Flag Boy

2011-06-02T09:32:00.000-07:00

We had a dilemma. Our ol' toilet in my bathroom hasn't been working too well. It became apparent yesterday that it must be replaced. We were sitting in the living room discussing the awfulness of the situation. Dilemma: do we pay $379.00 for a plumber or do we pay $144.00 and turn me loose on the project. I am not a plumber. For one thing, my pants don't go down nearly far enough to even begin to show a plumber's butt crack.

I decided that it was just too risky. Translated, that means that I'm just too dang lazy and fearful. Having never installed a toilet before, I decided, with finality, that it was too scarrrry. Suddenly, someone on the tv said "Eleanore Roosevelt once said, 'you should do something that scares you every day'". That's the truth. The timing was perfect. Perfectly horrid! I looked at Maudeen. She looked at me.

I KNOW there is a life after death, because I KNOW I will eventually find Eleanor Roosevelt and give her a piece of my mind.

The guy at Home Depot showed me all the fine points of my upcoming project. I was especially impressed with the notice that said "no tools needed". I asked about that. The guy said, "If you believe that, I have a bridge I can sell you. If your fingers are as strong as Arnold Schwartzneggar's, you will be fine. Otherwise you will need tools. Just be gentle." Oh, now I'm supposed to be a gentle plumber.

Several hours later, after dragging out a heavy "twalatte" and dragging in a heavy twalatte and dealing successfully with that demoralizing WAX RING I was done. as in d-o-n-e. I hadn't broken the porcelain. I hadn't stripped any threads. There were no leaks. I even put my tools away. Okay, I lie. The tools are not yet put away, but they are stacked neatly in the corner.

Deenie said: "I can't believe this. I just cannot believe this". She thought I would be on the phone shouting,"Kenneth, get over here".

So, if you need a plumber, feel free to call..... Buttcrack Plumbing. You can find them in the yellow pages.

2011-06-02T08:03:00.000-07:00

We are the greatest grandparents in the WORLD! Not - in this case - great grandparents, merely grandparents, but great, you understand. We support Connor in every last thing he does. He can always count on us. We are just... outstanding, y'know?

This has been one of our best weeks. We waved a Pikachu flag at his graduation. His friends pounded on his back quite a bit, pointing at us. He tried to look nonchalant, mostly looking in the other direction. What a guy.

Then, the next evening, the graduating class of Jordan High held a celebration party. Not a single parent showed up. Not a single school administrator showed up. Not a single adult showed up. We were the only grandparents there. We were so proud. We danced the light fantastic. We seemed to be the center of attention. We loved it. However, Connor didn't seem to be feeling too well. He sat over in a corner with his hands over his eyes. We eventually went over to him and asked if he'd like for us to get him an aspirin. He was so sweet. He said, "no, you have done enough". His hands never left his eyes.

He is planning a trip to Ireland right away. He doesn't know it yet, but we have our reservations made and our bags packed. We don't know exactly where he will be, but we'll find him. We WILL find him.

Editor;s note: Yes, this a spoof. He hasn't graduated yet. Grandma Maudeen casually mentioned to me that Connor was planning a party the night after graduation. But, she knows that I am easily befuddled, so she quickly added, "but we won't be attending that". The incongruity of it all hit me pretty hard. I awoke in the night, thinking, wow, there hasta be a blob in here somewhere.

Frank

2011-05-28T18:53:00.000-07:00

I cannot bring myself to compose a complete personal history, so the next best thing might be to tell stories from my past. Some personal histories are so dry! I hope this will be a litt-a-bit easier to read.

During the late spring of 1959, I found myself running around at 6:30 or 7:00 a.m., getting ready for school in Monticello, Utah, 55 miles away. We were acting a bit crazy, as the school year was almost over. I can't for the life of me remember why I was tearing around with Frank Long at that outlandish hour when he was not in school.
Maybe he had just gotten off graveyard shift at one of the mines.I guess he was lonely. He had graduated a year earlier from some high school in central Utah. I didn't know him too well. He had stories to tell. He had tossed up an outlandish hook shot from midcourt at the buzzer to win a game for (Salina?)High.

Jay Lish, Jim McTaggart, Ralph Ramstetter,Jimmy Dennison and I were planning to run to school that day in Jay's old '48 Plymouth. (Later owned by Eddie Burton.) Frank said, "ride with me at least as far as La Sal Junction." I thought about it and said, "naw, if I did that I would (A) have to wait for them at the junction, or (B) not get a front seat." I really don't remember why I bailed out of Frank's car.

We headed out while the school bus was loading up with high schoolers. Jay was a speedy guy, but I don't remember us being in a hurry. Jay looked in his rear view mirror and shouted, "here comes Frank". That Plymouth was no slouch, but Frank was in a '51 Mercury. We stepped on it. We were soon doing 80 or 90 miles per hour, just short of the turnoff to the mining district where most of us lived. Frank must have been doing 110 or even 120 as he started around us. That Mercury was a piece of work. It was faasst.

His left wheels just barely got off the pavement. At a lower speed this would have been no problem. But he couldn't correct. He went into the barrow pit (who coined that silly phrase, "barrow pit" anyway?) He slammed into the berm (another silly word) containing the turnoff.He went airborne for a bit, then landed on the highway not more than 15 feet in front of us. But he was sideways to us. I saw - for an instant - the panic on his face. Then, he was gone in a cloud of dust.

It took 200, maybe 300 feet to stop. We went running. It must have been a windless day, because we ran into the cloud of dust, unable to see anything. We found the demolished Merc. No one knows how many times it rolled, but it ended up on its wheels. We couldn't find Frank. I was afraid he might be under the car. We could never have rolled that big monster over onto its side. We went running around, screaming, "Frank". Someone said "he's over here". He had been crushed by the car.

He was breathing, but he had an ominous pink fluid on his lips. (Sorry for being a bit graphic, but you knew this was coming.) He soon stopped breathing. The school bus came by. The driver jumped out to see if he could help. He jumped back into the bus to get the kids away from that gruesome sight.

Carloads of miners came by, heading for work, all of them jumping out to try to help, then sadly moving on. We stood there in silence. I couldn't help noticing the perfect clear blue sky. Frank's brother and grandmother soon arrived from the trailer court where they all lived. Seeing Grandma's face was a terrible moment.

After surveying the scene, the brother, (Jack?) (My memory fails) went over and sat on the running board of his old pickup truck. After a while he had some words for us. But not many. He clenched his fist and said "if I ever catch any of you speeding, I'm gonna....".

It took two hours for a Highway Patrolman to arrive. I knew the local fuzz, but I cannot remember whether it was Claude Lacy Or another guy. Ahh, my wonderful memory. I'm glad I am getting this all down. My friends would now all say, "no, it happened this way, or this way" but I haven't seen any of them in fifty years. The Patrolman sent us on our way. We wanted to stay and help get Frank into an ambulance or hearse, but we followed instructions.

As we walked into the high school at about noon, we told the principal that we had to go to the Highway Patrol office to file reports. Principal Burr told us to report and then take the rest of the day off. All the way down to the office, we worked frantically to make sure our stories jibed, I.E.,"Oh no, we weren't speeding. Oh, no, Frank wasn't speeding". We were interviewed separately. None of us were sentenced to 20 years for lying. The cops weren't dumb. They were just not interested in prying the truth out of us. Or maybe someone TOLD the truth, satisfying the interrogator.

2011-04-03T11:38:00.000-07:00

Greetinks and salutations to all who view this blob. All two of you. Baadd news from the television world. I saw a stupidly stupid ad featuring a BLOB! He was a little square cube-like character, resembling qbert, advertising something or something. I, the original Blob, (almost original) have been replaced. I shall eventually fight to the finish, but for now......... it's ok.

It has to be ok. What's beyond angered? Beyond astounded? b'yond infuriated?? The only word I can conjure up is.....mumblized. I am disheartened and mumblized at this outrage. But it's ok. For NOW. I mumble a lot anyway, but mumblization is debilitating, so I shall take the high road, the higher road and - well you get it. But be aware, Mister Elephant never forgets.... I am done talking about THAT blob.

I won't even capitalize his name. His logo is moronic. his message is unrememberable. His colors are red and white. Need I say more? I think not. Far below mud and muck you will find slime. This guy is slime. Nothin' more to say.

On a happier note, I can report that this little freak was the product of advertising genii who probably never got past seventh grade. What is lower than moron? Lower than idiot? I got it. Imbecile. These Imbeciles, who cannot dress themselves, Have put manymanymany hours of hard work, laboring over chocolate donuts, and come up with a cube. With rounded corners. Genius!!! blob flies around like a demented bumblebeee, advertising whatever. I am proud to hold myself above the level of combatant in this issue. I have IMPORTANT themes to pursue.

The communication world is quickly becoming overrun with the mundane. MUNDANE? This quack is mundanious to a fault. That's right, a FAULT. I go now.

I shall be known as BLOBFISH! Blobfish the Indestructable. I have been refusing for some time now to look in any mirror that shows anything below the neck. Not that the image above the neck is any grand prize. BLOBFISH. Blobfish works well. Really well. B'fish will one day rule the television world. I will rule every channel, even those stupid cable channels. (Thank you, Ken, for bringing Enhanced Stupid to the family. NO! You are not stupid, enhanced! You merely put more and better emphasis on "stupid" than we have ever before witnessed.

Do you remember Seinfeld, the show about nothing? Well, this is Blobfish , the blob about nothing. I had a theme in mind. (I really did.) But I became incensed with the unfairness of it all that I just had to make one short little comment about "blob, - the Interloper". See, I didn't "cap" his name. Good for me. I go now. We'll see what the little creep thinks of that. I'm through talking about him. Or her. Or it. That's it! It'an it! I am gone now.

Blobbing for Connor's Swim Team

2010-12-10T14:39:00.000-08:00

Recently, we received a schedule of Connor's swim meets. I decided that I would not miss a single meet. Well, I missed the first one because I'm me. You know... Flagboy. On the day of the second meet, I found a good parking spot on the east end of the school and ran inside to find the pool.(Me? Running? Yeah, rright.) But I was hurrying.

I hustled like a man on a quest. I kept thinking I could smell the pool, or at least, feel the dampness in the air. When I got to the FAR west end of Jordan High, I finally lost faith in my keen nasal instincts and asked a guy where the swimming pool was. He seemed like a fellow who had been asked many many stupid questions by many decades of students, but this one had him stumped for a second or two. "There's no swimming pool."

Acting on his instructions, I went screaming for Mount Jordan Jr. High School where Jordan was competing with Grantsville. Connor is a senior and a team captain. The meet was fun and, of course, Con-man did really well.

I decided that, considering my navigational skills, I would stick to "home meets" for awhile. I had MJJH's location down pretty well, because we had watched Jodi compete there in gymnastics. The next meet was against Pleasant Grove. By this time I had my swagger back and went strolling in a half hour early. Things were looking smooth. But, alas, a girl met me at the door. "We need timers! Will you help?" I politely declined. "But it's really really easy, and you will do great." This poor girl had no knowledge of the whole "Flagboy" thing. She was very determined and I soon found myself sitting on a timer's bench. Connor came along, quite surprised to see me there. He was really excited for me. He, too, had no real grasp of "D-flaggs".

Okay... Ya hold two buttons. Ya push the right hand button at the instant the heat starts and both buttons at the instant the heat ends. Simple. I had no idea what the second button did, but I didn't care. I was on lane six where the younger kids compete, and sometimes lane six was empty. Nice. The kids all jumped off a platform. I was doing well. That is until the kids all jumped into the pool and then took their starting spot IN the pool, for the backstroke. I was confused, but just for ONE second. The starting horn was, for me, the STARTLING horn. I was most of one second late. I felt sooo bad. I worried about being arrested and thrown into a cell with Brian David Mitchell or Mark Hoffman or the guy with all the facial tattoos. The swim meet went well the rest of the way. The timer sitting next to me casually said, "Oh by the way, this is just "backup" timing. The actual timing is all electronic."

I was so busy with that stupid timer that I almost didn't get to see Connor compete. Oh well, it was great being ther with him. I assumed for some insanely wacky reason, that the boys dressing room was on tne south end and the girls were on the north. Oh, no. As I started out the south door, the one I thought I came in, a woman grabbed me and said, "you can't go out through the girls dressing room."

