mystery link

Have you ever "googled" your own name? When I tried it the other day, I didn't know quite what to expect. Just how many of me are there in the world anyway?

The results came up with links to news stories about the chabin fire; quotes I had said regarding the "First Harvest" event at This is the Place Heritage Park; my "why I'm a Jed" profile on jed.com; my appointment to the Ogden Landmarks Commission; a poem I had written to a girl I didn't know; results of a track race I had won in a junior high school back east (when I followed that link I was disappointed to learn that it really wasn't me); my entry in the county fair as an 11-year old 4-H participant who "built a catapult powerful enough to loft a bowling ball a few yards and accurate enough to hit the head of his sister’s suitor with a tennis ball from 60-feet" (again not me...how disheartening to learn in one day that not only am I not athletic, but I am not scientific either. Quite a shocker–good thing I was sitting down); in addition to being a native Utahn, that I also currently reside in Alabama, Pennsylvania and New York; and a random blogspot.

Curious, I also followed the link to the unknown blog (a potentially dangerous practice) and found that I was in someone's personal list of blogs that I didn't recognize. I didn't know quite what to think. When you discover that you are being watched from afar, should you feel flattered or self conscious? I guess it's payback from being a blogstalker myself sometimes.

you can't spell pigeon without PIG

Pigeons, pigeons, everywhere–
on the rooftop, on the stair.
Cooing, cooing, everywhere–
from the tower–Quasi's lair.
Flapping, flapping everywhere–
in attic, eaves and window glare.
Droppings, droppings, everywhere–
on sidewalks, car, and in my hair.
Fly, please fly away, anywhere–
Into a propeller; I don't care.

Any (legal/lethal) suggestions for how to get rid of a pesky pigeon colony?

the fireworks stairs

I think everyone, to some degree, has "skeletons in their closet"–deep secrets they try to keep hidden away from the scrutiny of others. If you were to pry open the door containing my personal stash of bony shame, one thing to come tumbling out of the over-stuffed space would be the quirkiness of my family home. I am confident there are things about that place even "Ripley" wouldn't "believe."

For decades, the ever-evolving structure kept us equally sheltered and entertained, but any attempt to explain the inexplicable got crammed in a confined space, never to see the light of day. However, since it is no longer a tangible terror, perhaps it is now safe to let one well-guarded secret escape the confines of the dark: the story of the "fireworks stairs."

Over the years 2264 South 2000 East was known by many different names, including: "the compound" or "Fort Platt" because of the wall surrounding it, "the James Bond house" because of its many concealed passageways, and Utah's "Winchester Mystery House" because of the random staircases. People (new naive move-ins to the neighborhood, guys parked in the driveway waiting to pick up one of my sisters for a date, pilots taking aerial photos of the east bench) would often inquire about the unusual turret on top of the house. Usually I would give a truthful, albeit brief answer about the gray-washed structure made of scrap lumber, windows and doors– "aaaa...stairs"–but would always try to change the subject.

During the winter months the stairs provided easy access for shoveling the snow off of the roof–a task my dad seemed obsessed with, and a chore I hated. On the last long nights of summer vacation, when the light lingers, the stairs took me up and away from the street heat below to a peculiarly private place to study. With a clear view of the "H" rock, my high school's mark on the mountain, I would sit on the expansive roof and read books like Voltaire's "Candide," and other assigned reading for the upcoming school year. But mostly, the stairs were made for the month of July.

After gorging myself on holiday watermelon, I would make the singular climb up the awkward stairs with armfuls of pillows to see the light shows choreographed for "normal" families, who sat in the park on yarn-tied picnic quilts. While the prelude of patriotic anthems wafted its way up the hill, over the tree tops, sometimes I would wish to be down there somewhere–somewhere in the mass of Americana chasing someone with a squirtgun, lighting sparklers like a chain-smoker, or shouting "UNO!" in a circle of friends each holding cards and popsicles. I am sure that the phrase "it's lonely at the top" was never conceived for this context, but year after year, sitting alone on the roof, the feeling seemed to fit.

As a consolation for the price of peculiarness, however, I had access to as many sky spectaculars as I could take in. It was a surround-sound, and sight, experience. The booms would echo off of the Wasatch mountain walls, answering back the explosive flashes from Sugarhouse Park, the Salt Lake Country Club, Fort Douglas, Derks Field, and areas of the valley I had never visited. Each show was an encore from the previous production, satisfying the hope for "just one more."

