The Lonely Goose

Growing up, I always had this thing about geese. Not quite a phobia, fear, or hatred of geese. Just this… thing. I saw geese as cute little ducks’ big ugly uncles; winged, incontinent rats that hiss and honk. They scared me a little and annoyed me a lot. Okay, maybe it was a phobia or fear, and somewhere in between dislike and hatred. Geese… Gross. You probably think I’m a little nutty, but you’d feel the same way if your family had been victimized by these feathered menaces the way mine has.

I’m the oldest of five boys. Kevin-Michael-Rusty-Timmy-Ryan; my parents would call our names out like a chorus, many times a day. Meal time, bed time, church time, school time, and times when we all got in the same amount or type of trouble (with the volume and pitch raised of course). We later added Carly-Christiana-Kellie, who got in significantly less trouble than the boys. There are eight of us, though now Timmy is Tim and Michael is Mike. And we were (and probably still are) a handful!

My Dad’s Uncle Dick and Aunt Arlene had a boat and a neat little summer place on Lake Berryessa, in between Sacramento and Santa Rosa, California, where we first learned to water-ski, and got comfortable bobbing up and down in the middle of a lake. (We did a lot more bobbing up and down than we did skiing). A couple summers, Mike, Rusty and I spent a week or so there, with the boat on the water morning, afternoon, and evening. We spent the time in between waterski sessions catching bluegill and swimming around the lagoon where the boat was docked, just outside their little cabin. This is where the goose trouble began.

One afternoon during our first summer at Dick and Arlene’s, Rusty and I were sitting on the beach while Mike was floating around the middle of the lagoon, wearing his big puffy orange PFD (we called them ‘life vests’ back then), just kind of hanging out. There were some ducks and geese and carp that hung out in the area, even a big ol’ rat we had seen hanging around the dock, but Mike was alone in the middle, minding his business, doing what a seven-or-eight year old would do, splashing and goofing around, the geese and ducks at the other end of the lagoon.

Suddenly, a goose swam straight for Mike, honking and hissing, like he was on a mission to destroy this creature wearing the puffy orange thing bunching up around his ears. Instantly, the goose began pecking and nipping at Mike’s head and face, his little arms hampered a bit by the life vest, unable to defend himself against this down-covered demon. The attacker flapped and jumped up onto Mike’s head and kept pecking away. Rusty and I yelled at the goose, yelled at Mike, and started to wade into the water, trying to distract the attacker, but this mighty beast was determined—he poked and squawked all over Mike’s bobbing head, as he hollered out in terror.

“Go under, Mike, go underwater!” we hollered, to which he feebly replied “I can’t!” The vest was keeping him afloat, and he had no way to escape—the goose could outswim him, and was aggressively attacking for what felt like an hour, as we worriedly, tentatively kind of half-waded, half tip-toed towards him. Suddenly, a hero appeared.

Looking back, I remember him as a cross between Han Solo and a mulleted Matthew McConaughey. He had a beer in one hand, a cigarette in his mouth, and wore only blue jean cutoffs, the likes of which have not been commonly worn by men since about 1980. The kind where the pockets hang way below where the shorts-part ends. The kind that make John Stockton’s purple Jazz shorts look like capri pants. Anyway, I digress, distracted by the memory of Han Solo McConaughey’s hauntingly short shorts…

Our hero coolly strode out to the middle of the lagoon, water about up to his chest, and said, “Let me show you guys how to handle these suckers.” Not spilling his beer, not losing his cigarette, he continued, narrating as he did his work. “First, you grab ‘em by the neck, then you swing ‘em around a bit, and then you give ‘em a good toss. That’s all there is to it.” We watched in awe as he did exactly as he described, then strutted back to his shady porch. The goose flew a good ten or fifteen feet before landing in the water with a plop and swimming back to his end of the lagoon.

We yelled our thanks (completely in awe) and swam out to help Mike get back to shore. Although we’d been rescued by this guy, we were petrified to try his technique of goose-repellant—those things were mean and a whole lot scarier to a seven, eight, and ten year old. We spent the rest of that week steering clear of them. I wish I could say it was my last encounter with geese. It wasn’t.

I remember one time the whole family was walking around the big pond at Diablo Valley College (which both my Dad and I had attended for a while), and of course the geese were there, taunting and playing goose mind games with me. Cocking their heads sideways, looking at me with their big goose eyes, squawking and daring me to make a move. Stupid geese…

As we all went down by the pond, feeding ducks, looking for frogs or fish or anything wiggly, one of my younger brothers fell into the water, which was deep enough for him to get completely submerged. My dad instantly jumped in and yanked him out. Everyone was elated, glad to have saved him from drowning. Only I knew the real danger he had been saved from—being mauled by those hissing geese. (Weirdly, I remember the geese that day, and which part of the pond we were at, but not which one of the Michael-Rusty-Timmy-Ryan-Carly-Christiana-Kellie clan fell in the water). 

So yeah, I have a thing about geese. Or, should I say, had a thing about geese. Just like my childhood fear of mice (I’m talking a real phobia here), and the crocodiles that I knew swam around my bedroom floor when I shut my eyes at night, and my belief that it was scientifically possible (and actually pretty likely) that static cling in my sheets could combust and start a fire in my bed while I slept, I kind of evolved through and past those fears and worries.

Learning a bit about geese was probably a big factor in my getting over my fear-phobia-disdain-thing about geese. Geese are not solitary animals. They mate for life, and are monogamous, unless their partner dies, in which case they will find a new mate. Males are extremely protective of their territory (homes); the family units are tight. The goslings learn to swim and eat almost immediately after birth—pretty remarkable! The female goslings grow up and help take care of their younger siblings for a couple years, until they are old enough to choose a mate. The male goslings grow up and associate with other single males in the flock until they are old enough to mate, developing the social and practical skills they’ll need to be good fathers and husbands. And we’ve all seen how they fly in big V’s to share the workload of flight, to draft off each other, to keep an eye on each other and be sure everyone could see where the group was heading. We could learn a lot from geese.

Just a few weeks ago I took this picture as I walked to work. I go right past the waterfront downtown, which in the spring and summer is infested with geese—they are everywhere! In the spring and summer they eat grains and grasses. In the late autumn they eat the acorns that fall from the trees, and then they fly on, probably somewhere warmer, with more food to eat, always in big family groups. I imagine they’ll come back as winter thaws out a bit. But the other day, this goose was alone in the middle of a giant field, just looking around, honking softly, questioningly. Honk? Honk? Honk? But there were no other geese around to answer. This goose seemed to be lost.