But, really, I am finding my way around the facility quite well. No. Really. I just wear a fake mustache and shades so the timer girl will never remember me.

And to think: Barbara called Jodi one day this week. She thought she heard some background noise. "What's going on?" Jodi replied, "Oh, I'm just feeding fifty swimmers." Sometimes I wonder if Jodi realizes how much I sacrificed that day to help Connor out.

Still 500 Miles Away From Home

2010-10-02T18:13:00.000-07:00

Once in a while I come across an old old song by Bobby Bare.(This is an old, old, old song in blobfish years.) The name of it is "500 miles from home". This song became a favorite the instant I heard it in the 1960s. It struck a chord with me because I had hitch-hiked a lot when I was a kid. A whole lot more than my parents ever knew about! Living in La Sal, near Moab, I found that "thumbing" got me into Moab or Monticello much more easily than trying to arrange rides. (Thumbing could be pretty tense. I remember being stranded near Church Rock, 20 miles north of Monticello, for many hours one Sunday afternoon with NO traffic and a snowstorm blowing in, and me in a t-shirt.)

I yearned greatly for my old home town of Alma, Co. In about 1956, when I was about fifteen, I announced to my parents one day that I had saved almost enough money in my baby-sitting account to ride the Trailways Bus from Moab to Fairplay, Co. and back again two weeks later. All I needed was a few dollars for spending money. They agreed and my plans were made. Jack and Margie said they they were looking forward to seeing me.

Problem. The bus came through Moab at 3:30 a.m. Dad woke me up at 2:30 and we were on our way. We got into town soon after three o'clock on a warm July morning. Dad offered to sit with me 'til the bus arrived. I said "oh, no, I will be just fine." As his taillights disappeared around the corner I broke into a run. I was danged if I was going to waste 13 dollars and a few cents on bus fare!

I got to the north end of town in really good time, heavy suitcase and all. Ten or fifteen minutes went by. Here came the bus. The wind-draft off that big old thing 'bout blew me over. I felt some real remorse as I stood there in the darkness.

I absolutely cannot remember who picked me up and dropped me off at Crescent Junction. My next ride was with a trucker. Hmmm... Maybe he picked me up in Moab! Hey, this happened 53 years ago! I should remember everything?? He told me to be ready for a very sudden jolt at any time. He said it was his policy to slam on the brakes full blast if he saw anything that remotely resembled a cop-car. People who gave kids like me rides were in great need of someone to talk to. He dropped me in
Grand Junction.

My next ride was with a guy who was having some car trouble. No surprise. 63.28% of all cars had trouble in those days. We made it through Montrose before his car boiled over. He told me to watch the car while he (A looked for a large tin can and (B walked down to the river to fill it. I was silently cursing my luck as he wandered along the highway and then down to the river - a river that I couldn't even SEE! Being a stupidly loyal kid, I could not jump out and flag down the next driver.

I sat there wishing I had elected to take the north route through Glenwood Springs, but being trapped on Hoosier Pass with NO traffic didn't appeal to me. I knew that feeling. We chugged into Gunnison without further incident. As I stood there on the east end of Gunnison, my heart sank. Here came an older car pulling a large trailer house. Being a stupidly caring lad I could not say "go 'way. Move on!" The auto was filled with a huge family of Hispanic people. They spoke more English with their hands than they did with their mouths. There were at least four of us in the front seat and who knows how many urchins in the back. I thought I could see about ten legs and eleven arms back there, all moving randomly about. A very happy family indeed. The driver, whom I shall call Pepe, cheerfully regaled me with nonstop chatter as we crawled along.

My mood was a strange cross between despair at our turtle-pace and my growing admiration for this beautiful family. If there were ten people in the car, and if you multiply that by thirty two, then there had to have been 320 teeth smiling at me the whole way. I knew nothing of heaven but this seemed pretty close to it. They told me they were off to Saguache. With heavy heart I saw Monarch Pass coming up. Being a stupidly selfish boy, I said "my aunt lives here in Sargents. I'd better stop and say hello." They dropped me off and I sadly watched them drive away. Really, I could have run beside them for the first 300 feet. That car was that slow.

My next ride was with a guy who introduced himself as a rodeo performer. About 500 yards up Monarch Pass, we went flying around the old mobile home. I ducked my head to avoid being recognized. This rodeo guy was driving a '50 ford. Remember those old '50 fords? They could HAUL. As we raced across South Park (yes, THAT South Park) this guy said he traveled North America on the rodeo circuit. Broncs, bulls, he rode 'em all. He made belts and other leather goods to pay the bills between events. He may not have been a real person. He may have been a country song posing as a person. He told me all about his endless injuries; broken teeth, broken arms, broken legs and other broken appendages. I wished like crazy that I could have gotten one of his belts, but my thirteen dollars and a few cents was very precious to me. The belt would have become a useless lifetime momento. I was a size 32 at the time and I'm an expanding 42 these days.

I didn't have a watch, so I must have asked each benefactor fifty times what time it was. He dropped me off in Fairplay at 4:30 p.m. The bus had only beaten me by about 15 minutes. I felt like the king of the world as I trudged through town, savoring all those familiar sights.

Six miles to go. I'll bet you have never heard of a PlymFord. Warren Good was an eccentric genius/handyman/mechanic/inventor. He had done something nobody had probably thought of. He had combined a trashed out old Plymouth with a thrashed out old Ford. The Good kids (yeah, for the most part, they were good kids) called this thing a PlymFord. Warren went sailing past me heading up Fairplay Hill doing about forty mph. He cleared the top doing about 30 mph, which is a testament to his ingenuity. Soon he reappeared, having finally recognized me.

The whole trip was almost exactly 500 miles. From my house at Cal Uranium in San Juan County, Ut. to my brother Jack's house in Alma Co. in less than 14 and a half hours. No freeway in those days. Two fun-filled weeks later I was on the bus heading for home. Well, I couldn't have fibbed to Jack saying I had to leave at 2:30 a.m. when he knew the westbound bus left in the afternoon.

More Misadventures at Chuckarama

2010-01-14T20:12:00.001-08:00

A person on a serious crash diet shouldn't think Chuck-a-rama. However, I have discovered a very healthful menu there. Grandma and I were there at 11:00 a.m. when they opened. Less competition that way. People in search of food can be very dangerous. My menu goes like this. Start with a simple salad. Then move over to the pot roast. Today it was pot TURKEY roast, but that was o.k. I can dip up anything in that tray except the potatoes. Turkey, carrots and onions. Good stuff. And probably okayed by Dr. Oz. (Do you think that is his real name?) Not! Then on to the WHOLE WHEAT rolls. No butter. "A" whole wheat roll! ONE ww roll. And that's it. Marie Osmond herself couldn't have steered me any better. I was so proud of myself that I allowed myself a sliver of carrot cake. Carrot cake is more vegetable than junk food if you avoid the frosting.

To my dismay, the carrot cake, instead of being light and fluffy, was sludgy and heavy. Unlike anything I had ever experienced. I shoved it aside. Grandma looked at me somewhat askance as I went for some peach turnover. The crust looked dark, but I thought nothing of it. INEDIBLE. The crust was burned beyond repair. I was not going to let one small dessert issue ruin my otherwise excellent meal. Grandma looked downright suspicious as I went and got my favorite, chocolate pudding. The nice thing about chock puddin' is: a very full dish doesn't look much fuller than a regular dish. I assured her that the peach dish would have had more calories.

The place was filling up with crying children. The people behind us on her side kept banging the seat, jarring her quite badly. She said, "this never fails." She got up to leave. "Right behind you", I said as I finished the last bite of pudding. As she turned the corner, I quickly ate the perfect peach streudel and wolfed down the perfect carrot cake, frosting and all. I caught up with her before she got even halfway to the car.

Fogblob

2010-01-07T13:57:00.000-08:00

We all hate fog. Fog seems to be the most universally despised weather condition. Pilots hate it. Ship's captains hate it. Some love Phoenix for the heat. Some love Minneapolis for the cold. But we all hate fog. Jodi, Todd and the Big Kids are leaving the SLC fog and heading out into the fog of the Uintah Basin to see Barb, Amanda and the Little kids. I'm jealous. It's worth braving the fog to see that group!

Well, anyhoo, we all have a favorite fog story to tell. The story often goes like this: Ya couldn't see the railroad tracks that ya were standing on at 12:00 o'clock noon. Ya couldn't see the powerful headlight of the approaching train! Ya hadda stoop over and feel the track so's ya would know which way to jump just as the train came whistling past!

My friend Buster told of driving in the "thickest fog of all time". He had the good fortune to get behind another motorist. He admitted that he was tailgating like crazy. This went on for mle after mile. The other driver suddenly stopped. Buster was lost and spooked. The other fella opened his door. Buster opened his door. The other guy stood up. Buster stood up. The other guy said "what are you doing in my driveway?"

My best/worst fog story goes thusly. Uh oh, another Moab story. I had just bought my first auto, a '55 pontiac. (Well, this doesn't include the $5.00 I spent to help buy a $20.00 Buick with some of my Carbon College friends.) That car had real good springs but no shocks. This allowed us to overfill the Buick with a ho-bunch of crazies and go down the main street of Price, hopping up and down, causing the green car to imitate a giant grasshopper, almost leaving the pavement on the upswing. What fun! The ticket we got was more than we paid for the car.

Burton! Wake up! Hey, Flagboy, get back to the story. Coincidentally, my friend and co-worker at the uranium mine, Buce, had also just bought a '55 Pontiac. Identical! Same lime-green and white. Heading into Christmas of 1961, I was excited to head for Price, home of my girlfriend, now known as "Grandma". Bruce was going in the same direction (to Utah County)for the holidays. We decided to travel through the heavy fog caravan style, just in case of mechanical problems. I was leading as we left Moab at about 6:00 p.m., having just finished our shift. Price lay 120 miles ahead.

Bruce was a bit of a drinker. He had a pint of "Old Sunny Brook" to help keep him company, along with his girlfriend and her four children. SIX PEOPLE IN THAT CAR! We no sooner left Moab than I lost his headlights in my rear view mirror. I stopped, assuming it was one of those "routine" stops for one of the young children. His car didn't appear for awhile. I turned back, wondering if he was already experiencing mechanical problems, so common in those days. Mistake. Here he came, hustling right along, trying to catch up with me.

I spun around and tried to catch him. The fog was so thick that I could only see about three white stripes ahead. I pushed the ol' greenie. I knew he would be wondering where in the heck I had disappeared to. I soon glanced at my speedometer. Seventy miles per hour?? Wow! I would knock his rear bumper into his radiator if I caught up at that speed. I slowed to about 30 mph, which was still a bit fast for the conditions.

Nice Christmas. Lotsa fun. When I arrived at the mine on the next workday, Bruce came running up to me. "What in the he** were you doing? How the he** fast were you going? I drove 80 miles per hour all the way to price looking for you"

Jan

2009-11-25T07:40:00.000-08:00

Here's a tidbit from Mowabb, Eutaw, circa 1955 or 1956. In my little mining camp where I lived for seven years, (Cal Uranium), near Moab, Utah, we had power from a big ol' generator. For the first year I was there, we actually had lights, but no plumbing. The mine managers and engineers made a wrong turn in a tunnel and actually missed the uranium vein. The company went broke and we soon found ourselves the only residents in a cabin in an abandoned mining camp. The manager asked my dad to stay on and look after the place for free rent plus $150.00 per month. I was the only kid on a deserted plateau near a huge red cliff. Life was lonely but not so bad. Seven years total, living among the lizards. not so bad.

Anyway, let's get to my tidbit. When Mom, Eddie and I first arrived to join Dad, (Dec, 1953), the camp was bustling with people. Jack, Margie and little Jacqui lived in the first cabin, Curt Moran lived in the second one, we had the third one and Bob Brady had the fourth one. Everyone else lived in trailer houses scattered about. One trailer was occupied by Jan, aged eleven. I was twelve. Jan was one of these extreme "hypers". Blonde, cute, and always on the move. She took a big figurative bag of energy, controversy and contention with her everywhere she went. But she was fun.