Driving through the old neighborhood last week, I passed by the house. It was sold earlier this year to a very nice (and ambitious) family, and is currently undergoing an extreme makeover. The porches have been removed as well as most of the second story. As a result the "fireworks stairs" can never be scaled again. In the afterglow of Independence Day, when fond recollections of reclining on a manicured lawn next to friends, family and thousands of patriotic park strangers, should arise, I am left with an alternative vivid memory: sitting on tar paper and roofing nails, watching the holiday light show, and descending the narrow passageway (watch your head) of the "fireworks stairs."

And with that melancholy mental picture, a skeleton is set free.

I heart Liberty Days

You know you live in a small town when they announce the winner of the Fourth of July greased pig chase over the pulpit in Sacrament Meeting. Until a few years ago, I never really cared for the Fourth of July holiday. It was always hot, crowded, sticky, loud and somewhat lonely. I couldn't understand how a day that ended in fireworks could still feel so anticlimactic. And then I moved to a little town called Liberty, and now just can't seem to get enough of the day.

This year Liberty Days began at 7 a.m. with The Star-Spangled Banner, all verses, being sung by a young, clear voice projected to the far corners of the community park and rodeo grounds over the newly installed sound system. The object of the stirring ballad, the American flag, was then raised by the local scout troop to watch over the day. Kids of all ages, most with bedhead and ruddy cheeks just waiting to be fake tattooed with patriotic combinations of red white and blue, waited in the early morning line for a robust chuck wagon breakfast. Volunteers flipped flap-jacks, slung hashbrowns, sliced melons, and sold tickets for events such as the quilt raffle, cow plop and stick horse derby.

The block long parade showcased equal numbers of tractors and tricycles, while the greased pole lured holiday monkeys up a 25 foot slippery vertical climb, with it's promise of a hundred dollar bill tethered to the top. We cheered on the sack racers, hula hoopers, arm wrestlers, mutton busters, and hot dog, watermelon and pie eaters; and when it got hot, we cooled off with snow-cones courtesy of the Young Men from church, and got "flushed" courtesy of a toilet bowl perched on top of an unusual dunking booth.

The fireworks were stellar as usual, even if (as a result of losing the chabin) we were, as my sister Alison expressed, "just grass sitters," like everyone else. The day ended with taking down the flags surrounding my empty corner, which served as a parking lot for holiday revelers, and packing our own patriots up to "Uncle Jed's old house with the pool"–the condo at Wolf Creek, where we played more games until late into the night, as if we did not want the day to end.

I heart Liberty Days.

cousins

The creatures pictured to the left are my nieces and nephews. As it is in the animal kingdom, each has distinct behaviors and personalities. They are fun kids who generally keep each other entertained, and make the rest of us laugh. I think extended family relationships are important, and help to shape our experience in the world. I hope the memories they are making as cousins are as fond as the ones I made as a youth.

Recently my sisters and I were reminiscing about the fun, crazy, traumatic and always memorable experiences spent with our own cousins growing up. We traveled in masse, usually stuffed in layers into the Nelson's red 70's VW bus (seatbelts...what were seatbelts?), and spent so much time together, it was as though we were a polygamist family.

There were trips to Lagoon with homemade picnic lunches, returning home late at night "all-day" stamped and sunburned; camp-outs in the trailer on the Coltman farm in Idaho, which always smelled of burnt popcorn and asparagus; standing in line for "Star Wars" again, and again and again; road-trips to California beaches via the Nevada ranch, where we stopped for Aunt Nelda's oatmeal and horseback rides; swimming lessons, tennis lessons, fishing trips and sleep-overs on the round trampoline; and outings to the zoo, all stinky and sticky. We played every card game, board game, and version of tag imaginable–and made up many so games of our own. We established club houses, published our own newsletter and played the name game for hours. Hawaii was a thrill, even if only seen from under the dashboard; and the field trip to the slaughterhouse made us all vegetarians for awhile–(Did Uncle Varr forget that we were city kids? Or...kids?)

Thank you Nelson family for a memorable childhood. Although my pictures of those days were lost in the fire, the memories are still intact. God bless cousins.