A 35 Year Old Garden Revelation

One Saturday when I was a young man of high school age, I was working with my mom in the garden and I noticed that she was repeatedly giggling to herself. I asked her, "What's going on? Are you okay?" She replied, "I'm fine. I keep remembering things that were said last night at my high school reunion that made me laugh." As a young kid, I was entirely oblivious to my mother as a distinct person, separate and apart of her as "my mom." However, that experience caused me to begin to view my mother in a different light. For perhaps the first time, I saw her as a woman with the same dreams, hopes and emotions that she felt as a young girl. We have since talked about this event and I am convinced that even at age 80, there is a special place in her heart and mind for her life as a young debutante walking the halls of South High School, with handsome, athletic boys chasing her, hoping for just a chance to hold her hand.


Okay loyal followers of my vast worldwide readership, stay with me now...fast forward from that garden revelation 35 years ago to my high school reunion just a week ago...I came home with the biggest smile on my face. Thank you Leslie Aspiazu and the Intro Girls who put on such an amazing night! It was not just the opportunity to talk to old friends that made it such a great evening, it was really the powerful emotions created by the memories of youth: hopes, dreams, fears, loves, anxieties, etc. that made me smile. Sheila was a real sport to accompany me. I was disappointed that certain very close friends weren't able to attend: Scott Pierce, Keeko Georgelas, Guy Tuft, Ron Anderson, Burt and Cathy Ringwood to name a few. However, I had a chance to visit with Jerry Hirano, and listen to the Hart brothers (yes, they talk just as much as they did in high school), and dance with Sydney Young and Lori Day (woohoo!) I think Lori Day wore that tight dress just to remind all of us "young men" that we STILL don't have a chance with her! Ha! Some things never change.

At the reunion, someone handed me a copy of the following football picture. I'm No. 59 and Scott Pierce is No. 75. Scott actually had serious football skills--size, speed, strength and agility. Me? To be honest, I wasn't all that good at football, but my coaches played me because I liked to hit people. At my age, I'm a little bit embarrassed to admit that I'm still very proud of that fact. At my reunion, the Hart brothers and I tried to recreate this play based upon this single frame. Then we reached deep into the corners of our memories and were somehow able to recreate the entire football season based upon this single picture--well maybe it was the football season that we now remember as middle-aged men. Hmmm...maybe I really was as good as my memory suggests?!

My children have often wondered how I convinced the She-wolf to marry me. I am sure that many astute followers of my vast worldwide readership have wondered this same thing. As Sydney often says, "How did YOU (pointing to me) get THAT (pointing to her mother)?!" Well, let me assure you all that it was not Jedi mind games or voodoo or some type of freaky mind control, it was my hair (and as I remember it, amazing social skills). As proof of my skills, style and panache, I offer exhibits A and B, which were kindly sent to me by the very victim in these exhibits: Miss Kris Laycock, who is now married to Bob Weeks and is busy with her 8 children and 9 grandchildren! I offer these exhibits with apologies to Miss Laycock. Apparently, I am willing to throw her under the bus to prove a point--that at one point in my life, I was, in fact, able to convince another very pretty, popular and nice girl to date me. Haa!

Now my best memory of Exhibit A is as follows: I am leaning over a very nice dinner table and undoubtedly saying something charming, witty and intelligent. Note the look of confidence on my face, my cool demeanor and my casual body language. Miss Laycock? Well, she is clearly impressed with my skills as well. She is smiling demurely and probably thinking, "Wow, what a lucky girl I am to be dating such a cool young man."

As I suggested this likely scenario to the She-wolf, she helped me remember what probably actually happened the evening Exhibit A was created...I had amazing hair and lots of confidence yes, but in reality, I probably pestered young Miss Laycock to go on a date with me. She probably realized that I would continue to stalk her until she relented and agreed to go on ONE date, knowing that if she went with me it would ALL be over soon and she could go back to her normal life sans Darrell. In the picture, I am exhibiting great confidence yes, but I am probably saying something very awkward and insipid. Miss Laycock? Well, she is smiling, trying not break into hysterical laughter and create a scene. Note the slight turn of the head, indicating she is modestly repulsed and is clearly thinking to herself, "Only one more hour. C'mon, you can do it Kris. It will all be over soon, and someday you will look back on this night and laugh." Yes, Miss Laycock is amused that someone would actually have the audacity to wear such a hideous tux, and is probably mildly impressed that despite wearing such a ridiculous outfit he apparently possesses the chutzpah to believe that he really is ALL THAT.