When the mine closed, Jan moved to Moab, 35 miles away. I saw her from time to time, but she was always in one frenzied situation or another. Fast-forward about 2 years. Now I'm fourteen or so and she's 12. (My memory is tricking me.) I'm sure I was 2 years older, but who's counting? Somehow, I nonchalantly asked her if she would like to go to a movie. {Yes, Mowabb had a movie theater in 1955. Sheesh.}

We no sooner got seated when a group of four or five boys her age sat down right behind us. Ugh! Well, they started right in, pulling her hair, giggling, whispering too loudly and taunting her. She would twist in her seat and tell them what a bunch of morons they were. Their noise level kept rising. I was afraid that we were all going to be thrown out. Other patrons kept staring at us in disgust. This stuff went on for at least a half hour. My patience ran out. I worried about their incredible offense to the people around us, but I was also concerned about the complete lack of respect they were showing for Jan. She was a real fireball. She held her own quite well. Finally, I turned to them and said, "hey, can you guys hold it down a little bit?" They immediately froze in their tracks. Well, in their seats. Not a peep out of them.

We sat in silence for ten minutes or so. I was beginning to pick up on the movie. Suddenly, Jan got up and stepped out. Bathroom call? Candy bar time? Oh, no. After five more minutes the manager was standing over me, asking me to step out into the lobby. {Yes, that theater even had a lobby.} With question marks plastered all over my face, {okay, figuratively}, I followed him out. I wondered how he even knew who I was. He was angry. He told me that Jan had walked out crying. As she passed him she said, "Gene Burton has just humiliated me in front of my friends." Then, she was gone into the night.

I was understandably shocked. I told him my side of the story. He went over and filled two bags of popcorn, one for him and one for me. We talked about everything under the sun. He was easy to talk to because he was my age. His dad owned the theater. (Yes, they had popcorn in 1955.) I never did get back to the movie. But I did stay after and help him sweep up all of the mess. In those extremely ancient days people threw all of their containers and wrappers on the floor. What a chore!

He and I became such good friends that I, uh I... uh... uh can't remember his name.

Epilogue: I found out later that her mom jumped all over her. "Gene was your first real date! And you treat him like this! You should be ashamed!" etc. etc.

Halloween Blob

2009-11-01T17:14:00.000-08:00

The time has arrived for my Halloween blob. It is all about dreams and nightmares. OR IS IT? HAhahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.... There will be three sequences. Are they true, or are they false? Heh heh. Could they be half-dreams, concocted in the mind of a retired ol' feller with too much thinkin' time on his hands? Snurk snurk.

1) I did a 10 mile hike on a hot summer day. I was exhausted, hot and sweaty. Finally, I was less than one mile from home. I wasn't sure I could finish. Suddenly a big ol' Suburban pulled up beside me. It was a friend; one whom shall remain nameless. He yelled ''hello" and offered me a ride. My heart sank. His vehicle was loaded beyond capacity. There must have been 10 or 15 people in there. Oh, did I mention that I also felt kinda, uh, smelly? I declined his offer. "Jump in. We'll make room!". I watched as all those people scrunched, wiggled, and rearranged. I climbed into a space about half my size. "Okay. I'm in!" He drove through the twisting, winding streets until we were home. HIS home. I thanked him and set out for my home.... which was MORE than one mile away.

2) I was a contestant on "Jeopardy." In Final Jeopardy, Alex gave the question (answer). "What famous building was the only one where people could drill a hole in an outside wall, pound a peg into the hole and hang a drinking cup on the peg?" Well, of course, we all missed it. Alex gave the answer (question). "It was the White house", he declared with a condescending grin. As I awakened, I wondwred if this was just for the residents or for all people who visited. That could be millions of cups. But what did it matter if this was JUST a dream? I wondered if I had really been on Jeopardy or if I had actually seen this question, concerning the earliest days of the White House, long before modern plumbing.

3) I accidentally spilled a liquid dollar bill.

Nnnighhhtmaaarre! The answer is in code. Aatbbhcceddy eewffeggrhhe iiajjlkkl lldmmrnneooappmqqs. Happy Halloween!!!

Shirts

2009-09-01T19:15:00.000-07:00

Boy, ya lose one little scrap of paper and your blobbin' days are over. At least for awhile. But, Jodi, when she isn't STEPPING on STITCH, seems to get me going in a forward motion again. I managed to comment on Barbara's blog. Surprazz, surprazz. When we were at the rappelling event one family made sure that the announcer mentioned that their guy was a MARINE. We all smiled. Ben would never let himself be so flagrently bragged on.

I mentioned in a response to Barb's blog that I only have two shirts. I lied. I have over 40 shirts. Why so many, you might ask. It's a long story and you can stop reading right here if you like. GET BACK HERE! It happened like this. I had a normal number of shirts. But the Penneys in the Cottonwoos Mall was selling everything, even the shelves. I bought a royal blue shirt at half price because I was headed for a BYU game. ROYAL blue is the TRUE Cougar blue! Ya got that?

The clothing was selling out like Carlos Boozer has been selling out the Jazz. Inexplicably, everything in Penneys pretty much sold out except the men's shirts. They dropped to 60% off. I bought a couple more. Seventy percent off. This was kinda fun, considering that we live only 2 blocks away. Eighty percent off. Wheeeee! On the tragic day when Penneys was closing that store forever, every item in the joint was selling for 90%off plus 15%off that total. Hmmm. 90% off a $40 dollar shirt equals $4.00. 15 off that is 60 cents. Beautiful $40 shirts for $3.40? Oh, yeah. They were all long sleeve with winter coming on. A huge assortment in my size. OH, YEAH.

We got there as the doors were opening. I started draping shirts over my left arm so my right hand would be free for some fast work. I piled up so many shirts that I could barely see over the pile. My arm was beginning to hurt. All things in moderation, they say. Heh heh. By this time a large crowd had gathered, and I knew I was done. I headed for the checkstand.

Suddenly, I was told to leave the store. Maybe moderation is a good standard after all. Not only was I told to leave the store, but to never come back. Well, yeah, that's easy to say on the day the store is closing forever. Was it the clerk telling me this? The manager? No, it was my wife. Maudeen had only found one pathetic little shirt. I told her how very sorry I was as I shoved past her to the land-o-glory. The checkstand.

All apologies if this sounds like a ruler event.

Ben's Adventure

2009-08-29T17:02:00.000-07:00

Beware of the blob, it creeps and leaps, and slides and glides across the floor; right through the door, and all AROUND the wall... Help! The blob is back. If only for a moment. Gotta report on Ben Hevelone's adventure.

Ben's employer, ITT, is a huge supporter of Special Olympics. So they sponsor a ho-bunch of their employees (at a thousand dollar donation each) to drop 240 feet off the roof of the American Towers Hotel. They rappel down the northwest corner. The big boss even went down. The event was held on Friday, Aug 21.

Anyone who wanted to could go down, if they could find a sponsor or cough up the moola. I was concerned about finding a shady spot and a chair, so I took a small bucket and a pillow. I was not gonna stand for 1.5 hours! Well, when I got there I found a beautiful plaza with lovely seats near the restaurant. They had raspberry water and pineapple water for everyone to drink. It was really a well planned event, But I felt a bit like Jed Clampett arriving in Beverly Hills.

One lady kept glancing at this older fellow with a bucket and a pillow. Finally, she said, "Skyler, go say 'hi' to grandpa." It was SHELLY! Barb, Dean and the little mutton bustin' buckaroo soon arrived. The people were a-droppin' off the roof. Ben was scheduled for 1:30 but he went down at about 1:20. Very prompt.

Some of Utah's most famous dignitaries were sailing off that roof. Mayor Ralph Becker, the director of Special Olympics, at least one auto dealer and many others. I felt so fortunate to find a parking spot less than one block away. In the hot sun, of course. But I had no change. Very serious. I asked a lady if she had change for a dollar. She did not. I asked her if she had ANY change. She found a quarter and I gave her my dollar. That bought me some time. I went racing up the street looking for change. I eventually put 8 quarters in the meter and I was off to the event.

The participants were constantly being yelled at by their relatives to turn around for photo purposes. Many could not or would not turn around. They were frozen with their faces against the wall, determined to be alive at the landing. A very few of them looked down from the roof and said "huh uh. I ain't doin' this." Ben got turned around really well during his descent and Shelly and Barb got some great pictures. Go to "Cabin Fever" soon, (but not yet) for some great shots. You will also see Eli gettin' bucked off a huge, dangerous uh........... sheep. Also check Q-tips for more cute kids.

When Ben got down, he rushed into the dressing room where all the rappellers had their stuff stored (in alphabetical order). He grabbed a B H bag and came out to meet with us. As we were congratulating him, Barb and Shelly were going through his bag, looking for good stuff. (Maybe some coupons and gift certificates and things.) They soon discovered that this WAS NOT Ben's bag. He had grabbed the wrong one. He went racing back inside, hoping to get the exchange made before the other B H started calling 911. Fortunately, the guy was droppin' from the sky and knew nothing about it. Oh, yeah, who was this mysterious "other" B H? It was Bob Harmon, the president of Harmon Foods.

Well, the party soon broke up. Barb said, "Dad, can we take you to your car?" I said "why, where are you parked? She said, "under the hotel, of course. The parking is free!"

Jed Clampett slided and glided up the boiling hot sidewalk to his car.

Happy b-day

2009-03-25T18:09:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday, Tweetie! It was on March 25, 1981. Yer grandmum and yer mum left for the doctor's office at about 9:00 a.m. for the doctor's office for a routine late-pregnancy exam. The doctor told Barb that she was already in labor and to get to the hospital immediately.

The wind was blowing like crazy that day. Grandma drove as fast as possible toward Cottonwood Hospital. They came to a great big dead end street. They hurriedly searched for a different route. G'ma was as nervous as a flea, and yer ma was trying to settle her down. Soon after they arrived, little Amanda Amber Mortensen was born. Our very first grandchild.

That evening we traveled back out to the hospital to see our new prize. Yer pa was watching "The Greatest American Hero on t.v. Ken, Jodi and Brian were there. You were the star of the production! The cutest bundle ever. Love, Grandma and Grandpa....

Hiking City Creek

2009-03-19T05:58:00.000-07:00

I have meant to do this blob ever since I have been blobbin. Barbara's blog about hiking gets me going. Jodi and Todd and the younguns hike when they are not running. Jodi and Brian are gearing up for Bryce Canyon in July. So I go now. Into 1993 or 1994.

I was restless one Saturday morning. It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving. I decided to hike who knows where. I parked the car at the U of U and set out. It looked like rain so I fished an umbrella out of the trunk. I walked through the cemetery. It started to rain, all right. I walked to City Creek Canyon. Does this sound like a parallel (but opposite season) to Barb's blog? I was in pretty good shape then. I could not turn back. Up the canyon I went. The rain turned to sleet. Like most unprepared hikers, I kept a'goin'. Somewhere in my brain I knew I would have to do it all in reverse. (Not walking backward,but...) The rain turned to sleet. It was coming down sideways. Dumb. But I was having fun, dang it! Two or three joggers came hurrying down the hill. Two woman joggers passed me going up the hill.

That gave me courage. If they could run it I could walk it. The sleet turned to snow, still coming straight in from the north. I hiked all the way to the water treatment plant and a bit beyond. The gal in a bright green outfit came running back down. I finally knew that I had done enough. The snow was beginning to pile up. Down the hill I went, telling myself that I was having fun! I kept looking over my shoulder for the smaller gal in a gray and black jogging suit. I was tiring greatly by the time I reached the mouth of the canyon.

I decided to stop and wait a bit to make sure she got out safely. I knew some things and I "fer sure" didn't know some things. She was definitely alone up that creek. If she had fallen on the icy pavement she was very much alone "up the creek". A broken hip? A sprained knee? A head injury? On the other hand, there were many side trails up the side of the canyon and over toward the state capitol building. A simple manuever on a dry day, but in this weather the likelihood seemed remote that she went there. Cell phones were at least 5 years out.

Would her family become concerned and come straight to the canyon, see her car and go find her? Was she alone in every way with no one mounting a search? Was she sitting in front of a warm fire at this moment? I waited a long time. She could not have run that far up the canyon. Not in this weather. My heart sank. I could not leave her up there and read about her in the next morning's Desnews. I certainly couldn't walk into town and give the cops a cockamamie story of a missing person.

