I'm the King of the World

Up close and personal with my lawnmower

I've been writing this blog on and off for a year and a half, give or take. I have written of triumphs and failures, adventures and pratfalls, lessons learned, all kinds of memories-- good, bad, and otherwise. Life can be tough. So can we!

Isn't it great when you get those little wins that just put wind in your sails? Maybe you unlock the solution to a problem, achieve a goal you have set, or take care of that task that has just been bothering you forever. I got some things done this week that make me feel like I'm the king of the world!

First, some background information... We've had two lawnmowers in our almost 25 years of marriage. The first was an old, beat-up electric mower; its origin is a mystery, as are its current whereabouts. It barely functioned, but helped me keep our small yard in order. About 16 years ago, my father-in-law bought us a shiny new gas mower, a sturdy Craftsman that has cut and chewed through everything we've thrown at it.

I have taken pretty good care of it; keeping the oil clean, not letting old gas sit in it over the winters, even changing the air filter as needed. It has performed well, but in the past three or four years it has run increasingly rough-- a few stalls here and there, a little sputtery at times, and sometimes tough to start. In fact, beginning last spring, it would only start if I popped the air filter housing off and sprayed some starter fluid in the little hole behind it (something I learned last year. Thank you, internet!)

So last year, it made it through the summer fine, and in fact I put in a new spark plug, air filter, changed the oil, and drained the fuel tank. All the stuff the internet told me a good lawnmower owner ought to do. In the fall, I put it in the garage to hibernate for the winter, and haven't thought about it since. Or at least I hadn't thought about it, at least not until about a month and a half ago. That's when I first felt the touch of a peculiar kind of madness.

As February turned into March, the sun came out, the grass started growing, and every week or so there would be a day suitable for mowing. The front yard was getting pretty scraggly and uneven, and the backyard grass was becoming really hard for Piper to navigate through.

It was time to get to work.

So I filled the gas can with new gas, filled the lawnmower's tank, checked the oil and air filter, shot a blast of starter fluid into it, and yanked on the cord. Reluctantly, the mower sputtered and stuttered and finally, rebelliously started... I mean I could feel this thing just doing its best not to start-- it just wanted to rest.

But I got it going, and because it was running a bit inconsistently I decided to start with the front lawn in case it just gave up on me-- I gotta keep the neighbors and the (HOA) man happy. It stuttered a couple times and stalled out, but I nursed it back to life with the starter fluid and carefully made it through the front yard. As I made my way to the back yard, I had to blast more starter fluid into it just to get it to fire up again. I made a couple passes across the lawn, and Old Faithful just gave up-- it would not start.

I worked on it for a while, blasting more fluid, adjusting the starter cord, monkeying with the spark plug, triple checking the oil, grimacing, sweating, praying, growling, but the thing would not start. Oh well, at least the front was done, I could keep the man off my back, and there was a fifteen by four foot patch that Piper could get up and down. This would buy me a week, maybe two...

My mowing buddy

So I spent a week researching everything I could about mowers. I downloaded a pdf of the owner's manual, and even downloaded a copy of the manual for the old Tecumseh engine that powers it. I learned how to oil the bore (after learning what a bore is and why you would oil it). I learned how to test spark plugs (not by spitting, licking, or doing anything else unsavory to them). I even learned how to take apart the carburetor (after I learned where to find it and what its function was).

I drained the fuel in the mower, thinking maybe some condensation was in the lines somewhere. I drained the gas can, worried there may have been a couple ounces of bad gas or even water condensation that had contaminated the fuel I put into the mower. I freaked out my family by having a big bucket of dirty drained gas in the garage (don't worry, I put a lid on it). I learned about two-cycle and four-cycle engines, and which was which and what I had.

I had been perusing Craigslist for mower repair, and I caught my eyes wandering over to the used lawnmowers, doing math in my head. We just had a $1200 car repair, and on top of that we still need a new radiator for the van... The budgeted amount we have for a lawnmower is about the same we'd spend for a tune-up-- maybe 60 bucks. The old beaters that "run like new!" and were "just serviced" were going for as little as $60-- maybe that was the way to go!

But at this point I had become Captain Ahab, and this mower was the great white whale that had taken a bite out of me or worse, a bite out of my pride. This thing haunted my every waking minute, and I promise you, I even dreamt of the cursed machine. I even took a personal holiday to try to will it to life. I don't even take personal holidays on real personal holidays, like kids' birthdays and stuff. The more I fought with this thing, the more determined I was to get it working. I had what I would call a healthy obsession, although reading my own words now makes me question how healthy this whole ordeal has been.

I cleaned and reassembled the carb and some other parts again, this time taking care to run a piece of wire through the teeny little (pretty much invisible) hole in the bolt that holds the float bowl to the bottom of the carburetor-- surely that was it! But nope, just a couple sputters when I tried to start it.

I changed the oil again, to be sure. I bought another spark plug, to be sure. I got new gas, to be sure. I had done everything I could do that could be done by an amateur mechanic like me. In fact, I did everything that a professional mechanic would do to this mower, short of completely stripping and rebuilding the engine. I had certainly done everything included in the tune-ups I saw being offered around town for $60 to $90. My spirits sank... The whale was winning.

After watching my one-jillionth youtube video of a guy named Zeke or Earl tearing apart a lawnmower (my apologies to the perfectly gentlemanly Zekes and Earls out there), I had the thought to take apart the carb again, clean everything, and stick it all back together. The only problem... it was almost midnight when I had this notion.

But I just knew this was it-- I had probably missed something, perhaps putting the float bowl on backwards so the float couldn't drop all the way. Or maybe the o-ring or a gasket was kinked, letting in air, throwing off the mixture's proportions. Maybe something just needed to be tightened. Or cleaned. Or lubricated. This had to be it! There was nothing else that could be done, and nothing else that could cause the problems I was having. My lawnmower didn't just 'get broken,' right?

So there I was, repairing the mower in my garage at midnight, my clangs and clinks the only sounds to be heard in our normally pretty quiet neighborhood. About an hour later, well after midnight, I tightened the last bolt and cleaned up my work station (comprising a cluttered bench top and my yard waste bin, which put the mower right about chest height, perfectly comfortable for Captain Ahab's stiffening back).

I stared the mighty beast in its face, or at least at that front part. I ceremoniously declared that I would start the mower 'on the morrow' (yeah, those were the words I used as I spoke to my nemesis). It was kind of late, and if I truly was able to fix it, I wanted to roll right out the door and mow like the wind, and that of course couldn't happen at 1 a.m. I got a perfectly comfortable night's sleep, while visions of me mowing like the wind danced around in my dreams. I'm telling you, I just knew it was going to start.

