Some Things Don't Make Sense

Dixon and I went to Midweek Activity at the Detention Center last night.  We had a marvelous time.  There were 15 kids in DT and five in O&A.  We did entirely different things in each group. We had to, because of the disparity in the numbers.

Both groups were so well behaved and had so much fun.  It's incredible!  You need to understand that Dixon and I are not some kind of charismatic, dynamic duo.  I am a homely, sixty year old fart with a pot belly and Dixon is a crippled up old Indian with a speech impediment.  What could two old duffers like us possibly have to offer a room full of juvenile delinquents?

The Staff say these kids look forward to our visits all week.  I can see in the Staff's eyes that they are as bewildered about this phenomenon as I am.

In DT we played the sign game.  Each person in the circle chooses a hand sign to represent themselves.  Play begins by a person giving his sign and then the sign of another in the circle. That person must immediately give her sign and then the sign of another, who must respond by doing the same and so on. Anyone who misses their sign or delays the passage of signs, must move to the end of the line.  The object is to advance to the King/Queen's chair.  We had a ball, laughing and trying to trick one another into flubbing up.  Such a simple parlor game; something you don't imagine hoodlums enjoying.  Yet there is no sense that they are just putting up with this, they were genuinely having a great time.  At the end, after sharing Ding Dongs, a quiet girl who looks like she has a chip on her shoulder volunteers to say a sweet heartfelt prayer.  They express their genuine thanks and we bid our fond goodbyes and another evening of surprise comes to an end.  I've been doing this for five years and this kind of reaction never ceases to utterly amaze me.

Over in O&A it is the same.  Three kids have just shown up there to join a couple of "old timers".  All three had hoped the judge would let them go home after a few weeks in DT.  Instead they are dealing with the dismaying blow that they must face another six weeks confined in Observation and Assessment.  They will eventually adjust and even come to love O&A.  The staff there are great!  The opportunities to learn and grow are abundant.  For now though, they are bitter and down-hearted.  Again, two frumpy old duffers turn up.  For three out of five, the activity is an unexpected, unwanted, additional bump in an already bad day.  They join in because they don't yet know they don't have to.  They try not to have fun playing Farkle, but a lucky roll of the dice and they're hooked.  They can't believe we already know their names.  Their confused, quizzical looks fade into relaxed enjoyment.  One little girl scoots up closer to Dixon, not afraid any more.  Ding Dongs are graciously accepted.  A boy jumps up and collects everyone's wrappers.  A girl who's had weeks of difficult adjustment to a structured environment surprises everybody, by offering a long, sincere closing prayer. Hearts are touched.

After five and a half years of this duty, I admit I sometimes have to drag myself down there, but I hardly touch the ground each time I leave.

I can think of only one explanation for all of this.  It has to be the only explanation because it is the only thing Dixon and I really have to offer.  There is only one thing that could build such a sound bridge over such wide gaps of age, interests, cultures, abilities and values - a thing called love.

Settling Down

I'll probably report on a trip my  brother-in-law and I took to Southern Utah and Northern Arizona here in a day or two.  We covered a lot of country in three days of blissful sightseeing.  But that is for when I've got the pictures a little better organized.  We took so very many photos!

Anyway, now I'm back and hopefully, back in the saddle.  I interviewed for, acquired and have begun a new job.  I'm at it now.  I work the control room at the local Juvenile Detention Center.  It's just part time and so far I love it.  I've volunteered at the Center for five and a half years now.  It's rather interesting to see the operation from the otherside of the glass.  While I have no contact with the youth, as I do in my volunteer role, I do have opportunity to watch and pray for them.  Common words in the scriptures, watch and pray.  Very often we think of our work in the church as an active, hands on, labor thing.  Yet, God's admonition is often, just watch and pray.  As I sit here scanning the monitors, I'm afforded time to contemplate these wonderful children, their lives, trials and challenges.  I can love them and I do, but much of what they require is beyond my capacity.  That is were a kind and loving Heavenly Father comes in.  He loves them too.  He can and does orchestrate circumstances that are suited to bring each of us home to His home.  As I watch and consider the difficulties they each face, I'm grateful that I can invoke blessings from a loving God upon each of their heads.

Because of separation of church and state rules, I am required by law to relegate my religious activites to my volunteer time.  Still, I think I shall not get into much trouble if I watch and pray while on State time.

Itchy Feet!