As I watched this goose nervously honking for a few minutes, I thought back on a few experiences in my own life… The adventure with the mulleted hero and other goose encounters, of course. But also a few instances where my own children or I have been as lost (or more lost) as that lone goose in the field. One involved my daughter Annelise (whom we sometimes call Annie, because who has time for three syllables, right?) When she was about four years old, she got lost for around a half hour on a busy beach in San Diego—the longest half hour of my life. We were terrified; we notified the lifeguards, we sent some of the family back to the little house we'd rented in case she turned up there, we had some waiting near our blankets in case she found her way back to our spot. The lifeguards had an alert sent out to everyone—all the lifeguards for a couple miles were looking. What an awful feeling—giving a description of your child to the authorities, hoping she will be found, looking way down the beach for a blue and pink swimsuited girl with long, blonde braids.

The head lifeguard drove me up the beach in his jeep as we frantically looked for her. Finally, over a mile from where we had been hanging out together, I saw her holding the hand of a nice middle aged lady, also named Annie, as they walked looking for us or for a lifeguard. What a swing of emotion, to go from such fear to elation in an instant! I picked her up as she cried, both of us freaked out and finally calming a bit. Unless you have been in the same situation, you can’t imagine the joy and relief we felt as Darcie saw us driving up, learning her daughter was safe.

As I watched the lonely goose, I thought back to just a little over a year ago, when Liam was lost for a good hour or so in the Cascade foothills at Scout Camp. The boys were playing a variation of hide and seek, and let’s just say Liam was the champ! About thirty or forty minutes into the game I realized I hadn’t seen Liam in a while, and we got a little search party together. We were able to find him, but he had also gotten pretty shaken up in his ordeal—and gotten really scratched up as he had been scrambling around during the game, and while trying to make his way back. (That’s a picture of him a little while after he was found). I knew how he felt; I’d been lost before when camping too—each minute feels like an hour, you second guess everything, you don’t know anything with certainty any more.

In the cases of Annie and Liam, my kids had gotten lost because they had been alone, and wandered in the wrong direction, unknowingly, believing they were heading in the correct direction. I don’t know how this goose had gotten lost, but of course he had likely somehow wandered off on his own. After thinking of Annie and Liam, I thought of one more experience that made me think again of the importance of family, community, partnership and friendship in our journeys through life.

When I was sixteen, my family moved from our home in Martinez, California to a place in Concord, California. It wasn't far away, in fact I was actually closer to my high school and part-time job, but we would be attending church in a new building and with a different congregation. The first Sunday of each month at LDS (Mormon) services is like an open-mic format, where members of the congregation can go up and share their feelings about the gospel and their stories of faith and conviction (our ‘testimonies.’) On our last Sunday in that old home, I felt moved to stand up and speak, although I had no idea what I was going to say.

What struck me as I stood there, an awkward 16 year old kid in front of a few hundred people, was not so much a fear of missing my friends, sadness about seeing less of them, or worrying about how I’d fit with the new kids around our new home. Looking over the crowd, I was nearly overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude for all of the people who had helped shape, lead, guide and direct me through my teenage years—it was as if I was seeing for the first time everyone, all at once, who had ever done a single little thing to help me. I certainly appreciated the parents of my little circle, like the LeSueurs, Sinciches, Ortons, Bradys, Philips, and so on, who had always been great family friends and examples. On that day I was even more touched by those adult leaders and teachers who didn’t have kids my age, who reached out and served and helped me when they had no reason to, just doing it out of a sense of love and duty.

I tell my own kids about some of these leaders now, over thirty years after some of those amazing people worked with and taught me. I mumbled some thanks to those family friends and to people like the Lances, Berkoviches, Betts, Woolleys and Cadwalladers; the Smiths, Renshaws, and Widmers; so many great people who probably have no idea how much they shaped me and how they helped me stay with the flock. Nearly overwhelmed by gratitude and the love I felt from that big adopted family, I knew I was on the right path, truly understanding for the first time how God had a plan for His children, for our families. With new eyes, I saw all the people who had helped me so much.

That’s a lot of remembering to do in a few minutes, watching a lonely goose. He reminded me of how we’re all the lonely goose sometimes, and how we sometimes have the opportunity to help others as part of a flock. I wanted to help him, but wasn’t sure how. I want to believe he found his family, or they found him, because he did the right thing and stayed put. I want to believe he has a newfound appreciation for his mate or siblings or children, or whoever is in his own flock. I know he made me appreciate my own flock just a little bit more, and he made me fear geese just a little bit less.

Thanks to everyone who keeps my family and me flying in the right direction!

The Best Christmas Ever!



The Andersons, Christmas 1986

Let me first start by saying the title of this post is a misnomer—I've had so many memorable Christmases I couldn’t possibly name just one of them as the best. But I don't like the sound of “One of the Best Christmases Ever,” or “One of Twelve Magical Christmases I Could Write About,” and the creative well is a bit dry today. So... here is a list of Christmas memories I may one day post about, followed by a memory of one of them. And of course random Christmas photos of all things Anderson. Merry Christmas! Some memorable ones for me:

1.       The Christmas when I got my first bike (I was three and I still remember it)

2.       The Christmas when Darcie got me my first pretty good guitar (we’d only been married 2 months)

3.       The Christmas when we got a Color TV and VCR (like 30-something years ago)

4.       The Christmas that we spent in Michigan with my mom’s side of the family (1986—it was super cold and tons of fun. We took the portrait above that year)

5.       The Christmases that we spent at Nevada City with my grandparents (there’s nothing like Christmas in the mountains)

6.       The Christmas when we got Atari (no comment needed)

7.       The Christmas in Modesto with our best friends ever (Trish, Richard, Chelsea, Spencer, Abbey, and their bird Albus)

8.       The Christmas when I got a great skateboard (total surprise, parents picked out the perfect deck/truck/wheel combo)

9.       The Christmas I spent in England with my missionary companion Elder Schumann (he was one of the first East German missionaries to be let out of the country; we watched the Berlin wall come down together on TV that November and had an amazing, memorable time)

10.   The Christmas we spent in Utah about ten years ago (the last one in which our whole family was around)

11.   All the Christmases I’ve had as a dad (what a blast!)

12.   The one I’ll write about today…

At Christmastime in 1979, the Anderson family consisted of Mom, Dad, Mike, Rusty, Tim, Ryan, Carly, and me (Christiana and Kellie would come in the next few years). We were living in the San Francisco Bay Area, and each Christmas we spent there was predictably perfect in so many ways. Christmas Eve was spent at Grandma and Grandpa’s. We’d pile into the 1976 Dodge Aspen Wagon (Motor Trend’s Car of the Year!) and drive the hour or so it would take to get there. At Grandma’s, we’d have a great dinner, and then enjoy some Christmas fun—a passage from the Bible, a story or two, and of course lots of singing. And best of all, we each opened the one present Grandma and Grandpa got us, and a pair of new pajamas. (That’s me in the photo below, rocking my new Vinny Barbarino jammies a few years earlier).