I woke up bright and early (okay, at like 8:10 or something) and put on my mowin' pants and work gloves. I shot a fresh blast of starter fluid down its throat and faced the moment of truth. I yanked the cord. The great beast sputtered, shook, and growled for just a second, then quit. Again, I repeated the ritual-- pull the air filter off, spray, stick the filter on, yank the cord, cough, cough, sputter, dead. I did it again, and again, and then once more. It was clear to me this beast was just not going to start. The white whale had won, swallowing the last of my pride, and any semblance of manliness that remained.

I looked more intently at the used mowers online, and noticed that this one guy who had a couple mowers for sale also did repairs. I called him up, and we talked for about twenty minutes about the finer points of lawnmower mechanics and witchcraft. Jim (that was the guy's name) was really helpful, and I had tried 19 and a half of the 20 things he suggested. But he gave me some good tips and told me to call him if they didn't work, and he'd see what he could do.

I won't lie, it was kind of cool having a chat with another lawnmower matador and sort of knowing what I was talking about. I felt how Captain Ahab must have felt when he was talking to the other captains whose legs had been bitten off by various whales and sea creatures. At least I (like they) had given a good fight.

I did the one last thing he mentioned, popping off the float bowl again and checking it really well for varnishing or any sediment in the fuel, but it got me nowhere... Just the same dead mower, snorting for a second, giving me a glimmer of hope, then crushing me with one last whimpering breath.

I am telling you, I was crushed. I mean, this had gone on for weeks now; it consumed every spare thought and minute I had. I looked at the used mowers online, and even at the cheaper new mowers at Home Depot (where they pretty much know me by name, at least in the lawnmower area). There's an old-timer there named Ed who is a really nice guy. But all the mowers Ed showed me were more plastic than metal, and I had taken apart my machine enough times to recognize the crappy, flimsy parts and materials they offered compared to mine, unless I wanted to spend $600 or more (which I couldn't).

As I lazily searched yet again for 'mower repair' online, I stumbled across an ad for some kind of apparent miracle elixir called 'Mechanic in a Bottle,' which you put in the fuel tank to clean out your tank, lines, and carb of any residue or gummy build up. I was, of course, skeptical. I have used additives before, to mixed success (but never real success). In fact, I just dumped an eight dollar bottle of sludge into my van's leaky radiator I mentioned above, and I'm not sure what it even did-- it still drips a bit.

But I read some Amazon reviews and thought, what the heck, it's six bucks. If this doesn't do it, I will have tried absolutely everything else there was to try, three or four times, and it's just time to get another mower. Six bucks was a small price to pay for having my temporary insanity be proven to be, well, temporary. I went back to Home Depot, said hi to Ed, who has been absolutely no help at all, but who is again, really nice, and bought a four-ounce bottle.

I took it home and half-heartedly poured three ounces into the tank, knowing there was no way this snake oil would work. I popped the spark plug out, pressed the primer bulb a bunch of times, and pulled on the starter cord a few times to be sure the potion soaked down deep into the innards of the engine, and then let it sit the recommended four hours. Yes, four hours.

Finally the clock showed 3 pm-- it was, as they say, go-time. I trudged to the garage to try and start it. I did my routine, popping the filter off, a fresh blast of starter fluid, six slow and steady pumps on the primer bulb, then a rip of the cord. And something a little different happened. My half-heartedness became whole-hearted craziness once more; the whale was in my sights. With that first pull of the cord, the mower sputtered and coughed and wheezed and groaned for a good fifteen seconds before it coughed itself back to sleep.

Fifteen seconds! That was about thirteen seconds more than it had done in weeks! I shot another blast of starter fluid into its belly, tugged again, and it shuddered and shook and kept coughing and spewing thick smoke from its muffler... Could this be a sign that the crud that kept it from starting was getting burnt off and exhaled? The mower shook and shuddered and kept on chugging, trying to will itself back to life. I started rolling it toward the lawn, ready to put it to the test.

The mower kept on going, certainly less powerful than it was in its younger years, but a whole lot better than it had all last year. I got through the front lawn again-- once again foiling the man with his camera and his rules and his high standards; we were HOA-compliant in no time! I had tamed the beast! Or brought it to life, or whatever... I was mowing, man!

I knew the real test would be the back yard-- the long grass back there had all but killed the thing a few weeks prior. But before I put it to the big final exam comprised of eight-to-twelve inch tall grass, I thought I'd try an intermediate task...

Skipping the starter fluid, I pumped the bulb six times, pulled on the cord, and...

Time... Stood... Still.

I am not a man who gets emotional very often. In fact, many of you know that empathy was rated as my 34th strongest natural tendency or talent theme-- out of a possible 34 choices. Yes, when you put all the natural talent themes that some really smart people identified in a list, empathy is the one I least display naturally. Now, I took that test ten or twelve years ago, and I imagine I have grown in that time-- and probably grown more emotionally mature and in tune. Maybe. I don't know. Ask my wife. Well, maybe not.

Anyway, the point is, it takes a lot to make me get all mushy and stuff. But when that mower roared back to life, without any starter fluid being poured down its metal gullet, I think a little tear may have dropped from the corner of my eye onto the lawn under my Croc-and-sock-laden feet. It has been years-- years!-- since my baby has started up like that! I'm telling you I relished every minute of that one-hour mow. (Yeah, the back lawn was pretty long and nasty. It took a while).

I think I learned something in that moment. I don't know completely what that something is, but I am confident I learned it. You see, a week ago, I tried to fire it up again, and was back at square one-- nothing. However, this time, instead of weeping, groaning, sweating, comfort-eating and the like, I jumped on Amazon and one-click-ordered a new carburetor for $14. This hadn't dawned on me before, but had just come to mind.

The carburetor arrived last Saturday. I took a half hour or so, put that sucker on my mower, and it is roaring like new! I've tried it since, and I'm telling you, it is good to go, and there is no hesitation, no stuttering, no starter fluid fuss or muss.

This simple part swap would have possibly fixed everything a month and a half ago when this all started. However, back then I had no way of knowing that the carburetor was the problem, or even where the carburetor was. Also, had I just swapped out the carb when there was still a bunch of gunk in the fuel lines, or maybe even some bad gas or condensation fouling things up, I might have just messed up the new carburetor, and junked the mower out.

Also, the process of testing different possible issues and learning the ins and outs of small motor operation and repair has really gotten me sharper, and I'm now better prepared to handle other potential issues that may arise with this mower, future mowers, and maybe even other motor-driven devices. I even thought it might be fun to fix mowers part-time on the side. If genius is 99% perspiration and 1% inspiration, I feel like the Edison of lawnmower repair... but that could just be the emotional high talking.

