Category Archives: Tales for Tuesdays

The spring of fifth grade we decided to ride our bikes to Oklahoma. I don’t remember how this decision came about, but it was as real, and we were as determined, as could be!

Andi had a map of the United States on her wall – one of those Disneyland-esque maps with cartoons of each states’ main attractions. A key of the distances was located in the corner. Using some blue yarn we measured the approximate distance – ahem, as the crow flies, from Salt Lake to Oklahoma city.

We were excellent bike riders, this we already knew. We could ride any hill in the neighborhood without the need to stand to pedal ourselves up. We could both ride no-handed, even down the same mentioned hills. Each morning we rode our bikes to school, leaving an hour early just so we could explore.

So a bike ride to Oklahoma didn’t actually seem that unreasonable. We determined we’d have to convince my mom first – and then she could convince Andi’s mom. I remember going in to her room. She was reading. I told her of our plans – our determination – to ride a third of the way across the county, if we only had permission. She looked up, thoroughly unrattled, and said it was fine with her.

And so we began practicing. We planned to sell home-made rag dolls and salt dough Christmas ornaments to raise funds for the adventure. We would pack water and snacks in our retro-fitted saddle bags. We would ride each day, stopping for meals. We’d have someone drive alongside of course. By our calculations it would take about three weeks to make the journey.

As summer approached we determined we’d better start having practice rides. And so one day we decided to go for it – to ride as far and as long as possible – just to see how it would be.

Up the hill of Cottonwood Lane – up and around to the elementary school. That part was easy. We did that every day. Then on, on, on down Holladay Boulevard. It was a hot day. We didn’t have water with us, and we were long past the familiar homes with the familiar families we could stop and ask for water from. No matter. We pushed on in the heat.

Eventually Holladay Boulevard empties out onto 6400 South, the location of the old, dilapidated (even then) Cotton Bottom – bar. We knocked on the door. I remember the surprise on the waitresses face when we asked “for a drink.”

She gave us a firm “no.” Even as we pleaded for water in the heat, she told us we couldn’t even come inside to the air conditioning. But she did tell us if we followed 6400 South down we would eventually come to a “Wendy’s” – and they surely would give us some water.

So, we continued on our way, parched and sweating, down around to Wendy’s. We parked our bikes outside, too tired to concern ourselves with bike locks. Inside the air conditioning helped, but was far from completely relieving us. I remember standing in line, worried that they would want a quarter for a cup of water. I didn’t have any money on me, and I was so thirsty!

But they gave us each a drink. We sat in that Wendy’s for a good long while as we recovered from the shock of heat and distance.

Eventually we climbed back onto our bikes and rode home – down Highland Drive, and back up into the neighborhood the back way. The entire ride may have been only five miles.

After that a bike ride to Oklahoma was never talked about again.

And now, on busy days when we’re out and about, I often run down to the very same Wendy’s for chicken nuggets and Frosty’s for my posse. They don’t know the history of the place.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

You can read all “Tales for Tuesdays” here.

This special edition of “Tales for Tuesday” is printed on Sunday, especially for Uncle Terry.

Where do you even start when you’re talking about Uncle Terry? In my family he was known as “Terry 1″ because we had a plethora of Uncles by that name, but he was always first.

Uncle Terry could never talk without smiling. I think his smile muscles are extra short, for his mouth was always drawn up in a grin, and I never could decide if he was teasing me for being so serious all the time or adoring me because, well, he seemed to adore everyone.

Especially his kids. I never knew a dad in my entire scope of friends and family who spent more time with his kids – usually on the mountain tops. I remember the mixture of envy and terror I felt as he told me of the 25 mile hikes he would drag his kids on for a Saturday. Week long camp trips deep into the back country was how he vacationed. And no kid was too small or to weak for his excursions. Even my cousin, Zach, his son, who was born without abdominal muscles, was taken along, and had to keep up. Now on Facebook I see pictures of cousin Jeremy and his kids  – little toddlers out in the wilderness, and I laugh inwardly and feel the same mixture of delight and horror as he is doing the same thing.

It was the day after Christmas in 1996 – and my parents waved goodbye to Danny (18), me (17), Larry (15) and the little people in our family as we drove over five hundred miles in the old blue suburban to see Aunt Jill and Uncle Terry, who had invited us for a visit.