I started up the hill. I walked the better part of a mile. Suddenly, she rounded the bend, running at the same expert pace I had seen before. I turned and started back down. She gave me the strangest look as she ran by me. She recognized my umbrella and understood my instant turnabout. "You are a serious runner," I said. She stopped and walked with me. "Saturdays are my only day to escape my crazy life. I run no matter what." She never acknowledged that I was some sort of wacky guardian angel.. She never thanked me for anything. We chatted aimlessly all the way to her car. She asked me if she could take me anywhere.

I could not allow her to try driving up the hill to the U. of U. I declined. I cleaned her windows as she started her auto. I knew one more thing. I knew that she knew. I would have never left her up there alone. When I got to the city streets I called home. Jodi wanted to come and get me. I couldn't let her go out in that mess. I don't remember ever seeing a bus.

I was a ward Sunday School president at the time. The next morning my phone rang. It was my next door neighbor, a SS teacher. He said, "I'm not going out in this! Bye." I had no time to tell him I had just done fourteen miles "in this". For fun.

Commenting

2009-03-18T19:02:00.001-07:00

I cannot for the life of me get my comments through the "fog". I tried to comment on Amanda's blog. Hey! That rhymes!. Anyhoo, no, I didn't think too much of the music video. I liked the story of Linnie Luuu and the tooth. My dad always used a pair of rusty pliars on me. Well, they weren't rusty. And he was always careful to keep me smiling. I was proud to have him pull my teeth. The pliars were actually hooked for easy access. Shudder. How well I remember. I don't even try to comment on Barbara's blog. I think her blog is reeeeally difficult to connect my comments with. Maybe the Burton-Hevelone internet connection winds through northern Canada.

Barb, yer mum and I remember the photo of you with the canteen. Yer ma choked up a bit when she saw it. That whole blog was very touching. I think Ideeho actually is somewhere in northern Canada. There is a highway from Vernal to Montpelier. So, maybe it won't be an awful drive. You and Wendy need to stay in close touch...d'Pa

Oapmeal

2009-03-03T17:39:00.000-08:00

Have you ever noticed that most people say oapmeal instead of oatmeal? Including myself? I think it may be because we are already closing our mouth in preparation of voicing the "m". This causes the "t" to be blocked out. It is impossible to say "t" with your mouth closed. A perfectly unintended "p" creeps in without our knowledge. It happens thousands of times for each of us unless we just don't like oatmeal and never utter the word. Were we to perfectly enunciate the word "oatmeal", it would roll off our tongue (or tongues, collectively) sounding unnatural. Say " oatmeal" out loud ten times. Pay paticcalar attention to the "t". Doesn't that sound weird? Forget 10 times. Three times will suffice. OaTmeal. OaTmeal. OaTmeal. Now say "oapmeal " once. Your life is now back to normal.

What's all this commotion about Facebooking? It seems to be replacing blogging, and blogging has only been around for a few months, at least in my world. A Facebook entry takes only a few seconds. Bloggers (and especially blobbers) get long winded and fill a lot of space. The world is moving too fast for us old crows.

The Deseret News, on March 2, Analyzed Facebooking. 175 million users. Fastest growing group of users: 30 and older. 120 friends per average user. 3 billion minutes per day. I don't know if that's worldwide or just Maudeen. She is on that thing endlessly, and one month ago she didn't even know what Facebook is. She called it "Faceplate". The site was originally started among college students, but has now grown to include people of all ages. Addictive? Yup. Dangerous? Not much evidence. I cannot stop blobbing. Especially when I'm eating Pizza. I go now.

They Drown Horses, Don't They?

2009-02-28T19:25:00.001-08:00

I just found out (loooooong after everyone else found out) that Connor is on the Jordan High water polo team. The Watson/Reese gang were at our house on Sunday, and Connor was telling folks about his new endeavor. I must'a been in the other room at the time. I didn't hear a word of it. Well, maybe I was sitting next to Connor at the time. Real, actual, meaningful, axiomatic, conclusive dialog cannot happen at our house with the gang here, because there are so many lower jaws a'flappin' (mostly mine) that a constructive message cannot be heard through the gaggle of raised voices.

Anyway, I was excited to EVENTUALLY hear of d'Conman's new groove. But I have some questions. Isn't it kinda cruel to make all those horsies swim around in a swimming pool? Don't the horses make the pool sorta - uh - unsanitary? I know that in parades they have people following the horses with poop-r-scoopers, but how in the heck do they accomplish the cleanup in a pool? Maybe they feed the ponies marshmallows for two days before the match, hoping for a "floating" arrangement instead of a "sinking" one. That would reealy help. How in the world do they get the horses out of the pool? Just wonderin'. Guess I will just have to mosey over there and watch a match as soon as possible. I am really looking forward to it.

Blobbin' at random: I got a comment from the Whitneys on my last blob. Wow. That was great. Things cannot be the same on Altair Drive, but the old friendships are forever. Barb-of-the-faraway-hills e-mailed us and says that they are up to their ears in mud. Well, ya know what they say.... Spring mud brings summer weeds.... It's all good. Brian has been (and/or will be) in 8 or 10 cities in 3 or 4 weeks. Eek. Coast to coast. Eeeek. We have had 2 deaths in 2 days in the 'hood, a couple of weeks ago. One of them was a 29 year old feller who MAY have violated a prescription instruction. Watch those instructions!! I go now. I have been 163 hours without a Pepsi. I seriously go now.

Sillibiz

2009-02-16T10:56:00.000-08:00

This is a tutorial from Babs. I'm trying new stuff.

Beware o' the blob.

2009-02-09T16:46:00.001-08:00

If the wind is blowing from the northwest at 10 knots, I will blob today. If the wind is blowin' from the southeast at 20 knots I will not blob today. If the wind........... Aw, fer crying out loud, I will blob. Be warned. I am dreadfully low on material.

Maudeen is doing very well with her new blog. She has fabulous stories from her childhood and many current items, also.
Most of our condos in here must have a strange magnetic field in the posts that support the carports, and these fields attract auto bumpers. Bang. Thump. Whoops. You get the picture. Jennifer says that when she bumped her post a few years back, her son, Zack, told everyone he had been in a major accident, with whiplash, seatbelt rash and much emotional suffering.

Well, we lost a post last week. A very elderly lady tried to pull into our carport, thinking it belonged to our neighbor Marcie. I called Marcie's husband, Paul, and mentioned it to him. He said that she was so helpless in her old age that he would rather not mention it to her, but merely pay the damage himself. I told him that I didn't expect the LOL to pay for it and that I would take care of it. (You thought LOL meant laugh out loud when it really means Little Old Lady, huh?)

In a subsequent phone conversation, Marcie offered to pay half the damages. Let's tabulate. The redwood posts were $33. The cedar ones were about $19. I found one made of pine or fir for $6. Here is my dilemma. Do I charge Paul and Marcie $3 or do I charge $3.14 including tax. I'm getting a splitting headache dealing with this issue. Another issue is this: Should I have gotten a waterlogged fir post for $3 that might warp and ooze pine-tar for years to come, or gotten the cedar one which would have resisted beetles and warping for decades? Oh, the pain, the pain. We already had some primer and brown paint, so the paint isn't anything they should pay. Oh, I'm sure they'll bring it up.

On the day of the accident, we discovered that our screen door into the patio from the carport was sticking quite badly. It took us a full week to realize that the LOL had also bumped our fence, driving the fence one inch south, leaving us with a fence to move northward. This should be easy, unless the 38 year old fence posts have been snapped at ground level. This will not be easy to determine, considering that the posts are completely hidden behind the fence slats. Doing a ricketiness test will do no good, because the whole fence is a rickety mess already.

Maybe I could casually approach Paul and Marcie with: $3.14 for the post, $2.50 for the paint. $0.00 for the labor and $1299.99 for "possible damage" to the fence. I am sooooo clever. Wait a minute. What am I doing discounting my labor? Here's the solution to the whole problem. If the wind is blowing from the north at ten knots, I will bill them for $1500.00. If the wind is.............

And you thought I was just being silly when I said "Beware of the Blob."

Blobbin' to the Oldies

2009-01-30T19:10:00.000-08:00

HI!.....Sorry Richard Simmons. But Barbara sent a video of two newlyweds puttin' on a show. Am I getting wierd or what? This is the first time in my life I would rather watch the boy dance than the girl! AND THEY DID THE CHICKEN DANCE! Why oh why did they cut away from the chicken dance after just a few seconds? Eli can teach them both a few moves. I'm flapping my arms and singing do do do do do do do. Do do do do do do do. Hey! you just try typing while doing the Majestic Chicken Dance. If the Chicken Dance had shown up 225 years earlier, George Washington would never have bothered with the Minuet! Martha Washington would have died early. From laughter.

Jodi taught me how to comment and I guess I'm doing ok. But I still can't post my own blob. So kudos and accolades to Iggggggieeeee. I hop I don't stress her out too much with my endless needs. She would never complain even if I did. Why izzit that Brian has become almost as famous as Yiyi when the subject of The Dance comes up?

Here's an important philosophical question. Or maybe it is merely a functional question. But it is a question that must, after all these years, be answered and put to rest. Here goes: Does a man shave each morning or does he reshave? I'm being serious here. This is a very pertinent question. Let's say I'm playing Scrabble and I find myself with the opportunity to play the word "reshave". Can I play it? Or will it spit that despicable "foul" message at me? I know what YOU would do. You would play "shaver", forget about it and move on. Fine, okay? FINE. But that would only play six letters, leaving me without my fifty point "BINGO" bonus.

One school of thought says that he is reshaving. Period. It's a repetitive process. Case closed. Another school of thinkin' says that he gets a whole new crop of facefuzz every day. So it's a whole new process every day except on Saturday. So it's shaving. Case closed. Yer Ma, who still sometimes calls her Facebook "Faceplate" will now prob'ly start calling it Facefuzz, but that's her problem. Billy Mays has his own cowardly answer. He doesn't shave at all. I myself generally do the 30-second "halfshave". Not intentionally. Just sloppily. A Norelco shaving (oops, I mean reshaving) head is supposed to be changed every 6 to 12 months. Mine is 26 months old and counting. I wonder which store sells the darn things. If it gets much older I will start being guilty (through no fault of my own) of the "quartershave."

Thanks, El Muncho-g-buncho. Good dance................d'Pa

P.S. Why do they call it "bingo" when with no additional effort, they coulda called it "HOME RUN"? Dummies.

PPS: My vote goes to REshaving. It suuure seems REdundant to me.

Snowblob

2009-01-27T18:16:00.000-08:00

I have been admiring Barbara's and Jodi's fantabulous snow scenes in their blogs. I'm jealous, so here goes. I have a snow blob. And it ain't no snow job. In fact, like most grandpas from the faraway hills, I have endless snow stories, but, mercifully, I will only drop one snowflake on yez today. Sorry, no pictures.

I grew up in the crown of the Rocky Mountains, (the literal crown) in Alma, CO., near Breckenridge. Funny thing. Mother Nature gave the Breckens the best ski slopes and the best snow. The North wind brought heavy snow into Breckenridge and gave us a bit less. I'd have argued that at the time. There weren't many kids in tiny Alma, so I was called upon to shovel heavy snow from August 'til June. Oh, alright. November through March. I shoveled driveways, walkways, doorways and paths to the woodshed. I even shoveled under clothlines so ladies could hang out the "warsh". People would tell me that their car was located somewhere under a drift. I would dig 'til they were mobile again. Hour after hour, I shoveled, then it was off to Chuck Bilto's store to spend my cache on a couple of Heath Bars. Life was good.

We had no ski resort. I'm not sure Breckenridge did either. We were just two abandoned old mining towns. Times, they have-a-changed. Breck is "world-class" and we're still the po-folk neighbors. However, when I was about 8 years old, some entrepreneuring genius decided to build a ski resort, about a half mile north of town. He cleared the timber and built a rope-lift. He sold hot chocolate and stuff. The rope-lift consisted of a thick rope running through a series of old automobile wheels. (No tires, just rusty steel rims.) The more wheels, the more needed tension for the rope. I guess. Everything was driven by a Model A engine. Thence to the top of the mountain (okay, hill.) with the rope. Thence through another couple of rims on a pole and back to point A.