I don't know how many more seasons I'll have with my old gal (I'm talking about my mower, of course). It'seems to be running like it may give me another 16 years, but we'll see. But I do know that I have figured this thing out, and it was tough, maddening, dirty work. But you know what? Today, and every time I mow the lawn with the old Craftsman, I feel like I can do anything. Almost like...

I'm the king of the world.

Musings from the Saddle on a Warm Spring Night

The girls and I had a great time on our bikes last night! We rode along the Columbia River and Vancouver Lake, on one of the first warm, sunny evenings of the year.

The route is really nice-- a (mostly) paved trail that runs along the lake, at times in the shade and mostly in the sun. It rolls along small rivers and creeks and eventually along the mighty Columbia River. Mounts Hood, St. Helens and even Adams were all clearly in view on this perfect evening. Where else can you stand in one spot and see three volcanic peaks, a richly historic river, and an inviting blue lake (and get home in 20 minutes?)

We rode past fields of crops packed with geese, stretching their wings in the warm setting sun. Red-winged blackbirds sang and flitted through acres of wild blackberry bushes. We took a break on the sandy beach, and watched a massive tanker slowly trudging upriver. We laughed and ate gummy bears and those chewy coke-bottle things, while a couple of kids rode out of control, dragging their shoes on the ground to stop just short of crashing into the sand and rocks.



My view most of the ride

The path has markings every quarter-mile, and we started racing each other, alternating quarter-mile sprints with quarter mile rests. At first, I dusted them both. After the fourth or fifth sprint, I had no chance of winning. It was a blast, and a nice little workout. And of course it got me pondering life and... stuff. Following are some musings I had while in the saddle. Well, mostly while in the saddle-- some of these thoughts came a bit later.

The ride home goes right past a Frito-Lay factory. There is approximately a half-mile radius of motivation-killing, fitness-fighting, crave-inducing hypnotic potato chip aroma. In the twenty-four hours since my ride, I have consumed about a pound and a half of Cheddar Jalapeno Crunchy Cheetos. I blame this bike ride for my binge-- it was partly my calorie deficit, and partly the hypnotic snack stank. But still, I blame the bike ride.

I should have worn bike shorts. Even though it was just an hour or so in the saddle, that hour took its toll. I repeat... I should have worn bike shorts-- this is not the burn I had hoped to feel.

Annelise and Corrinne have gotten really good at bike-handling, and they ride fast. This made it so much more fun to ride together-- hanging in a group, and pushing each other when we needed it. When they were littler I nicknamed them 'Speedy' and 'Hammer.' It's fun to see them riding like this!

The Boy Scouts were right about their motto, 'Be prepared.' It took me about three hours to get the bikes tuned up, to get extra tubes, to get the rack on the van, etc. I'm glad I did, as I caught a slowly leaking tube and some brakes that needed a tweak or two. Had we just thrown the bikes in the back of the van and rode as is, we'd have had at least one flat, and no spare tube. In my experience, manic over-preparing pretty much ensures nothing bad will happen with the bikes. And even if it does, well, we're ready for it.

A little rest break

I gotta lose some weight. I mean, really, I gotta lose some weight. We have set our sights on climbing Mt. St. Helens this summer, and I do not want to be holding anyone back for that. I have anointed Annelise and Corrinne my fitness and diet coaches, instructing them to pester and push me into getting healthier. We'll see how this goes... Annie especially loves dealing out the tough love. I worry her 'coaching' may drive me to even more drastic stress-eating.

What a resplendent world we live in. Every place I've lived in--and that's a long list-- just has so much beauty and awesomeness and richness to enjoy and explore. What a blessing to be in such a particularly amazing part of the country!

I'm proud of how well Annelise and Corrinne rode-- I couldn't ask for better riding partners. And I'm looking forward to longer rides and some tough hikes with the family this spring and summer. Mt. St. Helens, we're coming for you!

Catching Up with Liam

Today, after an easy 3 mile run

What a difference a year can make! It was exactly a year ago this week that we learned our then-
fourteen-year-old son Liam had an unknown condition causing proptosis of his left eye. Proptosis occurs when the eye is pressed outward for one of several reasons. In Liam’s case, MRIs showed there was clearly some kind of mass pushing outward on his eye and inward on his brain. At the time, neurosurgeons and ophthalmologists thought it was an aneurysmal bone cyst, a sort of boney growth that is filled with blood and other fluid.

To make a long story short, Liam underwent neurosurgery—a craniotomy expected to take three to six hours that actually took about ten. You can read all about this experience in several blog posts starting here. Our wonderful neurosurgeon took care of the issue, using healthy bone from inside his cranium to repair the compromised part of his orbit, and using a little fat from his belly to ensure his eye was in the correct spot. Finally, she used healthy bone, collagen, fibrin glue and titanium microplates to ensure his skull would heal and be strong.

Liam’s recovery was long and challenging. He barely moved for the week he was in the hospital after his surgery. He couldn’t stand sounds of any kind—and light gave him headaches too. He was wonderfully patient and polite with the nurses and other caregivers working with him, even though the varying levels of pressure in his head and spine made every sensory stimulation some form of torture. He never complained; he just quietly and bravely endured the longest week one could imagine.

Recovering, less than a year ago

A few days after the surgery, occupational therapists began working with him, helping him work on his memory, helping him sit up, helping him get his balance back, and assisting him as he gingerly walked around the halls, towing IV bags as we held his arms to keep him steady.

At home, he mostly stayed on the couch for another week or two, occasionally getting up to walk, though it was a few weeks after the surgery before he was able to walk on his own or go up and down stairs. It was hard to imagine that he would ever be his old, talented self.

A month or so after the surgery, Liam was able to get back into his homeschool work and finish 8^th grade. He began the summer before high school still meeting with the occupational therapists every week or two as they monitored his slow progress. Liam was able to start running again, but he’ll never be able to play any contact sports, or even his favorite sports in which there might be incidental contact, like basketball and skateboarding.

Liam was also really struggling to follow a lot of basic verbal directions. He had trouble hearing a command, processing it, remembering it, then following it. As last summer came to a close, the therapists told us that Liam should either have someone accompany him at school, taking notes and helping him stay focused on teachers’ directions, or at the very least get the teachers to write out special lesson plans for him.

With Mom and Grandma Louise

Throughout this entire ordeal, we felt like we had been incredibly blessed by God. We had just moved to the area less than three weeks before his diagnosis, and we received amazing care from wonderful doctors and nurses—we can’t imagine being treated any better. My new job was much more conducive to all his tests and procedures and his long recovery—there’s no way I would have been able to be home and at his appointments as much as I was had we never moved.