And it became a little nerve wracking as we drove over the Sierra Nevada mountains in a snow storm, and the Burb kept overheating. Danny would drive for a while ’til the thermostat was too much to ignore. Then we’d pull over, open the hood, and do the only thing we could think of to cool the car down – throw the accumulating snow from the side of the road onto the steaming engine.

Finally we couldn’t go any further, so, while Danny and the kids waited, I thumbed a ride into the next town to call Uncle Terry to come get us.

And when he came he had his typical grin, which made the stressful situation turn instantly into a silly and great adventure to tell my kids – someday.

This week we had the tragic news of Uncle Terry’s diagnosis of a terminal cancer. His time is limited, but his life seemed to be lived so fully, how can there be tragedy in that? The greatest sadness will only be for those of us who still need his grin to remind us not to take everything so serious, and to keep looking for the adventure in it all.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

When I was nineteen I spent a semester living in Moscow.

And one time we went on a grand trip through northern Russia, across the border to Helsinki, Finland where this story begins, and then across the Baltic to Stockholm, Sweden, where this story ends.

Now, we start in Helsinki, where we arrived at five am after an overnight bus ride from St. Petersburg. Six of us girls stayed with an LDS family who lived outside the city. We spent the day in Helsinki, shopping, seeing the sights, etc. But when it came time to return to Ruska’s house (Ruska was the teenage girl of the host family), someone had the bright idea that we should all dye our hair matching shades of wild red. Michelle opted out, but the rest of us bought our own two-week-wash-out in the shade of our choice.

Now really, if your house was invaded by six foreign teenage girls, would you want them all in your bathroom, dying their hair? I cringe at the memory of this, but still, we did it, and had a grand time in doing so.

In the process of dying our hair red. Silly girls!

And our coifs were wild and furious crimson by morning.

Well, the day or two after that we caught the overnight ferry over to Stockholm, where we planned to stay at the LDS Temple Hotel, the accommodations made for the members of the church who travel from around Europe to do their temple work. It was the nicest hostel at the best price available to us – but if we were going to take advantage of such an economic boon, we’d better do some temple work while we were at it.

And so we each brought our recommends to do baptisms for the dead, and spent the first morning in the Stockholm temple doing the work.

We visited with the workers of the temple, each were missionaries, most from the United States, called to serve and work here at the temple in the Sweden. I am relieved that they were American, for you can excuse the thoughtlessness of your own culture a little easier at times, and I hope they forgave us! Two or three girls had been in the font when someone mentioned that the water was looking a little pink. Then the girls took a closer look at their jump suits, and noticed a reddish tinge. And then the towels were noticed, bright bright red with the rinse of our hair dye!

We all panicked at our thoughtless faux pas. But I remember the lovely temple matron chuckling and telling us not to worry, for hurray! We had given the women something to do that afternoon when the temple was empty, they would wash all the linens and empty and refill the font.

Oh, good grief, we were hair brained – literally.

And months later when I came home to the US of A, my sisters greeted me at the airport with bright red hair of their own, and even my dad had dyed his greys “just a little” to make good fun of me.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

You can read all “Tales for Tuesdays” here.

tonight i am typing on my laptop – something i try to avoid ever since calvin got a hold of it last spring and busted some keys – including the all important ‘shift’ – there will be no capitalization tonight. i may go back later to try and fix it. then again, i may not.

ten years ago today wyatt and i were celebrating our first valentines together by getting on an airplane and flying off to china. salt lake city was the toast of the world, hosting the 2002 winter olympics, and we were leaving the glowing hulabaloo for an unknown adventure in the heart of asia.

that morning i handed wyatt a brown paper bag – my first valentine to him – a few of his favorite candy bars for the flight, and a baseball, signed by yours truly.

and we spent the rest of the day in the air – watching the map on the in flight navigator as we climbed northward along the pacific coast, over alaska, across the bering sea and down the asian side of the pacific. it was very boring.

which sidetracks me to a list:

seas traversed in one way or another:

the bering sea
the baltic sea
the red sea
the dead sea
the mediterenean sea
the sea of galilea
the adriadic sea
the caribbean sea

interesting.

well, there should be more to this story than there is. but really, all of our very first valentines day was spent on airplanes to beijing. how romantic is that?

oh, don’t you worry, there will be a post tomorrow about our tenth valentines. it’s much more interesting.