Next, please note Exhibit B. More of the same in terms of my memory. I genuinely like how I looked, especially the hair. I seem confident and happy that Miss Laycock is smiling and has her arm around me. What more could a young man hope for?! As I reminisce about this picture, I am most grateful for my knowledge of the resurrection and the eternal promise contained in Alma 11:44 that "there shall not be so much as a hair of their heads lost." Miss Laycock? Undoubtedly more of the same according to my interpretation of this picture. The She-wolf's interpretation is slightly different... Indeed, Miss Laycock is feeling more of the same, except that by now she has endured a dance, a dinner and a long, long evening with the guy in the baby blue tux, clown-sized bow tie and wildly ruffled shirt who miraculously seems to believe that he really is ALL THAT. All she can do is smile for the camera and hope for a better date...someday.

Regardless of whose version or interpretation of these pictures you choose to believe, on one recent night, I was a young man again, with the same dreams, hopes, desires, loves and anxieties that I felt in high school. Like the experience of my mom in our garden following her high school reunion, I felt the powerful emotions of youth and my life and experiences at South High School. (As a post script, I promised Miss Laycock that I would "try" not to embarrass her. I hope I have succeeded and that this puts a smile on her face too!)

What's in a Picture?

Below is a picture of me in high school wrestling the National Champ of Japan. Jerry Hirano's mother worked tirelessly with me prior to this match to be able to speak a few words of Japanese to my opponent. Little did we all know that I would later serve a mission to Japan, become a Japanese linguist in the Army, teach high school Japanese, and in general make Japanese language and culture such a big part of my life. In the picture, I was just trying to score points against a very good two-time Japanese National Champ.

The pictures from this match have come to mean more to me over the years, not just because it was a very cool thing to be part of this All-Star wrestling team, but rather because of who I can see in the stands: my sisters, Jan and Nikki (both of whom are deceased), my parents, friends, family members and members of my ward who came to see me wrestle. I didn't realize it as a young man (or perhaps I failed to appreciate) how much support I had in life. Considering all of the support and help I have received from people who love me in life, if I ever I fail at anything I will be left without excuse.

Darrell's "Bag of Trick"

Have you ever thought you were totally cool, only to have your bubble burst by people entirely incapable of appreciating your awesomeness?...Well, my vast worldwide readership may be surprised to hear this, but it happens to me--a lot. Every time we water ski, I break out this really cool trick that I learned from my younger brother, Jeff. It's not that hard to do, but it's way fun and looks more impressive than it actually is. So, of course, as one who never wants to draw attention to himself, I have to whip it out and show this generation of wake-boarders that our generation of skiers had their tricks too. Mistakenly, I mentioned this to one of my children, who felt compelled (I suppose on grounds of age alone) to be disagreeable. Our dialogue went something like this:

"Dad, I don't know why you don't get with it and learn to wake-board?"

"Well, skiing is old school, and I am old and smart; therefore, I ski. Besides when you throw up a cool tail, it's like poetry in motion. (I then waxed philosophic, and sage, which I am wont to do) You see, skiing on a slalom ski is rhythmic and pure. It's like ballet on water--except very macho, of course."

"But dad, all you do is go back and forth. It's not like you can do tricks, like you can on a wake-board."

"Au contraire mon frere. I have tricks. Apparently you have forgotten my 'outrigger.' If that's not an utterly amazing trick, I don't know what is."

"Whoa. Did you say 'tricks?' Dad, I've got to give you props for the outrigger. It's the bomb for sure, but it's 'a trick.' You don't have 'tricks' you have 'a trick.' "

Now my vast worldwide readership is probably wondering why I don't just add another trick to my repertoire. Well, I've tried. I about killed myself trying to learn to barefoot ski, and to be honest, I'm done with that. I'm not sure my body can recover from what is obviously required to learn to barefoot ski. I meticulously researched "waterski tricks" on line and everything that looked tricky, also required the athleticism of Zeus. So apparently, I am stuck for life with a singular trick.

Ever since this conversation, the "outrigger" has become known as "Dad's bag of trick." I get into the water and the mocking immediately begins. "Watch out, Dad's gonna break out his 'Bag of Trick' " or "Quick. Get out the cameras, it's time for the 'Bag of Trick.' " Despite this unmerciful teasing, somehow I can't help myself. I feel almost compelled to do my thing and drop the outrigger.

On our last family vacation, Nick Jordan brought his new camera and kindly took a few pics of my "Bag of Trick." And so... for posterity's sake, here it is "Darrell's Bag of Trick."

Boys and Girls, the first two pics are demonstrations of what we used to do before the introduction of wake-boards.



The sequence of pics below is what I correctly refer to as "the outrigger." However, certain less enlightened individuals (all of whom happen to be immediate familial relations) from the wake-board generation generally seem to be incapable of appreciating this bit of H2O trickery and disparagingly refer to it as my "Bag of Trick."