Grandma and Grandpa always chose great gifts, either because my grandparents were extremely in tune with what the youngsters liked, or because they got help from my parents (who must have been extremely in tune with what the youngsters like). Either way, these gifts never disappointed—they were fun games and toys that provided a great time that night, and really got you aching to open everything else the next morning. They were like The Great Christmas Appetizer. (That could be the title of an ABC Family very-special-made-for-TV movie, couldn’t it? I should pitch that).

The drive home in the family car usually calmed us down a bit, as all six kids would strain our necks and eyes, each of us trying to be the first to spot Rudolph’s red nose in the sky, rubbing the fog off the windows (in spite of Dad’s reminders that rubbing the windows would certainly put us on the naughty list). Only Mike would ever be lucky enough to have a confirmed sighting of Santa, on a rooftop off to the side of the 580 as the rest of us slept. Come to think of it, Mike was also the only one of us eight kids to ever see the Easter Bunny. Man, Mike was lucky.

By the time we’d get home, we were typically pretty worn out and ready for bed, maybe even more so due to the comfort of the new, warm pajamas. I’m sure some of the little kids probably pretended to be asleep so they could be carried into the house and into bed, a benefit that I, as the oldest of eight, never got. In fact I even remember doing some of the carrying. Anyway, one way or another, we’d end up in bed, and then we’d try to stay awake as late as we could, listening for any sign of reindeer on the roof or Santa in the living room.

5:00 a.m. was our official wake-up time. We’d go ask mom and dad if we could get up, of course sending a spy or two to the living room to check things out while we waited for everyone to wake up and gather around the tree. Then we’d open presents, one at a time, youngest to oldest. Then several hours of assembly, playing, sorting, and comparing—lots of merry mayhem. In the afternoon, we’d get ready in our new clothes and head to the home of Nani and Papa—our great grandparents, who lived just under an hour away.

The whole family would gather at Nani and Papa’s—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandma and grandpa, and it was a lot of fun. We were the only kids there, so we got all the attention and were spoiled immensely . One of our favorite things was the cheese tray, chips, dips, and lots of hors d’oeuvres—we would just devour that stuff! And lots of soda too—always Cragmont, in every flavor you wanted, poured into brightly colored metal cups that made the soda taste a little like brightly colored metal-- not unpleasant, but just something I remember. We’d get more presents, and have a great time as the adults opened their gifts from each other too. Just tons of laughter, practical jokes, singing and playing with all our new stuff—as I said before, predictably perfect every year. But one year in particular stands out.

So back to ’79… My dad had learned that Nani and Papa were not going to have a Christmas tree this year. They had always gotten a small tree and set it on top of a little table in between their recliners in the front room—right in the window that overlooked their small front yard and the street the house sits on. It’s always neat to see a tree in a window isn’t it? Even now, when I drive by a house with a Christmas tree in the window it takes me back to my predictably perfect childhood Christmases.

That year, with Nani and Papa getting pretty old and having a harder time getting around, they decided they just couldn’t get a tree. So, a few Sundays before Christmas, my parents decided we’d surprise them with a small tree, and help them decorate it. So we went to a tree lot, got a suitable tree for putting on the table in the window, loaded it on top of the family-filled Motor Trend Car of the Year, and headed to El Cerrito to surprise Nani and Papa.

Nani answered the door and was of course delighted to see us. She was born in 1900! I remember even as a little kid I was amazed that she had seen the radio, telephone, phonograph, TV, cassettes, cd's, airplane, computer and automobile all invented and developed in her lifetime, and she was even old enough to remember the great earthquake of 1906. And even approaching 80, she had lots of energy and a great attitude and presence—just always laughing, asking us kids how we were doing, talking 49ers and Giants with us, working away in the kitchen, making sure everyone was fed, and giving everyone big, lipstick-y great-grandma kisses when we arrived and when we left. But Papa… Well, Papa was a little different.

Papa didn’t say as much. He had his big old comfy recliner, which no one else sat in. When Nani was up and about, working in the kitchen, we’d fight over her chair, sitting in it two or three at a time, making ourselves comfortable. But you didn’t mess with Papa’s chair. When Nani was giving us those big kisses, Papa would grab us, tickle us a bit harder than perhaps we liked, maybe give us a noogie or pinch our cheeks. He was kind of scary—we’d stay clear of him! Oddly enough, one of my clearest memories of all our visits to Nani and Papa’s, whatever the occasion, is of Papa going to bed pretty early, like around 7 or 8 at the latest. He’d usually need a hand getting up out of his chair, and then he’d gingerly, slowly make his way to bed, not saying much to anyone.

Papa was tough, an old school blue-collar guy who worked hard to provide for his family. He worked in a slaughterhouse—tough, dirty work that certainly would harden me… I bet I’d be a bit gruff too if I did that kind of work for decades. Gruff—that’s probably the best word for him. I never heard him say a particularly nice word about or to anyone. I never heard a mean or derogatory word come from him either, but again, he tended to be a bit prickly on the outside.  

So we filed in, bringing the tree and a couple boxes of stuff to put on it. We got the obligatory whoops of delight and kisses from Nani, and did our best to stay out of Papa’s reach, while still trying to be polite great-grandkids. We put lights and tinsel and ornaments on the tree, and baked some cookies and enjoyed them with Nani and Papa. We sang them some Christmas carols and reminisced for a while. The entire time Papa sat in his chair, gruff as ever—not mean, not disinterested, just mostly silent as he watched.



Nani with Ethan, 1996

Finally it was time for Papa to head to sleep. We wished him a Merry Christmas and told him good night as he creakily made his way out of his chair and shuffled, oh so slowly toward the short hall that led to the bedroom. Just before he got to the hall, he turned back around and looked at us, his eyes tearing up. “Thank you, Larry, for all you’ve done,” he quietly said to my dad, then turned around and headed to bed. We were all silent, in awe of tough old Papa showing his love and gratitude for this simple act of service and kindness. That is my last memory of Papa, the only really vivid recollection of him that I have. The noogies and pokes and pinches are all kind of in a hazy background, but I’ll remember that Christmas moment forever.

There are lots of lessons to be learned from this anecdote; about judging and being judged, thanking and being thanked, serving, working, being kind, expressing feelings, and so on. I don’t remember what I got for Christmas that year. I don’t remember which TV character or sports team logo adorned my new pajamas. In fact, I don’t remember anything else about that Christmas; I’m not 100% positive of the year even. But I remember the wonderful spirit that kindly serving others brought me. And I remember how much joy that simple act brought Nani—she was able to have a tree that Christmas after all, to everyone’s surprise a couple weeks later when we all gathered there on Christmas Day. But mostly I remember seeing Papa’s heart melt, feeling true love and understanding for this man I’d always feared, seeing him at his best and most honest. It was a perfect illustration of peace on earth, and goodwill toward men.

I think it really was the best Christmas ever.

Artifacts and Relics

I’ve got a confession to make. This is something that exactly 16 people in the entire history of the world know. It’s true, I can name them all. I’ve counted, and taken measures to ensure total secrecy. But I need to get this off my chest. Here goes…

I played Dungeons and Dragons as a kid. In junior high. A lot.