So I was going to write a “Tales for Tuesday” for her, and publish it on Wednesday. But Wednesday I forgot, I was participating in an online protest.

So today she shall have her story.

When Andi and I were eleven or twelve years old we would on occasion walk ourselves a mile down the road to the old Cottonwood Mall, where we would have lunch at TGI Fridays – chicken fingers, french fries and raspberry apple sauce. It felt very independent and very mature to be going to lunch by ourselves.

And the walk wasn’t so bad. There was water culvert to splash in on the hot days. There was a horse pasture where we could stop and pet an admiring Equine or two. And there was the Holiday cemetery – we never went in, but could entertain each other with stories as we walked trepidly past.

And on one such occasion we were about half way there – just past the pasture, coming up on the cemetery – when we passed by a giant raspberry bush, full and laden with the biggest, the reddest, the ripest raspberries you ever did see. They were just begging to be eaten – the hot sun reflecting on each perfect bubble of red deliciousness.

And so we helped ourselves. That bush was so full. I had never seen so many giant berries before or since, and have often wondered what particular species they were, they were so big.

We ate some. And then we ate some more. We sat down on the hot asphalt to make ourselves comfortable as we ate even more. And then, when we were sure we couldn’t eat any more raspberries, we decided to use our t-shirts as baskets, filling them with the remaining berries, picking that bush clean dry. We ate the rest as we walked home, abandoning our desires for any other lunch.

We ruined our shirts that day with big red splashy stains, convicting us of our guilt.

But of course no one knew a crime had been committed.

It wasn’t until years later — years and years – like just last year, that it occurred to me that those bushes probably actually belonged to someone.

So there they were, off on their way to work, or errands or where ever the wind was taking them that day, and they knew their bush was full and ready for them to come home and pick – ready to reap their harvest.

But when they returned not a berry was in sight!

And raspberries have been my favorite fruit ever since.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

You can read all “Tales for Tuesdays” here.

Our group with friends from Estonia, on the shores of the Baltic Sea.

When I was nineteen I spent a semester living in Moscow, teaching English as a second language to ten year olds.

But that’s another story.

While there we went on a trip where we visited Helsinki, Stockholm, and Tallinn, Estonia.

And it’s at the port in Tallinn where this story begins.

We had left Moscow a week earlier, sharing the news with a Russian LDS kid of our plans . . . well, that Russian kid knew a Finnish girl from Youth Conference, and her mother knew an Estonian woman via the internet, and that Estonian woman knew some “Mormons” – and those Mormons were sure to let us stay with them.

Get it?

Russian Boy –> Finnish Girl –> Finnish Mother –> Internet –> Estonian Woman –> Mormon Family

Only trouble was, this was all hearsay when we loaded the ship to cross the Baltic sea from Stockholm to Tallinn. When we arrived at the port we weren’t really sure what was to happen, never having actually made contact with these supposed Mormons.

But when we arrived there was a teenage girl, about fifteen, and her dad standing behind her, holding a sign that read “LDS Friends.”

We figured it was for us.

Kristi, the teenage girl, had taken the day off school, and her father the day off work, because they didn’t know what time their “LDS friends” would arrive in port. All they knew was that we would come on Friday. They had been standing there all morning with their sign, watching as each ship came to port, waiting for us, their “LDS Friends” to arrive. Kristi was the only one in the family to speak English, and her father was the only one who could drive, so they were both imperative to getting us where we needed to be.

Now, to appreciate this story you have to understand a little bit about the recent history of Estonia. It was a part of the former Soviet Union, and only gained complete independence in 1994, just five years prior to this trip. As part of the post-soviet landscape, the economy was particularly hard hit, and most Estonians struggled to provide basic necessities for their families. The Mormon father who met us at the dock provided for his family by using his van in running a taxi service.

But he took the entire weekend off work that particular weekend to cart the ten of us Americans (okay, one British, and one Canuk was with us), around Tallinn for our touristy pleasure.

He also called the entire branch and arranged for housing accommodations for all of us.

But I was lucky, Lyndsi & I got to stay with this gentleman, his daughter (Kristi) and his entire family of nine children. Apparently generosity didn’t end at the American tourists. He and his wife had adopted two children from the local orphanages because they had severe health conditions (one needed a heart transplant!) and would otherwise die in the impoverished state run institutions.