We had people from all over the US and Canada praying and fasting for Liam and our family—many of those prayers from people we have never met. We felt the strength of prayers offered in many Mormon temples around North America too. Our home teachers from Church were just amazing, and not coincidentally they were a surgeon and an optometrist, so they had a real interest in and understanding of our situation.

When we moved, we’d decided to let the kids finish the year doing homeschool, which ultimately really helped us get through all of the appointments and recovery okay, without the kids needing to miss all that school. We had no idea about Liam’s condition when the kids started their homeschool program. All that spring and summer, we had seen miracle after miracle—some huge, some small, and all of them just wonderful reminders that we are loved by so many, and most importantly a Heavenly Father who knows what we all go through.

As the start of the school year approached, Liam, Darcie and I felt like we should just let him start with no accommodations, and we’d monitor his grades and use the therapists’ solutions if he really ran into some tough problems. He had always been a bit above average at school, so we were hopeful he would maintain that level and enrolled him in his classes. Six months after undergoing brain surgery, Liam was a high school freshman.

15th birthday

Liam worked really hard at school, and did homework every night. He probably checked his grades online once a day, maybe even more often. He was determined to do well enough to get into a good college, and he put in the work. I’d often see him using the internet to try to figure out math problems and techniques, or studying literary works and commentaries. While I was hopeful he’d do okay, I have to admit I worried that he’d do well enough on his homework, but would struggle with exams.

But Liam pressed forward, taking a circuit training class for PE since he can’t really do a lot of team sports, and also a film production class and the usual reading, writing, arithmetic. He started well, and was getting mostly A’s as he began his first quarter of high school. Week after week, he kept at it, and we were so proud when he finished his first quarter with all A’s and one A-minus!

Now, as he works through his third quarter, he’s still running a 3.95 GPA—just one A minus for the year, and easily the best he has ever done in school by far. He’s also lost 25 pounds, and is in the best shape of his life—he’s so fit and strong! He has also really advanced on the guitar and just plays incredibly well. In every way he is stronger, healthier, and smarter than he has ever been before.

With Ethan and me before a concert

This week—the anniversary of Liam’s diagnosis and the worst challenge of my life—a particular Biblical miracle has stood out to me and taken on new meaning. When Moses led the children of Israel out of Egypt, the Lord parted the Red Sea as they crossed on dry ground. I’ve known that story since I was a little kid, but this week, as I’ve pondered the last year, I am really noticing the significance of that little detail—the dry ground.

They could have walked across damp sand, or jogged past a few puddles here and there, or even run through ankle deep water as they fled the Egyptians. But the Lord ensured the ground was dry! I think God did this so the Israelites would know, without a doubt, that this was His work… It was a miracle, and not an amazing, coincidental feat of nature. I believe He wanted to show them His great power, preparing them for the hardships (as well as other miracles) that lay ahead.

Most importantly, I believe God wanted to show His children that He was absolutely involved with their daily lives, that He absolutely loved them, and that he would absolutely deliver them if they were faithful and simply did their best to walk the path He would provide for them.

A few months after surgery

Thinking of Liam, I can see the path of dry ground the Lord prepared for us as the walls of water stood on every side of our family this year. At every step, we would have been content and grateful for the blessings we’d received so far… The blessing of having great care, the blessing of home schooling at a critical time, the blessing of a supportive employer…

The blessings of gifted surgeons and caring nurses, the blessings of prayer and visits from family and friends and strangers. The blessing of Liam’s successful surgery, of his eye and optic nerve being saved, the blessing of his avoiding meningitis or brain injury. The blessing of his recovery, and ability to walk and run and think. The blessings of increased capacity to work hard at school, to exercise and be fit, to magnify his talents…

The blessing of being able to attend school, and that of attending school without a chaperone or any accommodations at all. Finally, the blessings of achieving his best grades ever, and of being a strong, worthy, obedient young man.

Hiking with his sisters

At any point, this chain of blessings could have ended, and we’d have been grateful for the Lord delivering us that far, with so much love and help. But God chose to deliver us all the way, on figurative dry ground, proving to us without doubt that He lives, that He loves us, and that He will bless us with strength and faith and inspiration, through angels that are spirits and angels that are our friends and family.

I know the Lord does not always just remove obstacles for us, the way He did when parting the Red Sea. I also know that He does not heal every faithful, believing person who has a setback like the one Liam and our family faced. But I do know He chose to show our family His power and love in a way that we could never have expected. He surpassed every hope I had for Liam’s recovery, not only healing Liam and restoring his health, but also blessing him with the capacity, desire and capability of doing things he has never done before, academically and physically.

I really do believe Liam’s experiences are as significant and amazing as the Lord’s miracles in Biblical times, and we’ll be eternally grateful for His intervention in our family’s lives.

Looking forward to more adventures!

Smile! It's Christmastime!

It’s that time of year again. It may have happened to you just this morning. It seems like only a week ago it was Halloween, Veteran’s Day, or Thanksgiving Day. And today you woke up and looked at your calendar, or saw the date in a corner of your computer or your phone and realized… It’s almost Christmas!

I have worked in retail for almost three decades (yes, I started working as a toddler). What I described above happens to me every year—sometimes it’s in early December, sometimes it’s… later December. Many years I have finished my Christmas shopping around 5 pm on Christmas Eve. A couple years, I’ve started it at about that time. So whatever manic mood, blissful ignorance, sheer panic or even terror you feel, I have felt it. And today, I offer you a little help.

I do not know how to turn back the clock or speed up the UPS truck; I offer and claim no mastery or manipulation of the rules of time and space. But I do have some ideas on something that is almost as good. I can help you feel Christmas-y during this frenzied season.

Whether I am worried about money, worried about food, worried about gifts, worried about whatever, connecting myself to Christmas helps me manage the madness, and even enjoy ninety-hour work weeks (I’ve had ‘em). This helps me feel like I’m with the ones I love, even if they are at home while I work… or even if they are hundreds of miles away (many of them are).

Here are my surefire ways to get yourself more into the Christmas mood and thinking of others, thinking of giving, thinking of living and not just surviving. I guarantee at least one or two of these will work for you!

Without further adieu, here are my Christmas Spirit Inducing Secrets… Satisfaction guaranteed.

Watch the right Christmas show or movie. There is a long list of holiday classics that fit the bill here. Elf, the Rankin Bass stuff like Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town, Charlie Brown, A Christmas Story, The Grinch, It’s a Wonderful Life, A Christmas Carol, etc. You have a favorite, you know it. Dust it off, pirate it, borrow it, do whatever you have to do to watch it now!