Like, on beautiful summer days when I should have been out playing ball or getting into breakdance battles like the normal kids in the 80’s. Like, enough to join a club at school—the after school D&D club at Valley View Intermediate. Like, enough that I can still remember some of my characters’ names, over thirty years later. Like, enough to spend my paper route money on several types of graph paper, pens, and pencils to better design epic adventures that I would lead my fellow D&D clubbers through.

When I was ten years old, I got the original Dungeons and Dragons game for Christmas. It consisted of the basic game book and a beginner module (sort of a campaign to play through). This set me on the slippery slope/roller coaster ride that is D&D collecting and playing. I started buying dice, character sheets, issues of Dragon magazine, other modules, little lead figures, and big, fat, expensive, wonderfully detailed, beautifully illustrated books.

There was The Player’s Handbook, The Dungeon Master’s Guide, a guide to the mythological gods of the D&D worlds, and an encyclopedia of the monsters and creatures to be encountered (entitled, fittingly, the “Monster Manual.”) Between myself, my friends, and my brothers, we had a couple thousand pages of this stuff. We would learn the minutiae of a book, studying harder than we ever would for school, then swap it with someone else so we could become more knowledgeable in another facet of the game. We’d solve a campaign or finish a quest or game, then trade that module with someone else who had one we hadn’t picked up yet.

I loved many aspects of D&D—there were individual and team components, enormous creativity, luck, skill, intelligence-testing bits that kept you guessing and searching, and constant progression (or virtual death for your made-up character). As an avid reader of fantasy and sci-fi, it was endlessly entertaining to me, and I particularly enjoyed poring through the books and learning about the lore and mechanics of the game. One chapter of one of these books that I thought about again just yesterday, was called “Artifacts and Relics.”

Artifacts and relics were magical objects that would turn up during a game. Sometimes you found them. Sometimes you bought them with pieces of gold or platinum or other precious metals. Sometimes retrieving an artifact or relic was the whole point of a module or campaign. Sometimes you’d happen upon one when you defeated an enemy.

Sometimes you’d need to destroy an object (like Frodo’s quest in Lord of the Rings.) These artifacts and relics could vary in size, shape, type, and style. They could be rings, books, weapons, or pieces of armor. They could be parchment, medallions, boots, or belts. They could be good, evil, or neutral. But they all had one thing in common. They all had power.

An artifact or relic would bestow power on the user, or on whom the magic was directed. They could heal you or help you. They could give you power to fly, teleport, or cross dimensions. They could make you invisible, fast, slow, or even give you the consistency of Jell-O. They could make you 10 feet tall or shrink you to the size of an ant. But some of these artifacts were so powerful, they could also truly, permanently change you—shaping your desires, changing behaviors, pulling you in a direction—for better or worse. So what do artifacts and relics have to do with me, today, over thirty years after I last rolled the 20-sided dice? A whole lot!

Artifacts and relics do not just exist in fairy tales, video games, fantasy novels and Dungeons and Dragons rulebooks. These magical items are all around us, here and now. Objects with powers that affect the user, that affect those around the wielder of these objects, and—like the artifacts and relics of my fantasy-filled youth—even change the owner in subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways. I actually have a few of these magical objects.

This all started rolling around my head this week as I flew home from Portland. Rather, these memories began bubbling as I walked down Third Avenue, then cut over to First, and waited for the train by Apple Music Row in Old Town, all while carrying a magical artifact in the form of a big pink box. “Hey, Voodoo Doughnuts for everyone,” a guy hollered as I got on the train. We laughed and joked for a few minutes as we rolled past a handful of stops. He got off, and as the red line train headed toward the airport, several other people commented, asked questions, and wondered about the wait time (just ten minutes that day—it gets shorter as the weather gets colder!)

This treat I had brought along to surprise and delight my kids was having that same effect on other strangers around me. It was an instant conversation starter, a magical mood lifter, it broke through crusty shells and steel-faced walls. Soon, the power overtook me, the holder of the artifact. I was no longer just the guy trying to get home as quickly and painlessly as possible, I had become Doughnut Guy, lifter of moods, creator of smiles, the magical improver of long, arduous, air travel experiences. By the time I arrived in Seattle, and was picked up by Darcie and the kids, I’d probably talked to 20 people I otherwise would have ignored, and been ignored by. The magic of the artifact was changing me, at least for a couple hours!

In between doughnut conversations (which incidentally led to other topics of discussion), I thought of another artifact I’d been carrying from time to time—my mandolin. For most of the three and a half months I’ve been working away from home, I’ve brought along my mandolin to play in the few spare moments I get. As I took my first trip through the airport without my mandolin (after a good eight to ten weeks of having it at my side), I noticed something was just off—a little piece of magic was missing.

When you carry a mandolin around, you’re seen as a musician, a mandolinist, a creative person, a studier, a performer. You have a reason to chat with the guy busking on a corner. Something to talk about with the guy making your falafel sandwich. An opportunity to explain what the mandolin is (“hey is that a ukulele?”) On one trip through the airport, the girl at the burger place said she’d give me my lunch for free if I would play it for the crew. Another time, the guy at the desk of the hotel where I stay told me he could play ukulele right handed, and was also learning to play it left handed—crazy! When I checked in a week later, without my mandolin, he barely recognized me; my magic powers were fading without the relic’s presence.

Finally, I thought of another interesting phenomenon, another magical object, this one to be worn—my BYU hoodie. Made by Nike and given to me by BYU when the store I was running sponsored their sports marketing program, it’s a favorite and I love it. It looks great and feels amazing, and more importantly it tells the world I attended BYU, and that I’m a Mormon. I’ve noticed its powers over me, the wearer, and those in its vicinity, are more powerful the further I get from its home in Provo, UT.

In Utah, no one noticed I was wearing it. Here in Seattle or Portland, I feel like everyone sees me, the BYU Mormon guy. I am just ever-so-slightly more aware of how I present myself to the world when I’m wearing this artifact. My road rage rages more quietly. My eyes smile when I might otherwise be expressionless. I am more cheery, more inclined to talk with a stranger. The sense of pride I have in walking tall around the grocery store is real; I’m proud of who I am and happy to be an example of our faith. When I wear my old greasy gray T-shirt, I don’t walk as tall, smile as much, or look for conversations to join; at least not as readily as I do when I’m wearing that magical sweatshirt.

As I pondered these magical items, my mind went to real life, to how we can use artifacts and relics to become better people, or at least better at some part of our being people. My new Microsoft Band (love this thing!) reminds me to get better sleep, tracks my activity throughout the day, helps me be more healthy and productive. I also like showing it to others, increasing the power this artifact has over me, and helping to influence others at the same time. Having an inspirational quote on my phone’s lock screen gives me dozens of reminders throughout the day of a principle or goal. Carrying a book, packing gym clothes, having healthy snacks on hand all give you an edge or advantage you wouldn’t normally have—and if that’s not magic, I don’t know what is! Great shoes make you want to run, an instrument will draw you to play it, and posted reminders on your screen, fridge, dashboard or smartphone can inspire, enthuse, and empower us.