That night he, and the entire branch, took us all out to see “Bolshoy Pappa” — in America it’s called “Big Daddy.” To this day it’s the only Adam Sandler movie that I like, and it’s only because of my memories of this weekend.

Anyway, he wouldn’t let us pay for our own tickets. Believe me, we tried. When was the last time you paid for ten extra people at the movie theater?

The next day we needed to run some errands to the embassy and Russian embassy for visas and what not. Then he carted us around to all the beautiful and amazing sights the city had to offer. Tallinn really is the best kept secret in Europe in my opinion. It was such a beautiful city.

Well, it turned out we chose the VERY BEST WEEKEND to visit Estonia, because that Sunday they were dedicating the very first chapel in all of the Baltic States! So that Saturday night there was an open house at the chapel and a dance. It was so much fun to spend an evening with the Saints and missionaries from all over Tallinn as they celebrated their new building.

That night Kristi and her dad drove everyone home (oh yeah, Kristi’s dad also gave everyone rides to church each week – picking up branch members from all over the city because he was one of the few who owned his own vehicle).

And then he took us home, but on our way he stopped at a gas station by the sea, and got us each hot dogs. Gas station hot dogs are the best, even in Estonia. So we sat by the sea, and watched the stars and ate hot dogs, and it might have been the best night ever.

The next day was the dedication of the chapel. As the intermittent hymn we sang “The Spirit of God” and man, oh man the spirit was strong when three languages (Finnish, English and Estonian) each sang the hymn and then all came together for the “Hosanna.”

That afternoon we had to board our train back to Moscow. We set our bags out and gave hugs to our unbelievable hosts. Our Estonian mother gave Lyndsi and I a bag of food to share with the others on the train. In the bag was enough food to last the ten of us a week! As she gave us our final hugs she handed each of us a little glass jar. In it was her own home-grown honey from her own bees she kept behind her house. With tears in her eyes she told us that she hoped to someday be able to go to the temple, though she couldn’t imagine how. I couldn’t either, but I hoped.

A year later or so President Hinkley announced that a temple would be built in Helsinki, and my heart flew with happiness. Helsinki was just a short boat trip across the sea and surely my Estonian mother would be able to go to the temple as she wished.

These days life is very busy. Life is very full. Wyatt and I each comment at times that though we’ve had our own adventures in our youth, they dim in our memories in comparison the the adventures of today. But when ever I pull out a new bottle of honey, I always think of my Estonian family, of the sacrifices they made for me, a complete stranger. I think about how I will never be able to repay them. I think about how my testimony grew on the other side of the world where the gospel was new and young and tender. I think about the stars, shining over the Baltic, reflecting in the sea, and eating hot dogs with a family who would forever be in my heart.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

You can read all “Tales for Tuesdays” here.

Today I will feature two Tales for Tuesday – because they’re both short.

One:

The Time I was Smooshed By a Large Lady while Crash Landing in a Hot Air Balloon

When I was in third, maybe fourth grade, I went on a trip to Palm Springs, California, where we took a hot air balloon ride. I’m not exactly sure what happened (adult stuff I wasn’t privy too), but for some reason the pilot of the vessel decided to take us on a real ride, rather than just tethering us to the ground.

So, off we went across the California dessert . . . until we ran out of fuel. And then there was trouble. We started loosing altitude. We were so far out, and this was the days before cell phones or what not. There must have been a radio or walkie talkie or something, but all I know is we were far enough out into the desert that we weren’t going to make it back to the hotel. So instead, we braced for a crash landing.

And we crashed.

And the large lady fell on top of me and smooshed me, which was the scariest part of it all.

Then we had to wander around in the desert until we found a trailer house and borrowed their phone and then waited for an hour for someone to come pick us up. Good times.

Two:

In which I was Featured in A Norwegian Newspaper During the 1994 Winter Olympics.

When I was in 8th grade we went to Norway to watch the Winter Olympics, which were being held in Oslo. Oslo is a beautiful city, and the events were so exciting. But the greatest fun was the activities after the events. One such activity was when we went dog sledding across the Norwegian country side.

Each person rode with the driver, meaning you went by yourself on a little loop through the woods and open fields before returned back to the group where the next person got their turn.