Everyone in my family loves some Christmas show that no one else gets. One kid loves Polar Express (ugh), another loves Arthur’s Perfect Christmas (better), and my wife loves Charlie and Lola (pretty good). And Spongebob and the Simpsons have a couple good ones too.  Guilty pleasure shows are the best—the ones that you have the most perfect link in the world to. The one that makes you think, “I am the only person on the planet watching this right now.” And it. Is. AWESOME.

My guilty pleasure is Mr. Krueger’s Christmas, a short film done in 1980 starring Jimmy Stewart (the holiday movie king) and produced by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Maybe it is because it just takes me back to my childhood, when my family hunched around a small black and white TV to watch Christmas specials. Maybe it’s because I love the message. Maybe I just love Jimmy Stewart’s enthusiastic portrayal of the title character in one of his last few starring roles… I just love it! My kids make fun of me, of it, of Jimmy, of the little girl, of Jimmy’s daydreaming, but I can barely get through it without tearing up as I remember, once again, the meaning of Christmas. Cheesy, dated, over the top, and absolutely priceless. Watch it until the end!

Watch your favorite un-Christmas movie. You know, a movie that has Christmas as the backdrop, but is not exactly about Christmas. But if you set the movie with, say Arbor Day as the setting, it wouldn’t be quite right. There’s a bunch: Gremlins, Better Off Dead, Batman Returns, Home Alone, some Harry Potter movies, and of course stuff like Die Hard. Note… these movies are not guaranteed to bring the Christmas spirit, but my favorites get me laughing every time. And when you are laughing, you’re probably not stressing.

Make your house smell good. Go to the grocery store and buy the two-dollar bag of pine cones that smell like Big Red chewing gum. It will give you a Christmas buzz every time you go in the same room as said bag of pine cones. I love me some Big Red scented pine cones.

Maybe that’s not your thing. Don’t fret, there are other things you can do to get your house smelling like Mrs. Claus’ kitchen. Go to Pinterest and find an elf’s recipe for homemade Christmas potpourri—just like grandma used to make. Or, be adventurous and start chucking nice smelling stuff into a pan of water and gently heat it til it smells like Christmas. Orange peels, cloves, cinnamon sticks, candy canes, whatever. I bet you can throw enough stuff in that pan to make your Christmas blues fly away on a Christmas-scented breeze.

If that’s not your bag either, get yourself a Christmas-y smelling candle. Come by my house, we have probably a dozen you can sample. Heck, you could probably steal one and we wouldn’t even notice. Nothing like stealing from Uncle Kevin to get you in the Christmas mood! But seriously, as much as I complain about my wife’s candle addiction, they do add an unmistakable difference to the house, especially at Christmastime.

Eat something. Better yet, make something, then eat it. Not just anything, preferably something nice and wintry. An easy favorite of mine is coconut candies with chocolate on top. They’re super easy to make, just a few ingredients (coconut, melted butter, sweetened condensed milk, powdered sugar, maybe a little vanilla) stirred up, then refrigerate and top with a blob of chocolate (melted chocolate chips for example). They only take a few minutes to make, and they are tasty… if you like coconut and chocolate and sugar. It’s one of my favorite things about Christmas—just like Mom taught me to make as a kid.

You’re thinking, right now, about something you like that is sure to put a smile on your face, and make your belly shake like a bowl full of jelly. Make it, or get someone else to make it for you, then devour it, preferably while watching Mr. Krueger’s Christmas in your Snuggie.

One more thing you can make and eat, that has the bonus of making your house smell good—bake some bread. Even if you don’t know how to do it, take a shot at it, and you’ll probably do just fine. And if you mess it up, your home is gonna smell awesome—bonus Christmas spirit. If you haven’t smelled that around your place for a while, you need to try it! My wife made bread this week and the house smelled amazing, and it just felt like Christmas.

If you are just completely pressed for time, and have no one up to the task of making you something tasty, you have my blessing to buy a store-bought treat. Might I suggest Trader Joe’s candy cane-flavored Jo-Jo’s (like Oreos with candy cane flavored crème filling), or pfeffernusse– German spice cookies. There is a 70% chance you will toss the pfeffernusse in the trash, and a 30% chance you will thank me forever if you’ve never had them before. If you like stuff like gingerbread and molasses and ginger snaps, you’ll love pfeffernusse.

So your house smells good and you’ve watched that show or two, and made and eaten plenty of Christmas-y treats, but are still feeling more like Scrooge or the Grinch than Cindy-Lou or Tiny Tim? My next suggestion will help.

Turn on the Christmas music. You probably have a list of favorite songs or albums to listen to this time of year. Here are some of my favorites, with a couple links. I bet there’s something here you’ve never listened to before, or at least not for way too long.

The classics: Elvis, Charlie Brown (by the amazing Vince Guaraldi), and my all-time favorite Christmas classic, the one Johnny Mathis did (called ‘Merry Christmas’). Johnny has a distinctive voice somewhere between Sinatra and Alvin and the Chipmunks, with amazing energy and passion poured into every song. It is perfect to sing along to. In fact, I’m singing along to it now, so forgive me for any typos.

Some fun family favorites: Barenaked Ladies, Cee-Lo, Michael Buble (yeah, I know), Band-Aid, the Carpenters (listen at your own risk), The Lower Lights, and some girl named Taylor Swift.

New age-y stuff: George Winston’s ‘December,’ Windham Hill’s ‘Winter Solstice’ series, Kurt Bestor’s ‘One Silent Night.’

Off the beaten path (and some of my favorites): Sufjan Stevens’ ‘Songs for Christmas’ (check the link above, just amazing, sprawling, by turns silly and beautiful), Patty Loveless’ ‘Blue Grass White Snow’ (awesome bluegrass-tinged, folky country Christmas songs), Brian Setzer Orchestra, Sarah McLachlan’s ‘Wintersong’ (check the link to her cover of the Gordon Lightfoot classic below), and anything by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir… just pick your favorite Christmas song and I guarantee they have sung it.

I like driving around at night with the family or a friend, listening to Christmas music and looking at the lights on all the houses we drive by. Sometimes we count how many houses have Christmas lights on our route. The other day I drove my kids to a function at the church, just a couple miles away, and we counted 39. It reminded me of doing the same thing with my family as a kid, driving home from Grandma’s on Christmas Eve, counting the lights, watching the sky for Santa and his reindeer.

If you’ve followed any of these suggestions, by now you are certainly feeling better about the holidays. I have a few more things that help me really make the most of Christmas. The next one is service.