Some might challenge me, and say I’m being fake, or putting on an act, being disingenuous. But I bet the ambidextrous ukulele player was happy to share his talents with me. The smile on my face was sincere, and the discussions of doughnut appreciation and conversations comparing Blue Star with Frost with Voodoo were lively and enjoyable, on an otherwise drab trip from train to plane to minivan. And there is nothing wrong with an artifact like my BYU hoodie, or a CTR ring (magically reminding the wearer to ‘Choose The Right’), a bracelet asking WWJD, or some other item reminding you and others of who you are and who you’re trying to become. At least that’s this former 40^th level wizard’s opinion…

Do you have an artifact or relic that you wield, bringing magic to others, and helping you to be your best?

The Danger of Comfort

“A winner never quits, and a quitter never wins.”

“Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.”

“Fatigue makes cowards of us all.”

These words are burned into my memory—all statements attributed to the great football coach Vince Lombardi. Lombardi is a hero of my dad’s, and for great reason; he coached the Green Bay Packers to victory in the first two Super Bowls back in the 60’s, and of course the Super Bowl trophy now bears his name. Lombardi is something of a legend; he was an aggressive, hard-nosed player in college but was too small for pro football. Formerly a student of religion aspiring to be a priest, Lombardi found his true calling as a coach, leader, and motivator of men on the gridiron.

My dad was also an aggressive, tough-minded athlete. He’s also had much success in leading, motivating and competing in the business world, primarily in the fields of sales and marketing. Lombardi inspired him to be his best, and Dad taught his wife and eight kids to perform at the highest level too. I remember seeing pictures of Lombardi, along with his words of wisdom and inspiration, posted on the refrigerator, in the bathroom mirror, and on the dashboard of the family car. Even when Dad was not around to watch, push, and inspire us because of long hours and hard work he himself was putting in, Coach Lombardi was seemingly watching over us—drilling those mantras into our heads and hearts.

Lombardi was not the only performance-enhancing guru whose picture and words were posted strategically around the house. I distinctly recall seeing quotes from guys like Reggie Jackson, George Brett, Muhammad Ali, leaders like the founding fathers, and many, many business and self-help gurus. Pictures of competitors like Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, and Joe Montana decorate Dad’s office to this day. And of course, Dad instilled in us the love of learning and good books.

One of my favorite books—which happened to be recommended to me by Dad—is “The E-Myth Revisited,” by Michael E. Gerber. The byline is “Why most small businesses don’t work and what to do about it.” It’s about business success, but mostly it’s about how people need to change and develop in order for their business to do the same. It’s a great read, with applications for personal, family, and professional growth.

One of my favorite messages in the book is this: your business is a distinct reflection of who you are. If my business is sloppy, disorganized, or chaotic, it’s because I am sloppy, disorganized or chaotic. If I’m late, disengaged, or bored with the work, I’m late on the inside, disengaged on the inside, bored on the inside. I think the same could be said with how we show up for other aspects of life too—family life, community service, school, and so on. To change results, we need to change ourselves and our approach.

When we settle inside, accept the status quo, and only do what we have done before, we’re living in the Comfort Zone. This can lead to despair and cynicism. As Gerber says, “When the dream is gone, the only thing left is work… The day-to-day grind of purposeless activity.” You don’t need to be a business owner, manager, leader, or even be employed to feel that, do you? That Comfort zone will creep into every facet of life.

Vince Lombardi was anything but comfortable with the status quo. After his two Super Bowl-winning seasons, he became the general manager of the team for a year, and then went on to coach the Washington Redskins to their first winning season in 14 years. Look at any great leader, great manager, great athlete, great husband, wife, mother, father, or friend, and I bet you’ll see someone who is equally unsatisfied with living in the Comfort Zone; who pushes themselves to grow and be better.

My dad is also uneasy in the Comfort Zone—hence the reminders, notes, and goals he posts everywhere. When I was a kid, he even had a t-shirt screen-printed with the phrase “actenthusiasticandyou’llbeenthusiastic!” You’ve got to say it fast—and out loud—for the magic to work! The motto reminded himself and others of the power our spirit has over our minds and moods. He is a huge goal-setter and goal-achiever, always pushing himself to be his best at work, at home, and in his church and other activities.

In my own life, I’ve challenged my status quo in a handful of ways this year. I quit a job that was becoming more like the day-to-day grind of meaningless activity Gerber wrote about, and took a new job with a new company. My pay is a little lower, but the possibilities are endless, and I am endlessly energized by my new job. I’ve changed some eating habits, and have lost over 50 pounds in the last 7 months. I have been more consistent about exercising, becoming more fit, and enjoying family time, sports and other outdoor activities much more.

The Comfort Zone is anything but comfortable. It stalls us, slows us, and stunts our growth. It extinguishes dreams. It creates fear of the unknown, unimagined, and untested. The Comfort Zone dulls our senses, levels our peaks, and keeps us fear-bound to our valleys. Vince Lombardi’s charge for well-conditioned athletes was clear and compelling (“fatigue makes cowards of us all,” he'd say). But I think the final thoughts on comfort in Gerber’s book hit harder:

“Your Comfort Zone has been the tight little cozy planet on which you have lived, knowing all the places to hide because it’s so small. Your Comfort Zone has seized you before, and it can seize you again, when you’re least prepared for it, because it knows what it means to you. Because it knows how much you want to be comfortable. Because it knows what price you are willing to pay for the comfort of being in control. The ultimate price, your life… Comfort overtakes us all when we’re least prepared for it. Comfort makes cowards of us all.”

What will you do today, to break out of your cozy little Comfort Zone?

The Oil Change

I have been commuting from Seattle to Portland, Oregon for a few months. Typically I’m traveling from Seattle, working ten or eleven days straight, then coming home for three or four days—wash, rinse, repeat. This necessitates my cramming everything into those little weekend stretches—family time, handyman projects, Scout and Church stuff, and hopefully, a little rest. It makes for some pretty action-packed weekends, as I don’t get any time to do little things around the home and family during those week-or-two stretches when I’m away. Four or five weekends ago, I had a crazy-long to-do list.

With the family, there was playing basketball, going on a hike, taking a bike ride, catching a movie and getting caught up on TV shows. There was a meeting or two for Church and Boy Scout stuff. And my fix-it list was extensive: our garbage disposal needed to be replaced, the van was leaking water onto the floor pretty badly and I needed to figure out why (and put an end to it somehow), my son’s 91 Lexus (yeah that’s how he rolls) needed new brake pads and rotors, and my Camry needed an oil change.