The Human Compass

When my children were little I made them refer to me in respectful and descriptive terms such as "Spiffy Daddy" and "Big D." We backpacked a lot when they were younger. When we were wandering around in the woods, I made them call me "The Human Compass." Again, a highly accurate and descriptive term for me. Now, those of my vast worldwide readership who actually know a bit about my history understand that I have earned the title "The Human Compass" from real world challenges and experiences in the great outdoors. Recent mountaineering experiences this past summer illustrate what I'm talking about.

A couple of months ago, Brandon Tarango and I attempted Mt. Hood on two consecutive weekends, only be to denied for two consecutive weeks. On the last occasion, it reminded me of why I totally deserve the personal moniker "The Human Compass" for life. We climbed to the saddle of the Devil's kitchen (10,400') and found ourselves on unstable, steep and very deep snow. We attempted to retreat in a total whiteout and somehow descended onto the White River Glacier (not a safe place (many crevasses), but I suppose it was okay because we were lost and didn't know it). I had not been able find our tracks and so instead relied upon the compass in my brain. After we had descended about 1,000 feet, we realized that the slope we were on was getting steeper, and more dangerous; not at all what we had just climbed up an hour earlier. I pulled out the GPS, but its readings were erratic (could it be that I haven't read the manual?) and not at all helpful. And so I pulled out my map and compass (read old school) and solved the problem. In reality, we got a break in the weather for about 10 seconds, enough to see that we had descended below the Steel Gates onto the White River Glacier. I expertly (and with mad navigational skills) lead us west to the Palmer Glacier, and thereafter home to safety. Okay actually, I just climbed west back to the Palmer Glacier (where there are no crevasses).

So if you ever feel the need to test your manhood by wandering in the wild, please call--my specialty is getting lost.

*In the picture above please note the dangling compass. The map? ... It's in my brain, of course.

Men--The Ultimate Multi-Taskers!

I had a very interesting conversation with the She-wolf last week that illustrates something about marriage, something about women, and most definitely something about men. Faithful followers of Darrell's Yakimania have come to appreciate the thoughtful insights that I have shared on this worldwide blog in previous posts. In fact, several astute followers have suggested that I should consider starting a talk show to compete with Dr. Phil. Firstly, let me say Dr. Phil is a chump, but more importantly, I seriously doubt that it would be much of a competition. The following dialogue between us while I was trying to watch TV illustrates what I'm talking about.

Shewolf: "Are you going to change the light bulbs in the den during one of the breaks?"

I was "watching" (switching back and forth between) the Suns-Lakers game and the Mariners-Tigers game.

Me: "Yeah, I'll get to it."

...30 minutes later.

"Remember we have company coming, and I would really like to have the light bulbs changed sometime tonight."

"Sure I'll get to it."

...30 minutes later. Now quite frustrated, the She-wolf politely asked me an entirely legitimate question: "Do you think you could change the light bulbs during one of the breaks for ads?" And then added with a tone of sarcasm, "I usually try to multi-task by taking care of chores during the ads."

She was suggesting that I do the same. but was missing the point entirely. In her female brain she was thinking that using the breaks for ads to take care of little chores was an efficient use of time, and that this represented how superior she is at "multi-tasking." However, she failed to comprehend how complex and deep the male psyche really is.

To make my point, I enlightened her on this subject:

"Dear, you are suggesting that I multi-task by taking care of this little chore during the ads, but what you have failed to consider is how totally involved I am right now. Look at me. I am a veritable 'multi-tasking machine.' I am watching two riveting games at the same time. I am still digesting my food--which incidentally was wonderful. Thank you very much for another outstanding and delicious meal, if I didn't already say so. I am having intermittent and important conversations with my wife, which has something to do with light bulbs, AND I am managing vital bodily functions, including breathing, which is keeping me alive for yet another day so that I can work hard to support the family. For crying out loud woman, what more can a man do?! Just thinking about all that I am doing right now is exhausting. I can't possible even think about light bulbs at this moment. I am sure that I will get the light bulbs changed sometime before our company arrives. However, if I don't, it's very unlikely that our company will want to visit in the den, so we're probably safe, even if I don't get to it. So, if you don't mind, can we finish this conversation after the completion of these games?" Brilliant, don't you think?

At this, she mumbled something that sounded like this as she left the room: "(mumble mumble) Men! (mumble, mumble) idiotic! (mumble, mumble)..."

As you might expect, I was quite impressed with my observations. As I have thought more deeply about this exchange between my wife and I, I have realized just how accurate my insights were on this subject, and how good men really are at multi-tasking. Sometimes we get a bum-rap for being simple minded and incapable of handling multiple, complex tasks at the same time. However, this is simply not true. If a female that you know disagrees with this assessment, go ahead and issue the following challenge:

1. Operate the remote control with precision and style while following two important sporting events;

2. Manage important bodily functions that sustain life;

3. All the while reliving your glory years and reminiscing about what a great athlete you used to be.

...Now that takes some real energy!