As we came around the bend back to the group all I saw was  bunch a people with cameras around their necks. So I blurted out (without thinking, which, unfortunately is just like me):

“Feel free to take my picture now!”

And it turns out one of the photographers worked for an Oslo newspaper, and my picture appeared the next day.

Oh, didn’t you know I’m an international super star?

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

The house in which I grew up, which was (and is) referred to as simply, “The Yellow House,” had a very steep roof. This was a simple fact of my childhood, confirmed into impressive reality when my brother-in-law, Lance, who roofed houses as a profession for a time, gave his considered opinion that the house was an 8-10 or maybe even a 9-10 pitch.

And a very steep roof is good for many things.

One of which was told to me in hilarious fashion by my brother Larry this past weekend as we were visiting him. We were recalling the miracle that we escaped our own childhoods with our lives, and even congratulating ourselves on our, for the most part, minor injuries when we recalled that a neighbor friend had very badly broken his wrist at our house.

Larry told the story:

They were playing on the pool house roof (which, it must be said, was not as steep as the rest of the roof), as the roof was being finished. There was tar paper on the bottom two feet of the structure, but above that only plywood covered by a giant tarp. As the workers were gone for the day, there seemed nothing more fun than to utilize the giant slip and slide that seemed to be made just for us.

And so Larry, so clever, grabbed the garden hose and hauled it up to the roofline, in tow with a giant bottle of dish soap. A perfect slippery mess was made, and each child enjoyed their ride down the slope, stopping themselves before the two foot edge and drop to the back yard below.

But then Josh, a childhood friend of Larry’s went very last, after the tarp was all slicked up real good. He was unable to stop himself, and fell the full ten feet to the yard below.

Surgery was required.

And of course, the story that lives in infamy in the Brock children annals happened in the snow storm of 1994. A great amount of snow accumulated – so much that school was closed for two days straight.

And when the plow came through our drive, shoving great piles several of snow several feet high up onto the flower beds, what was there to do, but to go sledding?

And so, out the upstairs bathroom we climbed, sledding tobogans tied to our wrists, as we built make shift stairs in the snow on the roof – up to the ridgeline we climbed. We walked the ridgeline to where we found a suitable launch site. The day was spent – down the roof, down the snow piles, down the driveway, down the hill to the middle front yard. Then back through the downstairs entry way, up the stairs to the bathroom, out the window, and back up the roof line.

That was great fun.

I wonder now at the water we must have tracked through the house in the form of melting snow, or the day spent with the window wide open during a snow storm.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

EE & I in the freakin' ugly blanket on the Reservation.

Today is Emily Elmer’s Birthday (who is no longer Emily Elmer, but Emily Bowers instead).

And so I thought it would be good to write a story about living on the Indian Reservation.

While we lived on the Res. it behooved us to make friends with some of the local kids. Great kids that the world was trying hard to forget, they were amazing at inventing their own fun.

And so one night one of the boys we befriended decided a soccer game in the desert would be appropriate.

A tennis ball and an old sheet was all he needed. He stripped the sheet and wrapped and wrapped and wrapped that thing until a ball roughly the size of a soccer ball was made.

Then with four old tires and a five gallon can of gasoline, we headed out in the pick up truck to the darkest part of the desert.

We poured gasoline into the inside rims of the tires, set up on opposite sides of a makeshift field. Then the ball was soaked. Last item needed – a match. And the desert lit up like Disneyland . . .

The ball was a little heavy, and the boys got a little to into the fun, and kicked the ball without regard – it would go flying like a comet and everyone around would duck. But the night was spent laughing and ducking and chasing that flaming soccer ball across the dark sands.

When it finally died out, and the gas was gone, we turned our play to desert around. The giant dunes begging us to leave our footprints in them.

Up the dune we climbed, down the dune we slid. It was so cold in the desert at night, and there were at least a billion stars out, like I’ve never seen before or since.

I still have burn marks on my shoes that I wore during our game of flaming soccer, an eternal reminder of the fun and folly of youth.

Hazen & Janet, 2004

This story is dedicated to Carrie, because she wanted me to write this one.

When I was probably about thirteen or so, we decided to have a grand adventure. Don’t ask me exactly who all “we” were – I remember my cousin Hazen was there because he whined about the experience all the rest of our growing up (Hazen, bless his heart, was notoriously wimpy when it came to grand adventures) (Sorry, Hazen, but it’s true).