Years of working, thousands of pages of self-help and management books, and hours of professional workshops have trained me to get the toughest projects out of the way first. Plumbing jobs are the worst—nasty, dirty work without the payoff that working on a car brings. Two or three hours on your back, in sludge under a sink or toilet, and maybe something stops dripping. Put the same time in under a car, and you get to places quicker, safely, more comfortably. The same goes for fixing an appliance, musical instrument, and other home repairs—there’s a satisfying reward. But plumbing, man I can’t stand plumbing… The garbage disposal would be done first.

Friday night, I got the garbage disposal done without much of a struggle, and had dinner and a little fun with the family. I also picked up some motor oil and an oil filter, and made sure the rotors and pads we had gotten were the right ones for Ethan’s Lexus. I did a little research online and figured the issue with the van leaking on the floor under the dash was likely a clogged AC line. I found out how to get to that line and check and clear the obstruction, if that was indeed the issue. I was good to go for an early start Saturday!

Saturday morning, after a game of basketball with the kids, I got to work on the car issues, deciding to get the van done first. Pulling the trim pieces out, and peeling back carpet to be sure it was drying and not getting moldy, turned out to be the toughest part of the job. I easily found the hose and was able to clear a blockage with lots of water pouring onto the concrete and street. I was later able to pull the van into the garage, crack the windows, and use a fan to dry it out. Job number two was done!

After a little break, it was on to the next big job—brakes on a 1991 Lexus LS400 that had not been thoroughly maintained, and spent some time in police impound (I’m pretty sure this car has some stories to tell!) Ethan got a great deal on it, but we have some work to do, starting with the brakes. A pretty good mechanic we had used quoted $400 for rotors, pads, and labor—and we were looking to do it for around a hundred dollars on our own! I figured there would be some stuck bolts and that the old rotors wouldn’t come off too easily, but 300 bucks is 300 bucks. We’d get it done!

The job went easier than I thought. Ethan and I were able to get it done in about an hour and a half, with minimal hammer usage or bloodied knuckles. Only a couple bolts required us both cranking on them, and the rotors came off without much trouble. The pads had worn almost completely down to just metal grinding on metal, but it now rides great after our repair job. I was on a roll, having saved hundreds of dollars that weekend, getting things done for the family, and feeling productive and satisfied with the work. Only a simple oil change in our Camry remained, which should have been a snap compared to all the other jobs.

I got under the lifted Camry, pulled a pan under the drainplug, and watched the oil ooze out. The car requires synthetic oil, and going to a dealer or oil change place would cost a lot more than doing it myself, and take about the same amount of time, when you figure in drive time. And it just feels good to get my hands dirty, be productive, and do something on my own. This would be a breeze—I was on the home stretch of that long list!

I quickly ran into my first hurdle—this car uses a cartridge type oil filter, not one that screws on. This was the first time I was changing oil on this car—the previous oil changes had been done for free under the service agreement that came with the car a couple years ago. My wrench did not work, as the access was just different from the usual canister type screw on filters. I tried to rig a solution using vise grips, adjustable wrenches, and so on, but had no luck. Back to the parts store.

I got a wrench that they thought might work; in fact the only wrench they had that might work. They were wrong. I did some research, found out what I needed, took it back, and visited a different parts store that did have the right sized wrench. Getting under the car again and cranking away at the filter cartridge, I soon found the wrench wouldn’t work. It was made of plastic, and was not holding up under the torque. The socket driver stripped out the little 3/8” square hole.

This was when I started praying, silently pleading, ‘Lord, I’m working hard here! I’m doing my best! The family and I are making real sacrifices with me working so much away from home. I’m doing all I can to be self-sufficient, a good example to my family. I’m spending time wisely, going to church, serving as much as my crazy schedule allowed. This is a righteous desire, and I know that you will help me finish this so we can be thrifty, get time as a family, and have a safe car to ride in! Please help me.’ I knew in my heart the Lord would help me get it done.

Back to another parts store that had a metal wrench, and this time, I had to ride my mountain bike, as the other cars were being used, and of course the Camry was on jack stands with the oil drained. I picked up the filter wrench, noting the only issue—this metal filter wrench was a millimeter too big. In the research I’d been doing throughout this, the worst oil change ever, I learned that others had used a wrench that was this size successfully, and just stuffed paper towels or a t-shirt into it to make up the small bit of space left by the one millimeter gap. That didn’t work for me—I tried different fabrics, one, two and three layers of paper towel, but the tool just wouldn’t grip the filter. I was out of ideas and out of patience.

I’d had enough, so Darcie called Jiffylube… Yeah, they were open til 7:00, yeah, they could fit us in for sure. I dumped the old oil back in the Camry (which made me cringe) and headed to Jiffylube, getting there 20 minutes before closing. At last this ordeal was gonna be over—the end was in sight! As I pulled up behind the one car that was in the garage, the Jiffylube guy told me the car ahead of me had just gotten there and needed every fluid and filter changed—they would not be able to take care of me that night. Are you kidding me?!?!

Time to head back home, many hours wasted on this project that should have taken a half hour. As I pulled out of Jiffylube, I spotted an auto parts store that I had never noticed before, and decided to pull in, without much hope. I could have hugged the greasy looking guy who rang me up! They had the exact wrench I needed, made of good hard steel. I couldn’t believe it! I got home and got the job done in 15 minutes, a huge sense of triumph, relief and gratitude lifting me.

Many who read this won’t believe this was any kind of miracle or evidence that God, karma, or any higher power is watching over us. Having been through it, and looking back at the purely comical way I was trying to solve this problem, using improper tools, many, many trips back and forth to four different parts stores, scrambling away, shoving t-shirts into ill-fitting tools, I think the Lord was telling me a few things:

 

• Begin with the end in mind. I’d never changed the oil in this car before. I should have done more prep, and not assumed the old wrench I’d been using for years on older cars would work on this newer one. A little prep would have saved hours. New wine, old bottles; new problems, old methods. How many times have we stumbled like this?

• Ask for the help you need—early. It took me hours to decide to pray for help—or to reach out and seek guidance in any way. I was an hour into what should have been a 15 minute job before I started to dig in online and research wrench sizes, etc. I’m a proud guy and hate asking for help. This was a reminder that there is no satisfaction in being resolute, but wrong.

 

• Sometimes you don’t get that help you need—from above or from anywhere—until you’ve done all you can do. I think that’s the real lesson I needed to learn, or re-learn that day. Pride gets in the way. I was a little full of myself, counting the money I saved, patting myself on the back, bragging happily to my family about all the work I was getting done. I needed to be reminded that all these things came from a power and source way beyond me and this life and world.

I’m grateful I was able to get the work done, and was able to have my belief and faith strengthened by a minor miracle in the grand scheme of life. I know many see this as coincidence, and that’s okay. I know many see it as good fortune or a lucky break; that's okay too. I know many will say something like, ‘Kevin, your oil was going to get changed one way or another—would you have seen it as an answered prayer if Jiffylube had just gotten it done that night?’ You know, I think I would have seen it as answered prayer, as I would have learned all those bold-face lessons above even if Jiffylube had finished the job for me.