Doing something for someone else helps us feel more like Jesus, and thus feel more in tune with why we celebrate Christmas. Even if it is simply tipping a waitress a bigger amount than she’s expecting, or giving a few dollars to a homeless man, those little acts of kindness go farther than we’ll ever know. If we can do something even bigger, we’ll feel even better.

I wrote last Christmas Eve about one of my favorite Christmases. The center of that memorable Christmas was my family taking time to do something special for some special people. That story is here if you’d like to read it: http://the-kla.blogspot.com/2014/12/the-best-christmas-ever.html

Speaking of Jesus, the final thought I have is this: read Luke Chapter Two. Even just the first half. It will only take you a couple minutes, but it is a beautiful account of the events surrounding Jesus’ birth. I can’t think of anything that better invites the spirit of Christmas than reading words written by and about Him and His prophets.

I love November and December! Though they are the two most draining, demanding, frustrating and stressful work months I have, they are also the most joy-filled months of the year, if I take a few little moments to remember all I’ve been blessed with, especially the gift of our Savior, Jesus Christ. I hope you have a wonderful holiday season, and seriously, give me a call if you need some Christmas cheer.

Merry Christmas!

 

It's Contagious!

From a movie that was strongly recommended

A couple weeks ago, I was listening to a podcast while I mowed the lawn—hopefully for the last time this year. As an aside, I just hate yardwork. People who love yardwork? They call it gardening… I call it yardwork.

Anyway, I was listening to an author discussing life hacks, personal effectiveness, reading recommendations, and so on. The content of the podcast isn’t what I want to talk about today, however. What stood out is something he mentioned at the end of the 90-minute interview. He thanked his sponsor, Vimeo—one of many places online to watch videos, short films, feature films, independent content, etc. He then made a few recommendations on what to check out on the site.

Of the two or three projects he mentioned, his most glowing recommendation was for a short film, which I think was called ‘Tomorrowland’ (not to be confused with the big Disney movie of the same name).

He talked about this short film with excitement, saying we had to watch it. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen before, it had won prestigious festival awards, it was thought provoking. I have read some good books on his recommendation, I have used tips he has shared, and I read or listen to something by this guy every week. While I don’t agree with all of his content and suggestions, there is a lot I do like. Although he didn’t go into detail on the plot of this short film, his energy really got me excited about watching it!

It had lots of this kind of stuff

So a few days later, I went to Vimeo and found it, then put on my favorite earbuds and started watching it on my phone. There was a short opening sequence, and then a hypnotic beat as electronic dance music built, ultimately pounding a rhythm. You know the sound: UHH-ts, UHH-ts, UHH-ts, UHH ts. The camera panned over a huge outdoor music festival, with lots of pretty people in tank tops and aviator shades bouncing, jumping, writhing to the music.

Everyone was clearly happy and having a great time, and I would guess there were, maybe fifty thousand of them or more. As the minutes ticked by, the music continued, as did the ecstatic bouncing. I began to wonder what else was going to happen in this film, and when my mind would be blown. Was there going to be a message about enjoying life? Living in the moment? About the tribal nature of this community? About having the freedom—financial and otherwise—to travel and experience anything, anywhere?

Five minutes ticked by, then ten. There was the occasional cut to a DJ or fan praising this festival, but ultimately, this video comprised 13 minutes and forty-eight seconds of the same stuff—pretty young ravers, well, raving—over a pulsing, hypnotic beat. But you know what? I watched every second, waiting for something intriguing to happen. Not because I enjoyed watching 50,000 people dancing, and not because I enjoyed the music—I’m really not a fan of David Guetta and the like. So, why did I endure it?

I watched it because of the energy and excitement radiated by the recommender—he had given great suggestions before, he was excited about the film, and he got me excited about the film. Enthusiasm is contagious, isn't it?

And 13 minutes, 48 seconds of this

Incidentally, upon taking another listen to that podcast, I realized the film he recommended was actually titled “World of Tomorrow.” I was watching the WRONG SHOW. Maybe lawn trimmings and fertilizer got to my head—I clearly remembered that title wrong. I kept watching it, waiting with anticipation for the things to happen that I had gotten so excited about. Obviously, they never did.

The funny thing is, in spite of watching the wrong video, it actually did prove to be thought-provoking.

Think about it—we’re all in dozens of situations each day where we can (or even must) influence others. Our attitudes are contagious; they have a real, tangible effect on others, for better or for worse. This is not a new concept, but it was fun to be reminded of it in such a silly way. It is useful to ponder the importance of attitude.

Whether we are selling to, leading, or just working alongside someone, our energy largely determines our effectiveness—perhaps even more than our aptitude. We all have people we just love to be around, don’t we—who radiate enthusiasm, who have a kind word to say, who have fun no matter what the circumstance or task at hand?

I bet you also know those people who just suck the life out of you, too—they find something to complain about, no matter how good or bad the situations they’re in actually are. Watch out—this kind of emotion is equally contagious!

World of Tomorrow, what I should have watched

The same podcaster with whom we started this conversation talks about how we are the average of the five people we spend the most time with. (He admits he is not the first to talk about this, but he goes back to the theme often). So the question of the day is—what kind of influencer are you? How do you impact the people around you? Does your attitude and energy make them better?

Am I raising the average of those people who spend time with me, by radiating enthusiasm and positivity, and assuming others have positive intent? I appreciate that 13 minutes and 48 seconds of techno beats—time seemingly wasted, it reminded me of the power of enthusiasm, and my own opportunities to improve.

I’d never have guessed what I could learn from 50,000 ravers.

Quicksand

The 80’s were a great decade, weren’t they? In a freeform, poetry-slam, stream-of-consciousness spew, I give you a bunch of reasons this was the greatest decade since, well, at least the 50’s or 60’s…

• Rubik and his Cube; He-man and his sword; Michael Knight and his talking car, KITT
• The A-team and their van; Michael and his Jacksons; The Duke Boys and their cousin Daisy, of course. (And you thought I was gonna mention their car)
• The golden ages of Star Wars, pro wrestling, and shopping malls
• John flippin’ Hughes, Phil freakin’ Hartman, and the birth of Homer Simpson
• E.T., The Gremlins, The Goonies, and Indiana Jones
• Computers went from, like filling up airplane hangars to sitting on your desktop
• Montana to Rice, The Lakers and the Celtics, Bird and Magic
• Beastie Boys, Joy Division, New Order, Bauhaus, Talking Heads, Rush, The Smiths, Run-DMC, REM, firehose, U2, and so on, and so on, and so on.
• Eight-track died, CD’s were born, and there was plenty of vinyl and cassette tape for everyone
• Prince was in his prime, and Madonna was still tolerable
• 10 speed bikes, skateboards, hair mousse; wearing neon anywhere and anytime you pleased
• Ice cream cones at Thrifty Drug: twenty-five cents plus ten cents for each extra scoop. I am personally responsible for making the ice cream lady’s forearms look like Popeye’s!