So, there was me, and Hazen, and my sister Carrie because she told me so, although why I would have dragged her along is beyond me . . . she must have only been about seven or eight at the time. I must have been in a very good mood to let such a little thing tag along.

Other fellow adventureres? If I had to guess I would say probably Larry and my cousin Everett, and hmm, maybe Leslee?

So it was a hot, boring day. I remember sitting in the humid air of the pool house, lamenting the sterile conditions of an indoor swimming pool. Somehow either Larry or I knew about some “hidden lakes” – not first hand knowledge mind you, but legends, like secrets, told among fellow adventurers. The story was if you just followed the creek far enough . . .

And so we set off in our swim suits and flip flops – down the hill to where the creek crossed under the road, and then down to the creek bottom, rocky and cold. We went up the creek, against the current – the only way we ever went, though I’m not sure why.

Trouble was, we’d played at that waterway for as long as forever. We’d walked up the bed as far as children are ever willing to walk of their own accord; and we’d never seen any lakes.

But today we were determined. Even if it meant we’d walk all the way to the head waters.

And so we spent the afternoon shin deep in mountain runoff, meandering our way through the cottonwoods, the afternoon light dappled through their canopy. After a long while we passed the “farthest point” we had been too. Still, the heat of the day encouraged us to push on.

But after a certain point we became bored of our game, and wanted only to go home.

And that is always the worst part – the part where you realize that you just want to go home, but you have still that entire way to return!

Thinking we must not be too very far from home, and knowing that the creek wove in and out of familiar roads, we thought our quickest exit would simply be to climb the bank and berm and find the nearest road.

And so up the creekside we went, only to find a neatly trimmed hedge, clearly marking someone’s property. The hedge was only four feet high or so, no trouble to a capable kid. So we crossed right over to find:

A hidden lake sparkling in the afternoon sun! Like a dream there was a willow, her branches weeping into the water, ducks floated over the murky green, and across the way was a charming (humongous) house.

Still tired and hot from the afternoon, even the excitement of our discovery couldn’t sway us to stay. Perhaps the people in the house would know the quickest way home . . . perhaps they would even give us a ride.

We walked around the lake and to the side of the house, approaching the garage and front – when suddenly we heard the menacing clamor and bark of two very large dogs approaching. And then, around the corner of the house they shot – two doberman pinchers making their way, full speed straight at us.

“Run!” is all I remember yelling. And then it was every man for himself, as we all darted and dove, and ran in mad dash for cover. Hazen ran straight for the house, and actually took sanctuary inside. Larry and I made it back to the creek, although we were separated. Carrie, the true hero of the day, ran into the woods and fell down a four foot embankment where one of the dogs overtook her. But, as was reported later, the dog had no interest in eating her, but licking her instead.

Later, after we had our wits about us, Larry and I decided we must return to gather everyone up (at least what remained . . .) and so we timidly retraced our steps, looking for the others. We found everyone, Carrie very last. And then an old man in a golf cart appeared and asked what the  heck we were doing. We explained ourselves, and he bemused that we were lucky the dogs didn’t find us. He loaded us up in his cart and shuttled us down his long, long drive to the road – the very back end of Walker Lane. Though we knew where we were in relation to home, it was going to be a long, long walk.

I returned to the Three Lakes (for later we found that there were three lakes, each one feeding into the next) only a handful of times over the coming years (always avoiding the house with the dogs). After that first visit we always came and went via the creek, and I don’t remember how to get there on the road. But I have this strange and ghostly memory of being there with Ashley, my best friend from Waterford. She lived at the top of Walker Lane, and the three lakes must have been in her ward boundaries.  I shall have to ask her what she knows about them – where they are, who lives on them, and the sort of things grown ups like to know.

In writing this I think I shall also add “Walk the creek” to my list of things to do next summer. It would be great fun to revisit the setting of not only this, but many other childhood adventures.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

Anna, Emily Heisler, Me & Ejo at Thanksgiving Point, summer 2010

When I was about fourteen my cousin, Anna and I decided to go on an evening ride. Our plan was to head up Corner Canyon.

When I was growing up, the entire South Mountain was owned by one family. There were dirt trails where kids rode their horses or bikes, and one shabby coral with sad little ponies that inexperienced riders could “rent” for a ride. Other than that, a lot of scrub oak and wild grass was all that covered the mountain.