I guess that is one thing that makes a person a believer—seeing evidences of God’s love in little things that others see as coincidence... little things that happen every day. What minor miracles are going to strengthen your faith today? And what can we do to create experiences like these for ourselves and those we care about? I'm going to make a greater effort to look for—and recognize—those little miracles today.

 

 

Beast Mode!

I’ve been a Scoutmaster for two years. I realize that’s an unexpected first line for a story titled ‘Beast Mode,’ but bear with me a moment, and let’s see if I can tie this together…

Two years as a Scoutmaster, and I’d say I’m probably an average Scoutmaster at best, when you look at all that Scoutmastering involves. I could probably be tougher on the merit badge tracking and driving. I could be better at fundraising and organization. I work some nights and most weekends, which can make it hard to attend every single function, training, and planning meeting. However, when it comes to loving the boys and building camaraderie and enjoying the times we have together, I can’t be beat. That’s got to bring my grade up to at least a C+, right?

Boy Scouts go to Scout Camp for a week each summer, and for the last two years we’ve attended Camp Piggott, situated in the Cascade foothills in Washington State. Last year, I was there for the entire action-packed week. The kids got tons of merit badges, and they took third in ‘Charlie’s Challenge,’ a camp wide contest on the last day that requires the use of Scout spirit, skills and knowledge. We’re a relatively new Troop, and that was our first trip to Scout Camp together; to get third in the big finale was pretty awesome, and a tribute to the energy the young men brought. The boys and their families were grateful that I had been able to stay all week, and I’ll admit I felt pretty good about doing it.

This past August, we attended Scout Camp for the second time. I had just changed jobs, and was only able to go up for the first couple days; I had no vacation days to use yet. This year, with my time at camp limited, I determined to make the most of literally every minute, and to really jump in and do everything I could.

The first couple days at Scout Camp, as a leader, your job is to make sure the boys all get to their merit badge classes, to meals, and to Troop activities on time. Basically, you make sure the kids get somewhere, then go sit in the shade and drink a soda if you like. An hour later, you make the rounds, ensure everyone is where they need to be, go back to enjoying the peaceful settings, maybe taking a little hike, attending a brief meeting with other leaders, etc.

Between scheduled activities, you need to keep checking in with the kids, making sure they are on track for the badges they hope to get. Hanging out, having fun, making sure nothing burns down, that’s pretty much a Scoutmaster’s job, if he’s letting the boys lead themselves and each other, and that’s what I aim to do, for their growth as much as for my own enjoyment.

This year, with only 48 hours or so to spend with the kids, I resolved to approach Scout Camp differently. I resolved to be engaged, to be present, to getting a week’s worth of leading and playing and mentoring and working into those 48 hours. The boys were not going to get any less from me this year because of time and logistics... This year, for two days, I was gonna be in Beast Mode!

I don’t know where the term ‘Beast Mode’ originally comes from, but here’s what I understand: The Transformers got tired of turning into cars and robots, and decided they’d get better ratings by turning into giant gorillas and dinosaurs. I’m sure it is more complex than that, but that’s all I remember TV teaching me about Beast Mode. When we were kids, my brother Mike had his own version of Beast Mode. On days when the chore list was exceptionally long, he would start singing the theme to the Lone Ranger (the William Tell Overture to my civilized readers) when we'd set in to the yard work, weeding and raking in a frenzied pace to finish the job more quickly—Beast Mode circa 1980!

Most commonly, at least in my circles here in the Pacific Northwest, Beast Mode is the nickname of Seattle Seahawks running back Marshawn Lynch, an explosive, aggressive runner who goes over and through anything and anyone in his path. As a fan of Seattle’s arch rivals, the San Francisco 49ers, it’s tough for me to wax poetic on Lynch, but he has had some of the most incredible runs I’ve ever seen. In the 2011 wild card playoff game against the Superbowl champion New Orleans Saints, Lynch had a 67-yard touchdown run that sealed the Seahawks victory. That run is a blast to watch, even for a Seahawks-hater like me; he seems to be touched by every member of the Saints—some of them more than once. Marshawn bounds through, around, and over every one of them, bouncing off of and knocking down Saints, showing his explosive speed and unbeatable spirit. This run, more than perhaps any other, exemplifies Beast Mode.

Marshawn will not define Beast Mode, he says it just comes out of him on the field. I’ll attempt to define it though. Beast Mode seems to me to be a mixture of intense effort, concentration, presence, and engagement. You can almost see the joy radiating from Lynch during these explosive bursts on the field—totally existing in the moment, doing what he loves, loving what he does, and giving his all. That’s Beast Mode!

And that was to be my approach at Scout Camp this year. Last year, as the kids jumped in the lake at 7 a.m. to take their swimming tests, I watched and took pictures, warm and dry on the shore. This year, I was the first one in the water, and went swimming a couple other times in the two days I was there—three lake swims in two days! Last year, I was content to hang back and relax when they did a strenuous activity. This year, I did it all, including a fun mountain bike ride/impromptu race on a great new course the camp staff had just built. I gave it my best at the archery range (winning our troop contest and earning Bowman Classification), and jumped in to every activity I could, even a few merit badge classes. And at night we played cards, teaching each other new games, playing for gummy bears as I dealt.

Those two days were two of the most enjoyable, satisfying days I’ve had in months. Living in Beast Mode for a couple days, and contemplating the experience following Scout Camp, got me thinking of the difference between merely participating and truly engaging. As I mentioned a moment ago, last year was a great trip; I had fun, the kids had fun, and their families were greatly appreciative of me and my ‘sacrifice.’ This year, due to my being truly engaged, Scout Camp was infinitely better—I experienced more, I spent more on-purpose time with the boys, I achieved more and expanded my own abilities. I was able to give more help to the kids in courses they were challenged by, and they even gave me tips on how to perfect my splash in cannonballing off the dock. This year’s camp experience was better in every way.

The whole experience also got me thinking about other areas of my life I can improve by living in Beast Mode. My relationship with my family, my performance at work, my self-esteem, and even my physical and emotional health all seem markedly better as I’ve attempted to live in Beast Mode in different facets of life. I’m sure there are times I radiate the same kind of joy in my life that Marshawn Lynch does as he throws an opponent to the ground, running right over him.

A challenge for today: take a quick inventory, and see what area of your life can improve by your turning on and shifting into Beast Mode! Run at that part of life with all you have—and see what kind of pure joy emanates as you fully engage, give it all you’ve got, and find a way through the obstacles thrown your way. Let's spend today in Beast Mode!