Miraculously, this thing worked. Folks would grab the rope and go flying up the hill. I thought the rope looked to be infinitely more fun than skiing back down. On the first actual ski day, I scrounged up a pair of skis somewhere. Maybe the "resort" rented them to me. I dunno. I headed for the rope. No one else had any trouble latching onto the rope. But the rope latched onto me. It flung me onto my teakettle. I dusted myself off. (does anyone really "dust" wet, packed snow off?) I tried again. Same result. Why didn't someone help me? Oh well. I was too embarrassed and too hurt to try again. That rope could really jerk me about. I started up the gigantic mountain (moderate hill) on foot. To my horror, there was insufficient room between the lift and the traveled slope for foot traffic. Get hit by a skier going up or get hit by a skier coming down.

And, oh the language! "Hey, kid! Get off the %&$*?" course!"... "Hey, kid.You're puncturing the snow!" Exhausted, wet, cold and frightened, I stopped climbing at about the halfway point. I strapped on the skis. Oh. Oh. I couldn't ski. Plop. Stand up. Go again. Plop. Lose a ski. Chase it. Look up the hill. Dodge for my life. Plop. when I finally got to the bottom of the hill, some well meaning adult said to me, "hey, kid. Ya gotta learn how to do this before you do this."

I think this is the first time I have told this story. (I hope a haven't told it in my Alma book. How funny, to write it and then forget it.) The reason I have been holding it in is because there is no punch line. No climactic moment. No blazing finish. No great lesson for living.

So here is your assignment. Comment. In your comment put a short finish on the story. You could say that I used that setback as motivation to become a great Olympic master of the slalom. Strike that. I still can't ski a lick, though I live in the shadow of Snowbird and Brighton. Put YOUR finish on the story.

This all happened almost 60 years ago. Yipe. I'm still young. I'm still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. Sixty years? Double yipe. Incidentally, the ski resort failed during its first or second season.

Post script: One fun thing eventually happened on that hill, about ten years later. The hill was so steep that we would have been afraid to go down it at top speed in Richard's old Model A. But the hill had begun re-growing a beautiful stand of quakie trees. We found that we could go racing down the hill at break-neck speed, plowing the trees before us. What fun. I go now, before I think of more goofy stuff.

Post post script: If I had had a million dollars in the late forties I could have bought one hundred thousand Model A's at a rate of 10 bucks each. They were EVERYWHERE! I swear I go now.

Blogbooks

2009-01-22T17:30:00.000-08:00

Today, I read Barbara's blog. In it, she said that we should all be printing some (all?) of our blogs to build blog books. Unfortunately, if I build one, it will truly be a BLOB book; because, during compilation I will surely be spilling blobs of chocolate on it. Or maybe I will be blubbering or blobbering about insignificant things. Speaking of insignificant things........ I'm allowing my mind to wander, here...........

I think it was Jodi who encountered the word "infinitesimal" last year. She laughed and laughed . She said. "how could such a stupid word exist? How could anyone ever use such a dumb word?" I assured her, oh yes, I assured her , that it DOES exist. When I was a youngster, if my mom caught me blubbering about some insignificant thing, she would say, "Gene, why are you complaining and making such a huge issue about something so infinitesimally small?" I would suddenly feel infinitely small, and I would somehow find the strength to get over it and get on with it. The raging red in my embarrassed face would slowly become dissapatory.

Now, why did "blubbering" remind me of "infinichickenately" or however you say it? I dunno. I move on now.

This next segment is infinimarshmallowly small. I spent one year in college. Carbon College. Forerunner to College of Eastern Utah. Art scholarship. Found Grandma. (She was not yet a Grandma.) Four kids and 47 years later I rediscovered artwork. My skills , of course, have not advanced during that time. But I have a terrific idea about a painting I feel the need to do. (Isn't that artsy, to feel a NEED to paint?) Hint: it will be of my childhood. I will blob on my progress. I will post a photo of it when it's done, even if it's awful. Hint: it will have nothing to do with green suspenders. Sorry, Brian.

Grandma has as many, if not more, great stories from her childhood as I do. But she won't be doing a blog soon. She could type 337 words per minute in high school. She is far more advanced in "computatorology" than I am. But she won't blog. I think she is afraid of sounding like she's bragging if she says good things about herself. I don't get it. Heck, I have endless marvelous things to say about me AND IT AIN'T BRAGGING. Embellishing and lying, maybe, but no bragging.

SO, I will be setting up a blog on Gramma, or at least including her stories on my blob. She's such a star.

I can't wait to find Shelly's blog.

News flash: Todd, Jodi and the bumpkins will be over on Sunday. Jodi is gonna teach me - once and for all, how to comment. That is real futuristic, 22nd century progress. Maybe she will even teach me how to post my own blob. Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to anywhere but work I go....................now.

January19blob

2009-01-19T19:53:00.000-08:00

I have a very real sorrow for tragedy and misfortune. Today I saw a Hostess 18-wheeler on the side of the road with a wheel missing - probably a tire somewhere getting repaired. Do you realize what this means? Thousands of little children will be crying themselves to sleep tonight because of no Twinkie.

Barb, Jodi and Amanda all have terrific blogs for me to read. Even if I can't comment very well, and even if Jodi's blog has metamorphosed into a health blog, I hop to keep up really well. In fact, I am going to read everyone's blog and do my commenting on this blob. I hop it works. I hop everyone will hit my blob to get my comments on YOUR blog. I hop that doesn't sound too self-serving. I hop..........I hop......Suddenly, I have a great craving for pancakes, even though it's 7:30pm. There is an IHOP less than two blocks away. I go now.

Revisit beetdiggers

2009-01-12T06:02:00.000-08:00

No one knows the truffles I've seen. Do tddruffles have ddridges? We got a gift box of em and I can't leave them alone. I'll bet soldiers on bivouac get tired of dragging that heavy truffle bag around.

Last week I ran a quiz about how true my blob was. The consensus was that I was merely embellishing. That is correct. I screamed at Connor twice, trying to say hi to him. He didn't hear me. But we had a good chat over cookies. He was truly difficult to spot because "they all look alike."

Not too much going on around here. Talked with Todd on the cell phone the other day. Told him I was on the freeway. Told him I would be late meeting him at the shop because I had to drop some cargo off at the house. The cargo really screamed at me. I guess yer ma doesn't like being called cargo.

Went to the store yesterday. got into a nice short checkout line. Good thing, because I was in a real hurry. Uh oh. The lady being checked out was contesting every item. I was incredulous as I stood there watching. Finally, in a huge demonstrative huff, I gathered up all my stuff up and marched over to the service desk. The clerk there was happy to check me out. I told her all about the female "Bill Slowski" in line 6.

My clerk said, "oh oh, I don't have a scale, and I cannot do your bananas." "just set 'em aside", I said. "I am in a real hurry." She set them aside, but then she whispered to me, "how about we just charge $2.00 for the bananas?" "Oh, great," sez I. I would not have wanted to face yer ma without those bananas. I am very concerned about yer ma's consumption of bananas. But, she does have a rotatable thumb, so I guess everything is okay.

As I turned to leave, I glanced over at line 6. "Look,"sez I, "that woman is still arguing about every item, and she still has a long way to go." "Yes," sez the clerk, "It's this new strained economy. We get at least 4 people like her in here every day."

I left the store with an achy breaky heart for that poor lady. Hope everything turns out well for her. There is always a higher road for me to take. Attitudes are always changeable and improvable. There is always room for compassion for people who struggle. For example, I try to never say anything bad about yer ma. Well, technically, I did call her "cargo". And a monkey. But that proves my point. There IS always room for improvement in my attitude. Paraphrasing Yoda, go now I.

Beetdiggers

2009-01-08T20:05:00.000-08:00

Question: What is a beetdigger?
Answer: One who digs beets.
What is a Jordan Beetdigger?
Connor Reese. Go Connor, go Connor.
I attended a swim meet today. Connor set at least 2 personal bests.
He's a Sophomore, so he didn't beat those super-Seniors.
But he is a terrific developing swimmer.
I couldn't recognize him for the life of me.
Who says that our youth have an obesity problem?
All the swimmers were skinny as rails.
I could not tell them apart.
Well, one guy had an eagle's nest on his chest.
Not a tatoo. Hairy Potter, maybe. Or Prince Hairy.
I guess I remember some hairy beasts from high school.
But this guy took me by surprise.
It is really hard to tell swimmers apart when they are all dressed the same.
Or should I say UNdressed the same, har, har.
Plus they wear those headgear things with a big J on the side. (Jordan)
Oh, I know what they are. Shower caps. And they wear goggles.
My seat - lucky me - was under a large horizontal pipe.
The condensation dripped on me non-stop for 2 hours.
But that's all good, I guess. I won't need to shower for two days.
Blake, Bailee and Rissy were there close to me.
"Hey, Connor," I screamed. "You are gonna be blogged."
"Uh, That's not Connor," Blake said.
I quickly redirected. "Hey, Connor, My friend, You are gonna get blobbed."
"I don't think that's Connor," said Bailee.
The sound in that acoustical masterpiece of a swim-gym surpasses the noise in the Rose Bowl.
It was crazy-deafening in there. Crrrazy.
Jodi was at the far end and I didn't catch her before she left.
I was DEEjected. I yelled goodbye to Connor.
"Not him," said Rissy.
My cell phone rang as I crossed the parking lot.
It was Todd. "Dang it, I missed Jodi," I complained.
"Oh, she is just getting the treats for the team. She hasn't left."
I hurried back in with hope renewed. Jodi and Rissy were handing out treats.
I had one. But not without a twinge of fear that one Beetdigger would be left out.
What if it was Connor???
I could envision him standing in a corner with a tragic, distraught expression on his face.
The treat was terrific. Homemade.
One woman looked at them and asked me what they were.
"Rice Crispy squares," I replied. "Only problem is, Jodi doesn't understand 'square'."
They were half-moon shaped. Was I so wrong?? Hmmm?
"Oh, yummie," she said. "I need that recipe. And the half moon shape is so darling."
Out the corner of my eye, I thought the gal gave me a bit of a glare.
I gotta admit that those treats were special. They had chocolate inside.
Connor appeared, looking dapper in his street clothes.
He was ready to face the rest of his day.
"Great job, Connor! You are going to be the star of my blob!"
I think he had water in his ears. He didn't hear me as he went out the door. I go now.

Question: Although this was all based on factual events, vote below if you believe some of it was :
A) Embellished
B) Downright lying
C) Unrestrained daydreaming
D) Criminal offense

I ain't tellin'. Go now.

January Blob-blahs

2009-01-07T22:17:00.000-08:00

My goodness! Can it be January 8 already? No. Just testin' ya. It's only da 7th. Wow, I'm really on a roll.

Question: Why did Chloris Leachman get invited to participate in "Dancing With the Stars"?
Answer: Because Phyllis Diller had another commitment. Question: Have Chloris and Phyllis ever been seen together at the same time?

Today is Christmas in Russia. Hop the Darren is havink a good day. My Russion is REALLY not very good.

Snow snow and more snow. Those poor Watsons are really getting it.

Ramblin' a bit: I hit Jodi's blog but couldn't bring up the comments. Hop that doesn't happen again. Also, The last blob I sent her for posting never got posted. Prob'ly my goofy mistake. Again. As usual. I gotta get busy and learn my own posting! Jot does so much for me. Barb says I won't have any problem learning posting and commenting. I think I'll get Brian to tutor me on the phone WHILE I get registered with Google. Maybe that will help.

Here's one that I heard in the 1940's..... What happened to the aviatrix who backed up too close to a spinning propeller? Disaster. Don't get it? E-mail me at geneburton1941@comcast.net for an explanation. Don't worry. You'll get it. Oh! You've already got it! Cool.

Well, anyway, have a great January. Many many thanks to everyone who has commented. I WILL learn to comment in return. I will. I go now.

Blob Horizons

2008-12-31T18:04:00.001-08:00

Hi, Chot.......Thanks for the birthday greeting. I have re-read it several times. Today is the day I learn to comment on everyone's blog. I can't wait to comment on Miss Cindy Loo Hoo's blog, because she has been kind enough to hit mine twice. Does Brian have a blog? Or does he just hide safely in the woods and comment on everyone else's blog? We'll get him going!

Somehow, I must differentiate my style from everyone else's blog. That's hard to do, considering all the incredible talent I see out there. So far, BLOBBIN' is my only significant distinguishing feature. Oh, well. It's all I got.