But the generation that owned it had finally passed away, and the next generation, eager I suppose to cash in on all that property, had sold it to private developers. The mountain was now being torn up for what would someday be what South Draper is today.

My mom dropped us off at the horses, promising to come back later that evening to pick us up. (My mom was awesome at carting kids around to their various adventures.) We were alone at the horses, not a soul in sight, when we realized one of our saddles was missing its cinch.

I guess we could have ridden bare back, but for some reason or another unremembered by me now, I didn’t think that was a good idea. We searched the tack room up and down, and finally “borrowed” one off another saddle.

Next we couldn’t find one of the bridles. We searched everywhere, even looking for another one to borrow, but couldn’t find one. Finally Athena came, and she had a spare bridle she loaned to us.

Finally we were tacked up and ready to go – but the sun was sinking low in the sky now.

Perfect, I thought – we’ll just head up Eagle’s Ridge to watch the sunset, and then head home.

We made it up to Eagles Ridge just fine, watched the beautiful late summer sun sink below the horizon, turning the sky ablaze with the warm orange of summer afterglow.

We headed back down the mountain for home when we crossed a stretch of earth 300 yards long or so, newly packed, pressed, ready for road top to be poured.

And how could we not race along it?

Imagining ourselves jockeys in the Derby, we ran our horses along the stretch of even plowed earth – a rare joy on the trail. Running, or even cantering a horse was not common practice outside the safety of a corral or arena growing up. What if the horse stumbled – or, more likely, ran away with you?

(Not to say I wasn’t run away with on more than one occasion. But usually I tried to avoid it.)

I still remember the light, dimming each minute, but still warm, as we raced along the road; feeling Sunny lower as she moved from a gallop to a dead run, and feeling her enjoy the freedom of her head as I clung to her neck and let her go.

And then we suddenly realized:

It was getting dark. Fast.

And we still had most of the mountain to get down.

We turned our horses down the trail, determined not to be distracted again, and headed for home.

But it was too late. In a few minutes it was black as pitch, the trees silver and ghostly as the moon climbed up the sky behind us.

I told Anna we had to sing – and sing loud. She gave me a sideways look as she knew, as well as I did, that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But singing was imperative to us getting home safely I explained. You see, there were deer all over that mountain, earlier in our ride we had passed a several different groupings, and each time I held Sunny tight on the reins as we passed.

Sunny was young, still green – still bone headed. I knew if we came across some deer in the dark – if we startled them – they in turn would startle Sunny. And then came the whole getting run away with part.

Which I usually tried to avoid . . . especially in the dark.

And so we needed to sing to tell the deer we were coming. I hoped the noise would get them to move out of our way as we approached,. Unfortunately, not musically inclined, the only songs I knew by memory were either camp songs or the Hymns I sung ever week for forever.

And so, ‘The Spirit of God’ it was.

We sang every song we could think of, and then sang them again as we picked our way down the mountain. At some point we lost the trail, and came to a ravine I was not willing to try to pass in the dark. We went back up the mountain to come back down the other side.

Calvin on Sunny, May 2011. She's a sweet old mare now.

Finally we made it down to the lights of lazy draper. And then we heard our names being called . . . over a bull horn.

We called out and a spot light was turned to us. We knew we were toast.

My mom, Wendy, and a police officer – the lone and lame response to a call in to search & rescue, greeted us at the trail head.

After a very stern lecture from Wendy about the danger to the horses, we had the joy of riding through the sleepy town with a cop car, lit up like a Christmas tree, following just behind us. After untacking and putting the horses away, another stern lecture from the police officer of the stupidity of our lives – or maybe just decisions.

It was nearly midnight when we climbed back into my mom’s car for home.

“Want to stop somewhere and get an ice cream cone?” my mom asked.

*After thinking about it as I wrote this story, it occurred to me that I probably wanted both Anna and I with full saddles and bridles because 1) Anna wasn’t a super experienced rider, and probably needed the tack for the trail and 2) I was riding Sunny, who ran away with me or threw me more times than I can count. A saddle always helps for that sort of thing.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

The summer before Junior High was a weird one. Perhaps that’s a bit vague. But  I can’t think of any other way to describe it. I was about to start at a new school — a big school that I had only dared to ride past on my bike in the early morning before too many students flocked the cement utoptia of adolescence independence, also called the parking lot. And Andi was moving away. So that summer seemed to move only that much slower as we dreaded the coming fall.

