hot cocoa with his family and gaze at the snowfall. Meanwhile, I was an important high-school singing star, and had places to be. I was seventeen, and like most seventeen-year olds, 7/8 of my brain was still in a cryogenic sleep exactly as I had placed it age 13, and it was at least 2 years until the thaw would start.
I was driving my mom’s brown Datsun B-210, and as I came up behind a small pickup truck, I slowed the car down to a tortuous 40 mph. “Unbelievable. How could anyone drive this slow? The road isn’t even snow-covered! It’s just a little slush, and I can clearly see strips of pavement exactly where my tires have to go, so it’s perfectly safe. Speed UP!”
He wasn’t listening.
My next response can be explained by the primitive instinct all teenagers have to selectively deny the existence of certain laws of physics. This has been the case since Cain and Abel, who, before their unfortunate disagreement, used to dare each other to jump their cows off of ramps built of rocks.
I pushed the pedal down and pulled out in the center. Just as I moved up alongside the rear of the pickup truck, the car became freakishly free of all influences from the road. The steering wheel moved in my hands as if the wheels were floating on air, and suddenly I was just a passenger en route to some lofty destination chosen by the car. “I’M FLYING!” I shouted. Then the car knocked out a road sign, turned sideways and slid off the left side of the road and down an embankment.
I was a little surprised when the horizon began to rotate before my eyes, and the ground reached up and pounded the top of the car, crushing the windshield. At this point my latent spirituality blossomed, and I started to see the future. I had a vision of myself groveling before my father, and of him sentencing me to clean the basement for the rest of my natural life.
I decided at that moment, as I fell onto the ceiling of the car and closely examined the sage brush and snow through the cracked windshield, that the force of gravity was unfairly arbitrary. I also decided that my dad would not settle for a clean basement, and that I should immediately hitchhike to some faraway forgotten place.
The car finished its roll and landed on its wheels. I walked up the slope to begin my trip. . . . How about Nebraska? But I was interrupted by a sudden stream of visitors who wanted to meet the kid that rolled the car.
Soon I was being examined by EMT’s, who asked all kinds of personal questions. I really wasn’t hurt at all, but at their insistence, I was eventually able to identify a pain on my back. The consequence of saying “my back” when you’re in a wrecked car is that you get strapped to a board and taken to the hospital.
Going to the hospital by ambulance may seem a little overkill, when you consider the pain I was feeling was a tiny mole on my back that got torn when I was bouncing around in the car, but it was actually desperately needed. You see, this was the finger of providence that changed the path of my entire future life.
The 911 dispatch operator arranged for my parents to come stand by the road and watch as I was carried on a stretcher up the hill to the ambulance. As I passed by my parents, I felt something very special. I saw tears in their eyes, and tears came to mine. A great peace settled over me as I realized that seeing me like this had removed their will to have me hanged by the neck until dead for wrecking their car.
I knew at that moment I was off the hook.
In fact, my parents were very accommodating. They met me at the hospital, my mom took me home from school the next day when I realized I felt like I had been in a car accident, and my dad found me a six hundred dollar car that I could crash any time I wanted to.
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