Here is a list of my favorite things.
Favorite movie: The Blob. Original version.
Favorite T.V. show: Welcome Back Kotter with Vinnie Blobberino.
Favorite game show host: Blob Blarker.
Fave cartoon: Spongeblob Squarepants.
Fave political tacticians: The blobbyists.
Favorite song, from the fabulous Al Jolson: When the Red Red Robin Comes Blob Blob Blobbin' Along.
Second fave song, in honor of Jot, Bri and Marcnie (how long are you?) Blobbin' Robin.
Third fave song, by the superbulous Kris Kristofferson: Me and Blobby McGee.
Fave food: Maine blobster.
Most feared surgery: The blobotomy.
Honorable mentions: Blobbing for apples, discomblobulation, Blobbies on blicycles, two by two.

The following newsflash is printed by permission: Yer ma just baked me a birthday cake and it didn't even go lopsided. I repeat, PRINTED BY PERMISSION. Yumski.

Newsflash: Munchie is in town. She is meeting Gus at Ikea (start the car). She will be along in due time, at some point, in due course, eventually, sometime or other, sooner or later, when all is said and done.

Everyone will be here this evening to celebrate my birthday. No kids. None. BORING! The entire world celebrates my birthday. Except for 1.3 billion Chinese. I'll get to them. They will celebrate also. Eventually. Sometime or other. Sooner or later. When all is said and done. I go now.

GonnaWin

2008-12-27T21:15:00.001-08:00

Well, we only have a few days to:
A) Decide on our new year's rezz, or
B) Finish up on our last year's rezz.
C) Or both.

I have chosen to finish a serious resolution that I have been ignoring for eleven and 3/4 months. Gotta move fast. Today is the day to make serious strides. I am absotively posilutely going to put an end to all my obsessive behaviors. Yer Ma and I went to the Chuckarama. The place was jammed. We no sooner got into the front door than I spotted a big fat older guy with a fabulous pair of John Deere suspenders. I don't like suspenders. Don't trust 'em. One overstretch of the torso and where are the levis? On the floor. But these were JOHN DEERE suspenders. I asked yer Ma for a pair. She was laughing so hard that she didn't even answer. Who was she laughing at.? Me? Or the guy because the suspenders came straight over his shoulders, then took incredible detours around his enormous gut, straightening out again at the beltline where a belt darn well shoulda been.

She continued laughing as we filled our plates. Who in the h-e-double-toothpicks is she giggling about? She rounded a corner and there he was. Face to face. She almost dropped her plate. I told her that I bet any John Deere dealer would have them. Cheap, too. I found the biggest drumstick I had ever seen. Yum. String beans, cantalope, a ho-bunch of napkins and I was ready to dig in. I peeled some of the skin off the d'stick as I always do. The drumstick turned out to be greasy as they often do. I wrapped a napkin around it and wrenched the grease off as I often do. Disaster. The tissuie face of the napkin stuck to the drumstick. I thought it would peel right off. Oh, no. I picked and picked and picked. Yer Ma said that a small amount of napkin wouldn't hurt anything. Have you ever gotten napkin paper in your mouth? Gag! I picked and picked. She got up and refilled her plate.

She was certainly smiling when she returned. I assumed she was having an extended encounter with the 'spenders. I asked about it. She glanced at my d'stick and said no. She suggested that I merely set the drumstick aside. I said, no that would be wasteful and could even get us into trouble with the manager. ("You! Big Boy! You go now!") Well, large drumsticks are not all they are cracked up to be. I couldn't tell the meat from the gristle. I couldn't tell the bone from the fat. I couldn't tell the dark meat from the burned skin. I hate burned skin. It hadda come off. But how? It worked out well. As I got the last of the skin off, the last of the paper appeared to be gone.

I wondered aloud if the guy would be offended if I simply asked him where he got those marvelous green and yellow suspenders. Yer ma has a sort of a personality disorder. Her smiling holiday-season personna was momentarily gone. She said, "dont you go over there." STUPID DRUMSTICK! It was cold. It was hard. It had less meat than a normal small drumstick.

I had an epiphany. The John Deere dealers would have everything on sale. I could buy twenty or thirty pairs of suspenders! For next to nothing! Greenie greenie greenie! But how could I keep the secret for 363 days? Mandy struggled for 17 days (plus 2 days because the toys were on the mountain.) This would test my compulsion to tell all! I always finish at Chuckarama with chocolate pudding. Wouldn't ya know it? The pudding was almost all gone. What do I do? People were pushing from all directions. How do I get anyone's attention? No employees anywhere! I ran to our booth. "Ma, what do I do? The pudding is gone. Do you think maybe that drumstick could have come from a small turkey?"

She said, "I cannot put up with all these people another second. I'm heading for the car." As she was going through the door, I swear I saw a boat of pudding arriving at the dessert bar. I realized that this was a wonderful opportunity to overcome a compulsion. No pudding. I am strong. I am El Tigre. I caught up with yer Ma as she reached the car. "Now, about those suspenders........." I go now.

The Abominable Blobman

2008-12-26T18:40:00.000-08:00

Hi, Folks. I have decided to pay for every comment I get on my blob. I am discovering what the appeal is on writing blogs. It's the comments. They are more addicting and more compulsion-ating than... than........even nail biting. I am a driven man. So I'm beginning - starting today - to pay $1,000,000.00 for each comment. Jodi and Brian will be skeptical. I offered to pay them a million for every tough catch they made in back yard softball-tossin'. They caught manymanymany. The money is still pending. Be patient, ya little coots.

Anyhoo, the Abdominable blobman is so happy to find a venue to keep up better with everyone. Kookins, Twisty, the four siblin's and all others are registered participants. Ken might receive $2,000,000 for his first comment just to get him jump-started. I didn't even know of the comments for the first 3 or 4 weeks of my blob. Surprise!

Is it too late (Dec. 26) for a Christmas story? Don't get Gramps going. I'm compulsive about Christmas stories. A strong magnetic force is pulling, pulling me into the distant past. Help! I'm falling. Suddenly I am six years old. Grandma Burton came to see us for Christmas. She was so fun. A real character. But a bit outspoken. I was afrrrraid of her when she in one of her "snappy moods." She stayed in my bedroom. I awoke very early, probably at about 5:am. I was so silent as I crept to the bedroom door. But all was lost . "what are you doing," she demanded. "I just want to open some of my presents," I said in a strange, whining voice. "Get back in bed right now." "But, but ... I always get up this early..." My voice trailed off. "You get back in bed this instant," she commanded. "Today is Christmas Eve." She was right.

Speaking of falling, Yer ma (and grandma) fell this morning. Very soft landing. No breaks or bruises. Just some stiffness. I would offer to do her falling for her, but I'm afraid she would be about as convinced as you others are on my offer for cash prizes. We have had a fabulous Christmas. Remember Big Boy? "You! Big Boy! You go now." The Abdominable goes now.

Instructoblob

2008-12-25T08:01:00.000-08:00

Our home teacher always says, "Merry merry, happy happy!" I concur.

This an instructional/tutorial/heads-up/blobbo.
A) Play with this outside 'til you get the hang of it.B) Don't let the smaller kids control it by themselves for awhile---- Maybe never.
C) Don't let anyone play with this toy if there is another greenie within about 50 or 100 feet. (They are on the same frequency.)

Blobbadociousness

2008-12-23T19:00:00.001-08:00

Went to the dentist today. Didn't have a good experience. Told the dentist and his seven dwarfs about the greenies. Casually mentioned that I could safely divulge the nature of da greens. Said, however, that they'd have to kill me if I did. They weren't impressed. They were offended. And they tried to kill me. They tried laughing gas. They found that lol gas was not the same as truth serum. I told them nothing. I screamed with laughter, hahahahahaha, and then everything went black. When I awoke I knew that I was in deep trouble. The elves were attacking me with drills. They pretended to reassure me by saying "this is not a drill!" And it wasn't. It was fer real. Ironically, it was not a drill, but it WAS a drill. Go figure. Seven whirring, whining drills. They were trying to KILL me. I thought, "this whole greenie nonsense has gotten out of hand."

I quickly said, "This whole greenie nonsense has gotten out of hand." I tendered a recapitulation. "All right, all right, here is the straight story...." But all was lost. They had decided, (while I was asleep) that killing me would be more fun than learning the verdant truth. With jaded eyes they came after me. I thought quickly. What will stop the drill faster than anything else? Yeah! I've got it! Slobber. They always stop the drill and stick that vacuum wand into the mouth to capture slobber. Fortunately, I had popped a green tic tac into my mouth to keep from offending anyone. "Eeuuww", they shrieked. "Green slobber."

I raced for the door. But they cornered me. Those girls are so cute. I said, "if I bring green cookies, will you let me go?" So yer ma spent the day making green cookies and now I must deliver them. After all, I need to feel safe next time I go into that scary place. I go now.

Blobberooski

2008-12-17T19:12:00.001-08:00

At 5:18 this morning I got a comment from Twisty Widgits. Would someone please pull me down from cloud nine so I can continue with my day?

Anyhoo, You must all be told this: There WILL be an instructional blob on the morning of Dec. 25. For security reasons, nothing more can be added or explained at this time. Barb & Dean and Mandy & Mike made a huge portion of our whole Christmas yesterday. What a great season we are all having!

I've been having fun with "compulsive behaviors" on my blobs, but in reality, I do have 'em. I was recently reminded of one of my serious ones from out of the past by a nameless person who now suffers from this same disorder. (Well, this guy has a name, mind you, but...) This condition may not seem important to you, dear reader, but it is truly maddening, life-disrupting and even painful to the victim.

If you have no obsessions or compulsions, you may consider skipping the remainder of this exciting, fast moving blobbo. For you others, the subject for today is: nail biting! Yeah! Nail biting. Let's get to it!!!

I "Chewed" for thirty five years or more from my early teens to my late forties. My nails permanently receded a full quarter-inch over the decades because of being constantly bitten into the quick. (Bloody stumps! Pain!EEuuww) They are now unsightly because of their shortness, but they are perfectly sightly in their evenness. I tried many cures, but the one that flat-out worked for me is now unfolding for you. It's value will be all up to you, but please let me know if my plan is a boon or a bust.

I read an article by a woman (psychologist?) a couple of years back telling people how to stop biting. She said, "surround yourself with nail files. Have one on hand at all times!" Though her article contained other hints also, I was firmly convinced that she had never been a biter herself. She seemed to know nothing of the degree of a biter's impulsive, driven need to conquer demons; or of the nervous energy that a person puts into his habit. Her method was merely to substitute one conpulsion for another. A person in this situation would revert back to biting if A) a file were suddenly unavailable, or B) the nails got too long for the file to be effective. Plus he/she would be constantly filing, filing, filing.

Here 'tis. Get a good nail clipper and put it in your bathroom, along with an emery-board file. (No metal file.) These will be your primary tools and should do 100% of your manicuring. Get a clipper for "just in case" and keep it at work along with a file. If you travel, get one of each for your luggage. You might also keep a file in your car for extreme emergencies. NEVER use any of these except in case of a hangnail or unexpected rough edge that seems to bother you.

Remember, the reason most people bite, and I number myself in this group, is because of an endless quest for perfection. Any ragged edge is a cause for madness. I mean, Edgar Allen Poe MADNESS! Well, folks, biting cannot bring about this perfection. Human teeth cannot achieve the excellent edge of a stainless steel blade. A clipper, if you will.

Okay, back to the plan. Choose one hour of the week for manicuring. (I always chose Saturday mornings.) Clip the nails TO but not INTO the quick. Clip as deeply as you normally BITE. This is important . Give yourself nothing to bite! After you have clipped as deeply and cleanly as possible, take the file and file each nail To showtime-perfection. Smooth. Silky. Liveable. Never deviate more than one day from this timeframe. During the week, use your thumbs from time to time to feel all of your nails, and your index finger to feel your thumbs. Am I going too fast? If a problem appears correct it on the spot. Don't wait for a "convenient" time to clean it up or you will be tempted to gnaw at it.

I have been "free" of this compulsion for about twenty years, now. It feels good. Even now, I have a momentary crisis if I get a hangnail or a rough spot during a moment when help is not available. I do not call 911. I tough it out. I'm so manly.