I could go on and on. I was born in 1970—so I did a lot of living, learning, and growing in the 80’s. I talk about this decade the way my parents talked about the fifties—only when I was a kid, candy bars were a quarter, not a nickel; though in both eras we all wore Converse Chuck Taylors (heck I still wear my Chucks).

The 80’s was still a pretty innocent time too, compared to today. As kids, ten or twelve years old, we’d go out hiking and biking and exploring all day, get home for dinner, then go roam the neighborhood for a couple more hours ‘til our moms would call us home, like runaway dogs. Only runaway dogs got in less trouble.

But back then, getting into trouble meant swiping an apple off a neighbor’s tree, or TP’ing a friend’s house, or having dirt clod fights. (What, you never pulled up a weed in the backyard and hucked it, mud-caked roots and all, at your buddy, yelling out ‘hand grenade?’)

Today’s trouble is, well, trouble. Kids make the news for stealing cars and planes and stuff. In the 80’s, if you got on TV it was usually because you guessed how many jelly beans were in the giant jar at Alpha-Beta, or your soccer team won the big game.

Anyway, I don’t want to get deep into the cultural, technological, or philosophical reasons for the decline of kid-hood, or whether my observations are true, statistically or scientifically speaking. But I do want to tell you about some real trouble I did get into with my brothers and friends in the early 80’s. It started with a typical adventure in the hills above our neighborhood, in Martinez, California.

We lived on a pretty typical suburban road; in fact, with a name like Center Street, you couldn’t get much more typical. We had houses and houses on each side of our home, and across the street, more houses faced ours. Behind those houses, however, there were fields and hills like you just don’t see much of anymore, at least not in the Bay Area.

We’d hike those hills, sharpening bamboo stalks into spears for protection, carrying walking sticks and homemade slings. I’m not sure what kind of trouble we were anticipating, as we saw no creature more threatening than a lizard or mouse or squirrel, but we were armed and ready for anything.

This particular summer day, our friends Aaron and Chris joined my brothers Mike, Rusty and me on a trek in the hills. As we poked around, looking for cool rocks to collect, animals to track, or trees to climb, we heard a cry for help up ahead—Aaron was in trouble! As we ran up to him, we could see he was in some muddy sludge and was stuck knee deep and, we feared, sinking fast.

TV had taught us all we needed to know about quicksand!

TV had taught us what we were dealing with – it was quicksand! Now, I haven’t bothered to research the natural properties and geological characteristics of quicksand in a scholarly manner. I don’t need to, as I have seen its occurrence in different settings, in various parts of the country. Specifically, on The Six Million Dollar Man, The Dukes of Hazzard, and Gilligan’s island. That was enough evidence for us to know we were dealing with the real thing!

Aaron had the good sense to stop wiggling and fighting it—we knew that was a recipe for disaster, and he’d be a goner for sure, sinking in further and further. And there was no bionic man around to save us; in fact, we were a good mile or more from home, or any houses for that matter. We were in the quicksand-riddled boondocks. We got close to him, but not too close—there was no sense in all of us sinking to our necks in this stuff.

Putting our collective eight to twelve-year old heads together, we grabbed our walking sticks and another nearby branch and stretched them out toward the helpless victim. We braced the sticks, pooling our strength to give Aaron something rigid to grab hold of and pull himself out. For what seemed like ages, we pulled and pulled and finally freed him from his doom.

The only casualty that day was Aaron’s right tennis shoe, and though we poked and prodded with our sticks, it was a goner. We made our way back home, Aaron enduring briars and rocks with his muddy stocking-foot. I’m sure his mom wasn’t pleased with the loss of his shoe, and may not have seen the big picture—we had rescued him from certain death! However, in the end, we were all okay, and we were sure to avoid the pit of quicksand on future adventures.

So what made me think of Aaron’s brush with doom? I’m not sure, actually. But I have tried to become increasingly aware lately of things I do that waste my time, waste my energy, or otherwise halt my progress. I’m guessing you have your own personal pools of quicksand too. What are these quicksand traps, and what tools of defense do I wield to prevent their overcoming me?

• Multitasking. If I am doing too much at once, bouncing between Outlook and OneNote and funny internet stuff, I am doomed, and sink into a pit of ineffectiveness. Before I know it, an hour or a day have gone by, with me checking lots of menial tasks off my list, but not accomplishing any work that is real or critical. To prevent it, my desktop background has a question in big, bold, type: “What is my focus today?” Believe it or not, it helps!


• Failure to prioritize. Like the muddiness of multitasking, failure to prioritize ensures activity without impact, busy-ness without progress and growth. How do I combat this? Lately, by asking myself this questions: “What is the most uncomfortable thing I need to do today?” Sometimes I have trouble seeing what is truly the most ‘important’ thing in my list of to-do’s. However, I can always easily identify the one I most dread. Getting it out of the way first makes the rest of the day go smoother—I can see things much more clearly without anxiety sapping my spirit.
  
  
• Forgetting myself. I get into periods where I fail to exercise regularly, or I pay no attention to what I eat—I am the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world in yo-yo dieting. I’ve gotten pretty good at staying engaged in the other areas of my life—studying scriptures, reading good books, praying regularly. Maybe you could throw me a rope here, and help me figure this fitness piece out?

The good news about quicksand? It’s easily beatable, if you travel in packs and watch out for it. Had Aaron encountered that pit while wandering on his own, he might still be there, or at the very least lost both of his shoes.

What are your pits of quicksand, and how do you combat them?

Kayak!

I went kayaking one time. Exactly one time. Exactly one miserable time, and it was enough. It’s kind of sad, because you know what? I bet I’d like it, had the conditions been better on this inaugural excursion. Allow me to explain…

My brother-in-law Chris is pretty much Captain Awesome. Just a great guy; he fights fires and saves lives as his day job (in South Central LA, no less), and climbs glaciers, kayaks oceans, and bikes across continents for fun in his spare time. His wife Minette is no less awesome. In fact, her awesomeness likely supersedes her husband’s, as she’s also saving lives as a nurse practitioner, and adds marathon running to her list of hobbies, on top of everything she does with Chris.