Remembering Townes Van Zandt

Days, up and down they come

Like rain on a conga drum

Forget most, remember some

But don’t turn none away

Everything is not enough

Nothing is too much to bear
Where you been is good and gone
All you keep is the getting there

To live is to fly

Low and high
So shake the dust off of your wings
And the sleep out of your eyes

   From “To Live is to Fly”
   By Townes Van Zandt

 On a gray January day in 1997 I drove to work. My commute was easy, 15 or 20 minutes through the suburbs northwest of Portland, Oregon. I turned the radio to KBOO and my favorite show, Music from the True Vine—a once-a-week audio stew made of mostly bluegrass and old time music. It was really the only radio I listened to; it was CD’s, tapes or vinyl otherwise. But this three hour block each Saturday morning was always refreshing. You’d hear new traditional acts, old classics, newgrass, folk and old timey stuff that blurred lines around Americana genres—but still all firmly rooted in the high lonesome sound created by Bill Monroe five or six decades earlier.

 
When I would tune into this show and catch the middle of a song partway through the program, I was usually pleased, often delighted, and rarely disappointed—they played some great tunes! That morning, however, I was floored. They were playing Townes Van Zandt.

Townes was born in 1944 in Texas, and spent his life bouncing around Colorado, Montana, and the Lone Star State. At the age of 12 he got a guitar for Christmas, having seen Elvis on The Ed Sullivan Show a couple months before. He was a bright, athletic kid, born to a wealthy Texas family. He attended college for a few years, eventually joining a pre-law program. But Townes had some serious struggles from a young age—during his youth and college years he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and manic depression. He endured invasive treatments for those conditions, including shock therapy that reportedly caused memory loss.

Townes self-medicated with drugs and alcohol from an early age. He dropped out of college and tried to join the Air Force, but was turned down due to his mental illness. Inspired by singing, songwriting, guitar-picking musical heroes like Bob Dylan, Hank Williams, Lightnin’ Hopkins, and Doc Watson, he set out to make a living playing and singing in local bars, playing covers of his idols’ songs. His father encouraged him to write his own material, which he began to do in the late 60’s.

Townes Van Zandt was astonishingly prolific in the late 60’s and early 70’s, cranking out an album a year. He never ‘hit it big,’ and lived mostly in cheap motels, trailer homes, and sleeping on friends’ couches. He was in and out of rehab many times, drugs and alcohol ravaging his body, killing his voice, and stifling his talent over time.

His recordings brought little commercial success, but were well received by critics and a small but loyal fan base in the folk music community. The response reminds me of Velvet Underground’s—who sold a painfully small amount of records, but seemingly inspired every one of their early listeners to go on and make music of their own. The folk and outlaw-country artists loved Townes’ stuff, and his songs were recorded by many legends—Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Doc Watson, and Emmylou Harris to name just a few. Steve Earle, one of America’s finest singer-songwriters in his own right, is quoted as saying that Townes was “the best songwriter in the whole world, and I’ll stand on Bob Dylan’s coffee table in my cowboy boots and say that.”

That’s a bold proclamation—even Earle himself has backtracked a bit on that statement, as the sheer volume and genius of Dylan’s work is unparalleled. However, I will echo that Townes at his best is truly transcendent, his poetry raw and dripping with emotion; by turns lifting you high, knocking you out, burying you deep.

I was introduced to Townes’ music in 1991, when I bought a used tape at a Utah record store for $2.99. Live at the Old Quarter is a double album recording of a set he played at a Houston club in 1975. I picked it up because his name sounded familiar, and I recognized nearly every one of the 25 songs on the album. Pure economics was a factor too—that’s like a dime a song! Some of the tracks, like “Nine Pound Hammer” were old traditional covers I had loved to sing myself. Many, like “White Freightliner Blues” were standards at bluegrass jams or shows I’d attended, though I was unsure of the original songwriter’s identity. A few of them, like “If I Needed You” and “Pancho and Lefty” were songs I had loved through other artists’ recordings, but had never heard Townes sing them. I figured at less than three bucks, the album was a pretty good gamble.

Imagine my surprise when I learned he had written darn near all of those songs! The album was a treasure chest, and it became a time machine, best friend and personal therapist all in one double length cassette case package. It seemed every mood or emotion I ever had or felt, good bad or ugly, could be understood, relived and finally lifted by a quiet listen to this warts-and-all recording of a small show Townes played in the summer of 1975. I quickly became a fan, then a disciple, and ultimately an evangelist for Townes’ talent, sharing my affinity for his songs with every music lover I knew. I picked up most of his albums, but the polished, occasionally-over-produced studio records and other live albums don’t live up to the stripped bare, pure listening experience found on Live at the Old Quarter.
 

Goodbye to all my friends

It’s time to go again
Think of all the poetry
And the pickin’ down the line

I’ll miss the system here

The bottom’s low and the treble’s clear
But it don’t pay to think too much
On things you leave behind

I may be gone

But it won’t be long
I’ll be bringin’ back the melodies
And rhythm that I find

Rolling through my regular route that Saturday morning in ’97, the routine of my day was shaken. As I tuned in to the bluegrass show and heard Townes singing, I was delighted—what an unexpected treat. I sang along, my day brightened already—that’s the way to start your workday! Even better, the radio played another Townes song; a double-shot with no DJ commentary to disrupt the magical moment. A few minutes later, I listened to Townes begin singing a third song as I pulled into the parking lot, and my heart sank. “Townes is gone,” I said out loud. Tears welled up in my eyes, and the announcer somberly dedicated the show to Townes. He confirmed what my heart knew—this generally unknown icon, one of my musical heroes, had died three days earlier, way too young at the age of 52.

Ultimately, his drug and alcohol abuse—the endless descending cycles of rehab, detox, and relapse—intertwined with the mental illness and hard living Townes endured for decades caught up to him. The blues-soaked songs that had brought such joy to so many—including the depressed and mentally ill—could not save Townes. It still pains and perplexes me—how could a soul that produced so much intelligence, wit, humor, depth and light have been the same one that was tortured so cruelly, and ultimately destroyed by such darkness? I’m not sure we can ever fully know the answer to that question in this life.
 

We all got holes to fill
Them holes are all that’s real
Some fall on you like a storm
Sometimes you dig your own

The choice is yours to make

Time is yours to take
Some dive into the sea,
Some toil upon the stone

To live is to fly

Low and high
So shake the dust off of your wings
And the sleep out of your eyes

Shake the dust off of your wings

And the tears out of your eyes

What I do know, is Townes Van Zandt brightened countless days for me. I was lifted up often, whether picking “White Freightliner Blues” at a bluegrass jam, singing “Pancho and Lefty” with my Dad, listening to Emmylou Harris sing “If I Needed You,” or hearing Townes himself playing my favorite of his songs, “To Live Is To Fly.” Throughout that day in January, his words ran through my mind, long after Townes stopped singing. And once again he pulled me from melancholy to grateful, helping me dust off my wings and get on with the work. Rest in peace, Townes. You are missed.