Caution: The more progress you make in this area, the more danger you will face in falling for another compulsion. My current obsession seems to be in chasing all over Northern Utah looking for greenies. Some compulsions can be interrupted and even cured with the loud verbal command: "STOP IT." Please comment. I go now.
P.S. If you are constantly using your nails to "even-up" your cuticles, consider this normal. I go now.
hasEML = false;

Blobbity

2008-12-15T19:07:00.000-08:00

Omigosh. Just when I thought my compulsive disorder was being fenced in the sky fell in. It imploded. Yer Ma had a nice gift purchased for Shelly, but she did the unthinkable. She said, "If Ben and Skyler get a greenie, then what would you think of Shelly getting one also, considering that she and Ben do everything together?" O-Mi-Gosh. My frenzied brain began counting numbers.

If Shelly gets one then Amanda gets one. (This lets you out as a confidant, Mandy.) (Thanks for the response to my blob.) If she gets one then L-loo and K-2 each get one. Lets's see, here. Would this leave Mommybarb the only one in the Hevelone clan without one? UNCONSCIONABLE! I mentioned to Babs earlier that I might tell her what these mysterious objects are, but then she would have to kill me..... Wait. I may not have that right.

My fevered brain teleported itself to the Watson residence. What if.....WHAT IF the 3 Watson girls awoke on Christmas day without a single greenie. Not one green gummy worm.....INDEFENSIBLE! Think about it. Sixteen gummy worms for the MANY and no gummy worms for the FEW! Aargh.

Well, it will all be over soon. But for now the FBI, the CIA, Muh and myself will stoically carry on in silence. Incidentally, I determined that I would travel all the way to Dagget County if necessary to find green ones. It wasn't that bad. I found all seven I needed in Rich County and in North Summit County. Whew! Glad that's over. Seven? Oh oh. I need eight. Frenzyfrenzyfrenzy. I go now. I think I can find one in Lawrence, Kansas. If I drive all night. I should be okay. I go now.

ElfyerselfYERSELF

2008-12-09T21:32:00.001-08:00

Flagmeister sez.....It's time for my daily blob. Yeah, like I'll be doin' this every day. I had a chillin' thought. What if Darren could actually receive a TOY on his mission..... Yumpin' yiminy. I ran for the car. I drave. I ran into the unnamable (for security reasons) store. "Weren't you in here yesterday? And the day before," the guy asked. I knew he was out of the green ones, but I told him maybe I could make the blue one a "special one" for the unfortunate guy who randomly got it. He said he had two or three more -----------s on a different shelf. I ran. I sifted and sorted through all those many boxes. (Three.) Greenie greenie greenie! Yayeeayeeay. Yippy-i-o-ki-yay!

I have all but completely solved my problem of compulsive behaviors, but this would have tested me. I almost would have abandoned the project if I had been forced into one blue one. "Here, you can have yer 12 ----------s back."

I am still hopping that Darren can have his this year, but if he has to wait fourteen months, then..... TOUGH IT OUT, DARREN. My old fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Carter, always spelled hoping "hopping" on the blackboard. I reserve the right to say hopping because I LEARNED IT IN SCHOOL. Live with it.

Elfyerself was a great video. Ah lahked it. I hop Ken gets to see it. Barb says Ken was "cutest" or something like that. What??? All four of my kids are equally cute and cuter than anybody else's kids. Get it straight, world.

Wow. Blobbing seems to create an attitude. I hop you are all doing well..........Roger Flag-rabbit

Gingerbread & Obsessions

2008-12-08T19:49:00.000-08:00

Hi, everybuddy! (Everybuddy sounds more fun than everybody.) We saw the gingerbread houses. this very minute I am off to the store to get peanut brittle. You should know that if I see something that good I'm gonna go screaming down the street to get some. There is nothing better than p'nut br'tle. And ya never think of it 'til ya see it lining the path to a g'bread house. Then, ya gotta have some. I go now. I'm neither impulsive nor compulsive and I can prove it. Read on.

Mandy's house is so cute with the Pepsi bottle wall-ornament. I hop we can see the house one of these days.

News flash!! Remember the rulers? And the brick wallpaper? You can finally forget these things because I have stumbled onto a new craze that will BURY those poorly-planned "bargains." We saw these really neat items in a certain store which will remain unnamed for 17 days for security reasons. I decided that the boys needed one each. We got them home. Then I got to thinking that MANY boys needed one of these, so I ran (as I am known for doing) to this mystery location and bought some more. I lugged them home. Then I decided that ALL the boys truly needed one of these objects. They had blue ones and green ones, and I raced maniacally to the unnamed location (for security reasons) hopping that the green ones were not sold out. Green is the superior color. I cannot say why for security reasons. You will know all things in seventeen days. Tough it out.

I secured one for all the MEN of the fandamily. We're so cool. I didn't get one for Qute Q because he is too little to understand. I became very restless. Q is getting so big so fast. He is so smart. Clear the streets, I'm off to the address known only to us. If there is no green one I will drive all over SL County or even to Utah county or even farther to find one. Oh Oh! Now you all have a clue. It is a chain store. (Yaay! I found the last greenie.) But which chain store? There are dozens. Hahahahahahaha!! TOUGH IT OUT! Hahahahaha!!! Love, d'Flagster.

As you can see, I am winning in my fight to cure myself of old compulsions. I'm so proud!

THIS IS AMERICA.....DON'T DRINK THE WATER!

2008-12-03T18:32:00.000-08:00

By the way..... Why do we in the United States reserve the right for ourselves to call ourselves "Americans" when Canadians and Mexican Nationals are also Americans? This is a clumsy puzzle to try to solve. "They" call themselves Canadiens and Mexicans with fluidity and without conscious effort. But if we decided to be more precise than to use the catchall generic word "Americans", what would that specific word or phrase be? United Statesers? Yu-ess-ers? Oreo Fillings? (well, we are sandwiched between those other countries.) CLUMSY!

Oh, I may have it! I get it! We are the United States of AMERICA! Duh. Hey, Flagboy, follow this train of thought: America. American. Canada and Mexico don't include the continent in their name. We may have something here. Whew. That was easy. For a moment I was thinkin' that I may have to try to mount a campaign to get us called the Ves Puggis. Amerigo Ves Puggi? Get it? Ves Pucci? Look up the spelling for yourself. I'm tired.

Good grief. I am using three paragraphs on one little BTW. But what about South America..... Aren't they Americans too? Shouldn't Their feelings be considered? Huh? Huh? Oh. Wait a minute. They don't include their continent either. I'm guessing here. Have you ever heard of the Bolivian States of America? Or the Argentine States of South America? I'd better be careful. I could start a controversy that would end in a revolution. Now, that's just plain profiling! I'm outa here.

Anyhoo, the reason for this blob is to tell ya about Eli's birthday party. When a kid gets to be four years old , he is the master of his big day. Eli understood everything. 2 and 3 year olds don't always understand everything. We brought him a kit to build a "Snoopy" gingerbread house. He wanted to go right to work on it, but his wise mom told him he would need to wait for a more advantageous day. Incidentally, that day came yesterday or today at the home of Linny-Loo, Kaydence-Too and Mister-Quoo. A BIIIGGGGG gingerbread project is underway. We're jealous.

Eli didn't throw a fit or even complain at all when he got put off a bit on his timeline. Now, that's maturity! Barb and her ma were sitting at the table talking about things in general when Barbara said, "Eli is being too quiet!" She ran, but she was too late. Eli was into the gumdrops for the gingerbread house! Now, that's smarts. That Eli. He has it all. Including timing. He knew when to make his move.

Our glorious magical moment on the mountain came and went too soon. Eli wanted to ride in the Cooper (rhymes with Trooper, hee hee) to the bottom of the hill. His mommy needed to fill some five gallon water jugs anyway, so it was a deal. He chattered all the way down. A real added bonus for Grams and Gramps. He rode with us all the way to the artesian well.

Ah, the artesian well. Artesian water is the nectar of the gods. Artesian wells are the lifeblood of the mountains. (I'm making this up.) But, still, I was excited for this artesian delight. I picked up the hose and went glub glub. Swig swig. Glug glug. Barbara shrieked, "Dad, nobody DRINKS that water." Oh, thanks. When we arrived home 2 hours later she was on the phone. "Are you sick yet?"

She has been concerned from that moment to this. I can safely say that my physical health is fine. Just fine. Question.....why isn't she all that concerned about my mental health where the real problems are? From Granny and Grumpy, love to all.....................Flagboy. Hmmmm..... maybe I will lobby for more respect......Love, Flagman

Mister ELI!

2008-11-23T20:41:00.001-08:00

Hi, again. Hope this fits into blob format. We are off to see MISTER ELI! He is so dang fun. Word on the street has it that Mandy and the kids might be there but she tends a one year old and might not make it this time. It is Eli's fourth birthday. A real top-of -the-mountain birtrhday. But wouldn't it be something to see L, K, and Q!

G'munchka.... I am still trying to learn how to enter blob material and how to comment on people's blogs. I asked Jodi to show me how on Thanksgiving, but now the format has changed to her house and there may not be time to learn it. If I would just get off my keesteroonie I could probably learn it all by myself. I am especially stressed that I can't comment on Amanda,s blog.

We are excited out of our gourds to see all the improvements made to your house since we were there last. It just seems like yesterday or maybe earlier today that we were celebrating your fourth b-day on Pieper Blvd. Wish I remembered the e-zack details. Grandma was probably there. D'Kennet (almost three) would have been buggin' you and stealing your gifts. You were the most perfect little tiny girl on the planet, with your little spindly legs and your two front teeth missing (maybe the teeth stayed around to age five).

But, ya know what, you are still almost that tiny and still every bit that perfect. We have just begun to realize that you really do live a hundred miles away. Urk.

Oh! News flash. Yer Ma thinks she remembers yer 4th b'day. Your party included, among others, Kelly Blackburn, Beth Long, Wendy and Cindy Steele and a girl named Stephanie Something. Stephanie thought that since she had brought a gift that she got to take a gift home with her. Yer ma made sure that she got a nice party favor and an explanation that it doesn't work quite like that.

We are sooooo excited. See you tomorrow . Let me know if Dean needs help with anything......Love, d'Pa

FlagRANT

2008-11-20T18:00:00.001-08:00

Flag-rant says.... HEY!!! I've just hit upon a fantabulous (thanks for the word, Mandy) new look at Flagboy. Flag-rant is kinda like Flagboy. Flagrant is an "over the top" foul. Yeah, I get it. FlagRANT is just that. More ranting. Flagged is to become tired. I'm sure you are all of that. But it sure is fun for me to talk about myself. What a great topic. I cannot see any of you right now through my monitor, but I can hear you running. Come back! I'm done.

Seriously, I have been happy to receive your comments. I won't be commenting on your blobs (blogs) until I learn how. I can't even post my own blobs. My blobs will continue being posted as long as Jodi has the patience to magically transform my e-mails to bobbles or bungles or whatever you call them. Oh, yeah, blobs.

Hi, Cindy! Anyhoo, B-dawg's comment on his visit to the Great Salt Lake brought back a great memory. We all went there as a cub scout excursion. The wind was blowing at about 15 or 20 knots, allowing the sea gulls to fly into the wind at 15 or 20 knots, about 10 feet off the ground, remaining "stationary" while we tossed popcorn into the air for them. Lamont Hansen was the Cubmaster. A national award-winning Cubmaster, I might add. Guess who was the first to receive a huge smelly white blob on his shirt. Ohhh Yeaaah. Cubmaster Hansen. Pandemonium.

Give a Cub scout something funny and he will not give it a rest for decades. I wonder if B-dawggie still remembers that.

Thanks, again Jot..................d'Pa

Why we hate us

2008-11-20T05:30:00.000-08:00

I have been suffering from a growing problem these past few months. It has not gotten out of hand yet and I hope it doesn't. I was surprised to see Doug Robinson nail the problem on the head in his Tuesday, Nov. 18, 2008 column. (Deseret News, pg B1). You might find this article here: drob@desnews.com. For lack of time and space, I won't quote much of it.

He speaks of a new book by Dick Meyer titled "Why we hate us." Some reasons for our rage are: (A) because our population has doubled from 150 million to over 300 million in 50 short years, (B) because we are saddled with "time saving" devices that take up an enormous amount of time and (C) because of exponential growth of personal agendas and "selfism" we have become disoriented, anchorless and defensive. I quote all of this rather loosely. Obviously, our response to these new pressures is to dislike each other. Wow.