Chris and Minette offered to take me kayaking on the mighty Columbia river once, when our families were vacationing at Cannon Beach, a scenic little town on Oregon’s North Coast. I was excited—I’d never been in a kayak before and I loved the outdoors. It seemed to me that it would be like mountain biking, except on the water. In a boat. Okay, it would be nothing like mountain biking, but I wanted to do it nonetheless.

Chris and Minette had their own gear, and they tracked down a rental place for me 20 miles upriver from the beach house we were staying at. On a sunny morning in late summer, we drove their SUV to the spot we’d be starting our paddling—right next to the rental place.

We went into the shop, and I sat inside a few kayaks until I found the one that felt the best; it also happened to be the biggest one they had available. It seemed to fit me just fine—we made some adjustments to the seat and to the little things that are kind of like stationary bike pedals—you rest your feet on them for leverage while paddling.

Uncle Chris taking the boys on a test run

Feeling like the kayak was maybe just a little snug, and certainly not too tight or too small, we launched into the slowly driving current. Chris and Minette gave me some pointers, and I took to it pretty well. I did a fair amount of rowing in rowboats, rafting in rafts and canoeing in canoes as a teenage Boy Scout, and I was enjoying the gentle breeze, the peaceful solitude of the wide, rolling river, and the companionship of these great friends, whose family I’d married into eight or nine years earlier. I was feeling really good, except for maybe a little thing or two.

Before I continue, I should tell you some things that I inherited from my family. Not cool stuff like glass eyes, mansions or treasure maps, but physiological things. I’ll generously call them traits. The first I’ll mention can be imagined easily enough by hearing what my Dad’s Uncle Howard used to call my younger brother Tim when he was young: ‘hog legs.’ Yes, the Anderson boys have strong legs—we can bike, squat, leg press, and hopscotch with the best of them. But with this great power comes great responsibility—responsibility to buy pants that have ample room in the upper-to-mid thigh area.

It is not unusual for an Anderson male to buy pants four inches too big in the waist to account for our gargantuan thighs. While I never earned a cool nickname like hog-legs (which seemed like an affectionate term of endearment to Tim, I’m sure), I do have some of that going on in my legs, if you catch my drift.

Another gift we Anderson males are blessed with? Extreme rigidity—the opposite of flexibility. I never saw my dad touch his toes—or anyone else’s for that matter. One summer, as a teen I ran three miles every day, all summer long, stretching and everything, and I could still barely bend over and touch the tops of my socks. And this was the 80’s, when your sock-tops flirted with your kneecaps!

Not only can I not touch my toes, I can barely straighten my legs, especially if I am sitting down on the floor. When I sit on the ground, legs outstretched in front of me (loosely using the term ‘outstretched’), my upper body’s natural state is about a 45-degree angle to the ground. Envision freezing a video of a normal person doing a sit-up, right in the middle of sitting up. That’s me, trying to sit up straight, if my legs are parallel to the ground.

This complete lack of flexibility, combined with my Ahh-nuld-like thighs (or maybe Kevin James-like thighs, to be honest) has left me with limited options for comfortable lounging, especially if there is no furniture at hand. Criss-cross applesauce? No thanks. A picnic? Sure, if I can bring a chair. Sitting on the sandy beach? I’ll lay down or stand up, or maybe dig an elaborate contour into the sand to cushion my abnormality of a physique, but otherwise I won’t be sitting.

Perhaps I should have thought of all this when sizing my kayak. Clearly, I didn’t think of any of it.

Maybe I should have done a dry run too!

About a half an hour into our ‘trip,’ I started to feel some real discomfort. My lower back was starting to stiffen. My hamstrings felt as tight as piano wires. I tried to wriggle around a bit inside the kayak, but you literally sit down inside the foul contraption, and have some rubber prom-dress-like thing keeping you attached to it, keeping water from getting in and you from popping out. There would be no wriggling or bending of the legs, knees, lower back, or anything that wasn’t above my belly button.

The discomfort turned into pain, and eventually into panic. My peaceful sighs of nature-loving satisfaction became heavy breathless gasps, as the kayak maliciously tightened its grip on my lower body.  A half mile or so down river, a giant tanker menacingly inched toward us. The gasps turned to grunts and squawks—yes, I literally squawked, seemingly forgetting how to form words. There was an island just a hundred yards away, and I managed to blurt out, “I... need... break!”

I paddled feverishly toward the island, wanting to get out of the boat and stretch my legs. I was also nervous about the tanker approaching; surely it was going to pin me to the river bottom, sealing my watery grave. Finally, my kayak made it to the island’s sandy shore, and I lifted myself up, ready to free myself from the torture. As I did so, something completely unexpected happened.

I swung my legs out of the body of the kayak and planted my feet on the warm, welcoming sand. Standing up, for what seemed like the first time in years, I fell face first to the ground. As I attempted to get up again, I had a strange sensation. I couldn’t feel my legs! Now, I don’t mean I had little feeling, or that they felt weird, I mean I could not feel my legs.

A few more times I tried to stand up, on legs that were suddenly made of fleshy colored jello. They buckled, they wobbled and they splayed all over. I tried to walk, taking steps to steady myself, but my feet seemed to be pinned to the sand—they wouldn’t budge. Chris and Minette handed me a water bottle and told me to just lay back and rest until the feeling—or at least the blood—came back to my legs.

I laid back, propping myself up a bit on my elbows, trying to will the life back into my inanimate limbs. After several minutes, I could move my legs a bit, and then a bit more, and after maybe fifteen minutes, I could get up and walk around. I guess sitting in that position, wedged into the kayak that was just a bit too small, compressed some nerves and arteries in my legs and put them to sleep, rendering them useless. It was clear our kayak trip was going to end hours earlier than we’d expected. 

The kids with Uncle Chris and Aunt Minette

I wedged myself back into that kayak, feeling like a clown getting into a tiny circus car. I made a valiant effort, but I just couldn’t maintain that posture—I was done. Chris tied my kayak to his and paddled us toward our starting point, with me laying back, halfway out of the kayak, trying to stretch out a bit. I imagined he looked like some native American tribesman, towing behind him a giant, pale six-foot sturgeon that the whole tribe would live off of for the winter. But at least I was getting somewhere, and wasn’t confined to the floating torture chamber.

We made it back to the car, dropped off the infernal death trap, and drove back to the coast, my legs no longer tingling. All the family got a huge kick out of hearing about my brush with doom, or at the very least, with discomfort. They were in tears as we related the tale, especially the part about Chris towing me back. 

I’ve been in canoes, rafts, rowboats, and fishing boats since then, but I still have no urge to try kayaking. At least not until I can rent one that's made for a six-foot-long inflexible, pale sturgeon.