Attached is a picture of the pool, which Sheila somehow managed to get cleaned and ready for next weekend's company, despite putting on a funeral dinner for the family of a sister that died in our ward, processing numerous food orders, preparing a lesson for Sunday, exercising everyday, studying her scriptures, completing her visiting teaching and maintaining an immaculate home. While that might sound impressive, I am sure she is not capable of operating the remote control in a fashion that truly represents higher level multi-tasking.

I Hate the Wind!

My wife loves me so much that she let me buy a new road bike last month, even though my "old" road bike was still in excellent condition. I have always wanted a carbon framed bike, but they are pricey. I convinced her that I would love my road rides so much more that it would make me more pleasant at home and happier at work. I don't think she really believed any of my sales pitches, but she let me buy it anyway just because she is such an awesome wife.

I somehow thought I would be faster and happier on a new bike. To be sure I like certain things about this bike much better, but I was so used to the stiff ride of my aluminum bike that this new feel is going to take me some time to get use to. The reality is the big hills that I used to struggle to climb are just as steep, the wind that always blows from the northwest still blows as hard, and my legs seem to wear out at about the same mile markers on this bike as my old bike. So I don't know that I'm any better as a rider, but I look really cool and I get to brag to my buddies that I am riding a carbon framed bike.

I rode to Ellensburg today. First there was the stiff canyon breeze that got stronger with every mile that I got closer to Ellensburg. Then it started rainin, and then snowing, and then finally, hailing. Even my very "technical" (whatever that means) riding jacket did not offer much protection. Apparently, I was over confident because of what I paid for the darn thing. Finally, I got to Ellensburg and the weather improved--sort of. Blue skies and wind, more wind and stronger wind. I know that there are many people who ride bikes in Ellensburg, but I have no idea why. Riding in the Kittitas Valley is like riding in a wind tunnel--a very cold wind tunnel. The Kittitas Valley is absolutely breathtaking, but I was never so happy as to have that beautiful valley at my back and that omnipresent and violent wind wildly pushing me back down the Yakima River Canyon towards home.

I Hate to Run!

Okay, I scheduled myself out of the office today, with the plan to climb Mt. Jefferson. Sadly, my climbing partner, TJ Hesselgesser's Grandpa passed away Thursday and we cancelled the climb. The Shewolf is uncomfortable with me attempting any technical climbing on my own, so I decided to do something else challenging. Those who are part of my vast worldwide readership know that I hate to run. What you probably don't know is why, and how much I hate to run. I think it all started with the first time I had to run to cut weight for wrestling in high school (circa 1973). Cutting weight became an obsession for me for the next decade. The "strength to weight ratio" is a tricky thing for wrestlers. The only real effective way for wrestlers to cut weight is to run. Some weeks it meant running a lot. It's not just that I had to run, but it was the running in rubberized suits, running hungry and running thirsty that created in me a total aversion to running. Now, my oldest daughter is an accomplised runner and keeps talking about the sheer joy of endorphins when she runs. Say what?! The reality is that I have never experienced an endorphin, an endorpho or anything remotely endorpinistic. I hate running, and it hates me. So, last night as I considered the disappointment of not being able to experience a big mountain challenge, I tried to think of some other appropriate challenge to fill the void. I decided a respectable, substitute challenge would be to go on a long run.

I went out this morning and bought an IPOD nano, compatible with the Nike Plus running system. I charged the unit and loaded it with some really awesome Rock tunes (Stevie Ray Vaughn, CCR, The Doobie Brothers, etc.). I started running at about 1:00pm. I ran as hard and as long as I could. When I got to 14 miles, I started thinking that maybe I would just run a marathon. It was only another 12 miles. How much harder could another 12 miles be? Apparently, exponentially harder! Something happened at Mile Post 16. My body broke down in ways that I couldn't imagine. It wasn't just the blisters on my toes--my legs felt like lead and wouldn't move. It was really weird. I'm a wrestler--I'm used to fighting through difficult things. This was , however, something altogether more painful and oppressive than about anything I have felt before. My feet felt like they were in cement. I ran another 2 and half miles. At 8+ minute miles, I ran for 2 hours, 32 minutes, and covered 18.5 miles.

Well, someday maybe I'll run a marathon...However, the reality is that I hate running so much that I'm sure I will never really consistently train, which means that a marathon might just be a pipe dream.

If ever I actually run a marathon, I would appreciate it if members of my vast worldwide readership would not bother to tell me Oprah's marathon time. I'm not sure if my tender male ego could take it if she turned in a faster time.

Above is a picture of Lil D after one of her cross country meets last fall.