Tonight I stopped at Wendy's to pick up two quarter pounders with cheese. The lady took my money at the second window. She was very nice. A few moments later a fellow appeared at the window with my bag of treasure. He handed me the bag, turned and walked away. He might as well have thrown it at me. My newly acquired preset attitude took over. I was helpless to stop it. "Thank you" I yelled in indignation. He kept walking. The poor lady rushed to say "thank you", hoping to avert confrontation. At the top of my voice I screamed "thank you." The poor guy turned and mumbled some sort of "Uh, yeah, thanks" as I gave him a dirty look and drove away.

Part of my intention was pure. In that split second, I hoped to teach him that people need the smallest courtesies. But I knew that Mr. Hyde was trying to take me over. I find more and more that forebearance is a virtue that I have been walking away from as social mores decline. I used to laugh about "ornery old goats" and now I are one. Maudeen says she is suffering from the same growing illness. Make no mistake, as we search for external answers we are probably burying the internal answers. In effect; since you surely aren't going to change, at least not now, today, then it must be me that changes.

Let's just take bad drivers "fer instance." I am seriously trying a new technique. No, a whole new attitude. Whenever another driver offends me, I will look at him/her as my best friend who is teasing me. "Oh, look, there's my best friend Ralphie cutting me off. We'll laugh at that later today. ." Or, "there's my best friend Minnie honking at me for no discernable reason. I'll e-mail her and we'll LOL all over the place. And "golly, there's my best friend Billy tailgating me at 85 mph. He's such a stud." I think I am onto something here!

How about this: "There's my best friend Luigi. He's waving at me with only part of his hand. Awesome!" Or, maybe, " There's my best friend Arnie running a red light and almost taking my front bumper off. He's so silly. Maybe I'll slash one of his tires when I get him stopped. He'll love it." Or "There goes my buddy Vince. He sped up when I sped up, then he slowed down when I slowed down, and now I have missed my exit. I'll push him completely off the shoulder. If he rolls his car we'll have that to laugh about for weeks to come." Or, "there is my best friend Moosie. Haven't seen him since high school. He has gained weight! He took my parking spot. I love that guy. I'm gonna hide here at the edge of the parking lot and pretend to crash into him, swerving at only the last possible second. Hope his wife and three children have the same sense of humor I have. Hope Moosie does."

Last year some guy verbally abused me in a crowded intersection. Luckily I followed him and now I know where he lives. I'm going right now to his house. My newfound excitement for generosity during stressful times allows me to do what needs to be done. This is brilliant. I have 18 cans of spray paint. When he comes out to confront me I'll have a giggle fit and inform him that I have absolutely no animosity toward him. Life is good.

The Flaggist Sez

2008-11-18T17:45:00.000-08:00

The Flaggist Sez.....Many many years ago in a large large city many many miles away a little girl dreamed of someday seeing a magnificent lake. She had learned of this lake in school. .she had read books about it. She sometimes heard stories from people who had actually seen the lake and she promised herself, "I will see that lake."

As she grew older the mental vision of the lake became a bit obscured, but only because of the busy busy business of life. She eventually married and started a family. This family became very very large as many many children were born into it. Numerous numerous decades slipped by.

Her husband. who had always been well employed, suddenly lost his job. After many many months of searching, no desirable employment presented itself. They agreed that they would do much much better to move to a more productive environment. They moved many many miles to a far far city.

After one or two years in this exciting new land, she stumbled onto a shocking fact. She now lived only a few miles from the fabulous lake of of her distant distant memories. "Now I will see that lake!"

Early early one Saturday morning she, her husband and some of their younger children who were now big big teenagers piled into their van and drove north. They arrived at the glorious glorious banks of the magical magical lake. She stood next to the water as it rippled and rippled near her feet. She said, "This is....... it???"

She was gazing across the barren barren reaches of the Great Salt Lake.

This is a true story. Though the Great Salt Lake can be a bit shocking to people with high expectations it really is a beautiful body of water. Artists and photographers must be patient in searching out the colors and textures of this seemingly unchanging land/seascape. This "unchanging" bayou rises and falls like a gigantic backyard inflated plastic pool. A pool with Grandpa jumping in and out. Yeah, Flagboy. In the 1980s the lake swelled up so high that people began to fear for the safety of the airport. They built a humongous pump. They pumped so much water onto the salt flats that a new lake was formed that could be seen from space.

Now, twenty five years later, people can walk to Antelope Island on dry ground that was lake just 3 or 4 years ago.

Many many years ago two girls took a swim in the G S Lake. There are no tides in this pond which lies "motionless" in the bottom of the Great Basin. These two girls, however, were unaware of the power of wind. When they became tired of swimming in the water that is "impossible to sink" in, they tried heading for shore (somewhere near the old Saltair Resort). They became exhausted and found themselves bobbing helplessly for many many (oh, no, not many many again) hours.

The woman who told me this story - in about 1959 - didn't bother to say when it happened. But it hadda been in the late 1930s. If only she had known, she could have walked it instead of swimmin' it merely by waiting 70 years. (I wonder if she's still alive.... prob'ly not) Have I forgotten anything? Oh, yeah. They're still trapped in the lake. They were almost to the Bountiful side by the time they were rescued at dusk. The redhead was hospitalized for severe sunburn, but the brunette (who told me this) said she had the deepest and best tan for the whole summer.

Why am I doing this lengthy treatise on the Great Salt Lake? I dunno.

Flagfella sez

2008-11-16T09:35:00.001-08:00

I had a very scrumptious breakfast this morning. I'm turning into a pretty darn good cook. I can open a package of instant oatmeal as quickly and imaginatively as anyone. Question: what's the difference between swill, gruel and oatmeal? Answer: the oatmeal seems a bit bland.

Well, da season is quickly drawing upon us. Many folks are saying that this year less is more. "Landfill" gets a big circle with a line through it. I concur. In fact, I concur with gusto. I want the economy to flourish, but I prefer to see it flourish off of someone else's steroid injections than mine.

Here are a couple of thoughts from the past.....(A) from the 1970's.....from Weatherman Welti.....a Russian fellow named Rudolph and his wife Wilhelmina were disscussing the weather. Wilhelmina said "it is beginnink to snow." Rudy said "no, it is beginningk to rain." "No, snow." "No, rain." "Snow!" "Rain!" Rudolph, in exasperation, poked his chest out and said, "Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear."

(B) And, from 1984, this one from........ME!, What do you get when you cross Santa's favorite helper with america's favorite gymnast? (Remember, this is 1984) Mary Lou Rhetton Nosed Raindeer.

I conceived that little cartoon one evening at a time when I probably should have have been doing more important things. Anyway, after torturing the family with it, I determined that everyone at work would want to hear it. The first guy I saw the next morning heard my excited rendering. He chuckled and said, "oh, yeah, I saw that on Carson last night." I was a bit taken aback. Was he somehow recognizing that this was my own concoction and jealously refusing to acknowledge the greatness of it? Was he merely assuming that this joke was most assuredly worthy of Johnny Carson and assuming that I had probably seen it on T.V.? Or could it, by some traaaagic twist of fate, have actually BEEN on Carson? I suspected that I would not get a straight answer from him, so I dropped it. But, for these past 24 years, I have been wondering.....

Well, maybe Mary Lou is still America's fave. She was soooo famous back then. I can still remember a Wheaties box with her dazzling smile on the face of it. She even had a drop of milk on her lip. Cute. I don't care if she was a big slobbermouth, I like her jus' fine.

On a more sinister note, after TWENTY FOUR YEARS of thinkin' about it, this creepy thought creeps into my creeped-out consciousness: Could I have seen it on Carson, shoved it into my subconscious mind and later revived it as my own? COULD I HAVE DONE THIS?....... Nnnnno. Creepers jeepers, no. But in all fairness, I hadda say it. Flagboy goes now.

Grateful for Abe and Gel and other stuff

2008-11-10T19:43:00.000-08:00

Here are some of the smaller things I am thankful for as we head into the season.

1) Styling gel. I hate styling gel, but I despise windjammer-hair. I consider gel to be the equivalent of swamp slime. Rancid mayonnaise. Guacamole. But, where would we be without it? I would cheerfully shave my head the way Unca George does, but... I'm a pinhead. George has a nice round soccer ball cranium. I have a ridge atop my skull. I'm surprised that it doesn't go all the way down my back like Godzilla. (Another thing to be thankful for.)I have a dickens of a time finding gel with a holding power of "10" for less than $2. But it can be done. Walmart. Lowest shelf. Hidden waaaay behind the kangaroo. Labella's. Soon to be obsolete, I'm afraid. Anything with a holding power of ''9" or lower isn't really gel. More like jel-ly. Strawberry preserves. Karo syrup.You may also want to avoid the really hard stuff. (No, we're not drinkin' it.) My hairdresser/commontator, Shala, uses some concrete/mortar mix. She cuts it, "warshes" it and spikes the bejeebers out of it. If I forget later in the day and touch it I get several bloody puncture wounds.

Some folks lie in their teeth by saying "I love your spikes. Why don't you keep it that way?" I reply, "Uh, my hair grows really fast and after 4 or 5 days I would start looking like Don king." While that is true, my real reason for not spiking is the probable cost of the cool stuff. I don't even ask Shala such dumb questions as "how much?"

2) Abe Lincoln. I'm a "Big Abe" fan. I am so happy that he gave the world the Constipation Emancipation Proclamation. I wonder what "slightly aging" folks did before he came along. For me, about every six weeks or so, he saves me, along with an assist from the "Fleet" company. Enough on that already.

3) I am grateful for everyone in my world who provides me with blogs, facebooks, pictures, e-mails and other e-stuff. I laugh when Grammy, also known as Deenie or Maudeen, calls Facebook "Faceplate". I'm sure she'll get past it.........d'Pa

Flagboy sez...

2008-11-03T19:31:00.001-08:00

I can't believe I have my own blog. Someday I will learn how to do stuff on it. Meanwhile I will rely on my ghost-blogger (Stitch) to come up with sizzling humor and worthwhile commentary while crediting it all to me. Little known fact:(factoid?) b-dawg also goes by the name Emo. He does.

2008-11-01T20:15:00.001-07:00

Hello, world! Today is the first day of my blog. Thanx to Jodi for setting it up for me! How did we get the name "Flagboy 1941"? Well, my b'day is 12/31/41.

One day about 10 years ago (no, this is not "Large Marge" from Peewee's Big Adventure) but just as scary. We were all at Deer Creek Reservoir near Heber City, Utah, water skiing. Because I was getting a bit older and slower I was assigned the task of raising the flag every time one of our skiers went down. This is done so some other boater doesn't come along, not noticing a head bobbing in the water, and remove a portion of that person's face. Well, I kept forgetting to raise the flag. Oh, did I get screamed at. By many. Often. In exasperation, my wife, Deenie, my sons Ken and Brian, my daughter Jodi and her hubby, Todd Began to call me "Flagboy". And not in kindly words. "Hey, Flagboy! Wake Up!" NOW you can visualize Large Marge's creepy face. That's how they all looked as they viciously reminded me of my duties. I will always be Flagboy and they will always be in relentless pursuit of me.

My other daughter, Barbara, has - with her Hubby, Dean and their three-year-old Eli - become true modern day pioneers, moving to a remote mountain-top between Strawberry Reservoir and Duchesne, Utah. They have scratched out a terrific homestead in the forest. They have a view of the Uintah Mountains. It has been easy for them. They haven't had to work more than 17 or 18 hours per day for these many, many months. We are so proud of them.

The grandkids are Amanda, (Mike) and their children, Lynzi, Kaydence and Quintin; Cody, our California Connection, (we miss him a lot); Ben, (Shelly) and Skyler; Alicia, (Mike) and Shalyn, and the twins, ------- and -------. Also, Darren, an LDS missionary in Samara, Russia, Elora, Connor and Larissa.

Deenie, also known by her actual name, Maudeen, and I are retired and living in Holladay, Utah.

I grew up in the crown of the Rocky mountains, in Alma, CO, near Leadville and Breckenridge. Alma, at 10,500 feet, is the highest incorporated town in the U. S. or Canada. I always joke that the air is so thin and oxygen depleted up there that this is why my brain never developed. No one ever seems to laugh at this joke, merely staring at me in profound pity. I don't get it.

Maudeen grew up in Price, Utah, and still has friends and family in Price.