tractor boy

Growing up in the city, spending more time inside with sketchbooks than outside with shovels–who would have thunk it? I am a tractor boy. I love manuevering the riding mower, much like the Autopia car ride at amusement parks, over the rural acreage. I love being outdoors smelling the fresh cut grass. And perched on top of a noisy machine, with gears and grease, I love embracing the sometimes overshadowed part of my still rugged soul.

back to school

I was a little amazed when I was asked to help with my 20 year high school reunion. Although I spent years with these folks–the cheerleaders, the jocks, the scholars, the stoners–I always felt like an outsider. In my own personal version of "The Breakfast Club," I suppose I would have been the geeky "Brian" character...perhaps a little more arty than brainy, but I definitely would have been the one stuck with writing the report while the rest of the group hooked up. Back then, I think I could have called all 370+ of my classmates by name, but could not with confidence have counted even a handful as close friends.

As a result of the house fire a few years ago, I literally have no physical evidence of those formative years...no dance pictures, yearbooks, report cards or awards. And over the years, many of the memories have also dissipated like smoke. But, being a loyal Highland Ram, I got over my social anxiety and agreed to assist with the reunion. I emailed and telephoned my fair share of names on the missing classmates list. I gathered items, printed and planned. I drove 3 hours roundtrip to weekly meetings at our class president's house. And the more we met, the more I seriously contemplated the possibility that I must have been home-schooled. Other than walking the same locker lined hallways, I didn't have the same memories of High School that all of those moms and dads in the room did.

At 7:00 sharp, on the Alumni night of the reunion, all of the popular kids walked in, pressed and poised–even smelling expensive. Stinky and sweaty, dirty and dreary from schlepping tables, chairs, food and memorabilia out into the courtyard, for hours in the August afternoon sun...Lisa (my one social confidant) and I faded into the back. Distant hugs reminded us we were a little out of place, back then, and now again, 20 years later.

But, more than dwelling on the feelings of my introverted misfit past, I found that I was sincerely interested in these familiar strangers. Many had been dealt some difficult hands in life. All were interesting, and I was sincerely happy to see each and every one. I got "out of my 16-year-old head" and as a result, was able to see who these people were for me. Collectively, we provided the background, the context, for all of us stepping out into the world. We prepared each other with skills to deal with life's adventures. And amazingly, produced some incredibly accomplished and resilient souls. So, to that I say, more than thanks for the memories–thanks for the experience. High School really was the training ground for life.

good times never expire

The most expected and dreaded part of a high school reunion, by tradition, has to be addressed–the awards for who "traveled the farthest," has the "most children," is the "most" or "least changed"...you know the list. After hearing horror stories of reunion-going classmates being re-traumatized in front of their eternal peers, and how awkward the moment of judgement can be, we carefully considered how to approach this part of the evening when planning our 20th year get-together.

For us, the solution was a presentation of a series of beautiful gift certificates to our favorite high school haunts. The joke was that all of the featured places have closed since our glory days. So, the premise of the presentation was something like, "How embarrassing. We had some great prizes to award tonight, but just realized that all of these certificates expired in 1988! But just so you know what you could have won for having the Most Tattoos, you would have received..." It kept that part of the evening nostalgic and light-hearted, without forcing people in or out of the spotlight. I think it worked well. There were passes to Xenon dance club, and gift certificates to places like Snelgrove's ice cream parlor, Castleton's department store, Granite Furniture in Sugarhouse, the food court at Crossroads Plaza, and Bill and Nada's Cafe.

When the event was over, one classmate asked if she could take home the gift certificate to the 7-Eleven on 21st and 21st. She said that whenever she drives by that location with her kids in the car and points out that building as being her favorite high school hang out, her kids reply, "Mom, you are so lame. You hung out at the dry cleaners?"

Life moves on, but good times never expire.

class of 1988

Twenty. Years. Ouch.

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.