We frequented the Library, checking out books, then walking home in the summer heat to read in silence on the floor of her room. On this day she and I walked side by side, not speaking. Andi was reading the new book she had aquired as I pulled the red wagon with other books she had checked out. I hadn’t gotten any books that day. Part because I had a fine on my account, and part because I was only half through an old dusty book I found on the shelves in my own house.

“That’s a good tree,” Andi said, interrupting my observations of the tar on the road.

“Mmm hmm,” I agreed, not even looking up. I was making a foot print in the warm tar, the black goo squishing between my toes.

“We should climb it,” she suggested. It was then that I looked up. It was an elm, the same as hundreds that shaded our neighborhood. Its branches stretched out all the way across the street, over our heads. We pulled the wagon over to the base of the trunk and pushed the books around to make room for us to stand in it. Using it as a step to the first branch, we pulled ourselves up into the tree. The cool rough bark seemed like carpet in comparison to the hot asphalt below. It rubbed the tar off my toes as I found footholds to further my climb. We made our way out across the branches, Andi taking the branch to the right, and I to the left. Over the streen now, I looked down to our wagon, and my footprint still embedded in the tar fifteen feet below.

We weren’t really high up, but the shade of the branches was cool and inviting, and since we had nowhere else to go that afternoon we decided to stay and relax.

“So what book are you reading?” Andi asked.

“It’s a really old one I found in my house,” I explained. It’s called King of the Wind.”

“Oh! I love that book! I think that could be one of my favorites!”

I just looked at Andi blankly. “Oh,” I said, trying to mask my dissappointment that she had read it first. “Well, don’t tell me how it turns out, I’m not finished yet.”

Suddenly we heard a low sort of rumble. Twigs and branches broke with loud snaps. The entire tree shook forward and then back. I grabbed the branch, stabilizing myself to not fall. A sharp pain shot through my hand as a twig on the branch embedded itself into my palm. Time seemed to slow as I looked down to see the green then white of semi-truck’s roof passing just six inches below me. And then in an instant it was over. The semi-truck pulled free of the tree, catapulting us back to the tree’s original position. After a few sways the tree rested and was calm.

I looked down to my hand – blood ran down my palm as I inspected the minor wound. I looked past my hand to the street below. Broken twigs lay still in the street, covering my footprint. Looking up I saw Andi, still clinging to her branch, tears welling in her eyes. I knew how she felt, and I wanted to cry with her. But I didn’t. Instead we climbed down the tree and walked home.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.

Photo (C) Phil Schermeister

The sun slanted at the late autumn angle. The horses picked their way over the canal and out into the field, the hay cut low from the farmer’s plow, the fallow littered on the frosty earth. Andi and I rode in silence. It was too cold to have anything to say, still, the light was deceiving, reflecting a warm gold, red, rust on the mountain that towered above us. The horses coats were thickening in preparation for the snows that would soon come. We rode without saddles, our jeans filthy with horse hair and sweat, and we clung to the manes of our mounts.

“Look at the birds” I commented.

Hundreds of starlings picked at the seed planted for a spring crop, the contrast of their black bodies on the hay. We looked at each other and grinned. We both knew. Without another word we pushed the horses to an easy canter, and raced straight for the birds. As we reached the edge of their flock they rose like a black wave to the sky. Then in confusion, not willing to leave their gluttonous meal, not wanting to settle to earth, they swirled – a black circle spinning, spinning around us. The horses pulled up to a stop. We sat quiet on their backs, waiting for the sky to be calm again.

Eventually our stillness induced the birds to land. And then the farmers truck came bouncing over the dirt road. We could tell from a block away that we were in trouble – running our horses through his freshly planted field; we turned back, bracing for the stern lecture to come.

But I still remember sitting, my legs warm with the horse, dizzy from the birds, thinking it was like flying in a dream.

I’m going to try and write down memories I have – for my little lovelies who always ask “Tell me a story of when you were a kid . . .”

I’m going to call them “Tales for Tuesdays” – and will try to write one a week . . . unless of course something else happens. In which case I won’t.