Sweetie and I have just had one of our spur of the moment moments.  We're headed out of town.  We aren't too sure where the trip will take us or for exactly how long.  You can follow along by clicking on The Folks Aren't Home tab above.  We'll keep you posted as to our whereabouts if not our destination.  There may be the occasional post here as well and I'll keep up with The Book Of Mormon Today, so keep stopping in there.

Not sure what we're looking for since we've already found each other.  There's got to be something in this quest.  Maybe its food, fun, Fulghum, forgetfulness, fantasy, focus, fundamentals, future, fame.... Who knows maybe its just surprise!

Love,

Myke

Here I Am In Fulghum Land

Those who know me, know I'm a big fan of Robert Fulghum.  He has a home in Moab and boy would I like to drop by and pay him a visit.  Fulghum doesn't know me from Adam, but thanks to his books and his candor, I feel like I know him quite well.  In fact I feel like a buddy of his.  I think that characteristic of his writing is what gives him such appeal.  Fulghum is real, who cares how correct or wise he his, we can relate to him.  The fact that his experience in life is so amazingly eclectic and so wonderfully diverse, certainly lends color and credence to his work, but his genuine, down to earth touchablility is the blanket that spreads warmth through everything he writes.

I wonder if he's up in the night enjoying a nice rack-of-spam contemplating what else he might find in the fridge while I'm up finishing off the ravioli I couldn't quite fit in earlier, at the Moab Brewery.  (They might have offered a bit of salad and not so much pasta.)  When the motel room heater cooked a dead moth and set off the fire alarm, I thought of  It Was On Fire When I Lay Down On It and wondered if it was time I gave that little gem and another whirl.  I don't reread books, except Fulghum's and Rachel Naomi Remen's and, of course, the scriptures.  In those cases, it isn't really rereading so much as it is a chance to converse with an old friend.  We might rehash the same old stories, but each time, the context has changed and its nice to anchor life's new experiences in the safe harbors of the past.

I'm not a celebrity chaser and so I won't go knocking on Robert Fulghum's door seeking his autograph; but if he ever pulls up a chair next to mine in the Moab Brewery, I'd gladly split a plate of ravioli with him.

Growing Up In Himni, Utah - Episode 11

You’ll Get Yours

Henry Steinmetz was our Sunday School teacher for a while. His kids, Hank, Ernest and Riley were our age. Henry looked old enough to be their grandfather. Brother Steinmetz was a kindly old man, a little rough around the edges, with more hair growing out his ears than on his head. Henry was a pray-er. It seemed like every time Sacrament Meeting went long, the Bishop called on Henry to offer the Benediction. (“Another Sunday night without watching Maverick,” I’d complain to myself.) Often there were audible groans. Henry never prayed shorter than 20 minutes in his life. He prayed about everything! Sometimes it was even embarrasing, like the time he prayed my acne would clear up – right in Sacrament Meeting! Or the time he prayed that Brother Warner’s cow would stay in the pasture and out of Sister Banks’ corn patch. He was Ward Teacher to both of them, which was awkward; as though that prayer wasn’t.

Sunday School class was like that too. Nobody applied the gospel to our particular lives like Henry did. Some days it seemed like he knew exactly what shenanigans we’d been up to during the past week.
We loved to go to his class. It started with Henry at the door to welcome us individually to Sunday School. He only had three fingers on his right hand and yet his were the most comfortable, warm handshakes I ever felt. Ironically, a handshake from Hank (Henry Jr.)was a different story all together. Hank’s grip was like a vise. In fact for fun, he’d often pretend he was cranking on a vise as he drove you to your knees begging for mercy. My dad had a monster grip, but Hank could even bring him to his prayer bones in agony. Mercy was not in Hank’s vocabulary. We tried not to ever shake hands with Hank. Even if you were agressive and charged in for a good grip it was hopeless.

Anyway, back to Sunday School class. There were about a dozen of us who regularly attended Henry’s class. Of all the teachers we harrassed during our youth Henry was the most memorable, or at least his class was. We were pretty unruly but somehow he got through to us.

Frannie Hermann and Aaron Black were among us. They were dating at the time. Frannie never took her eyes off Aaron for the whole 45 minutes. She’d tickle and touch his face and whisper stuff to him. He on the other hand was always concientionsly trying to pay attention. This little distraction always amused us. Like the time, out of nowhere, Frannie grabbed Aaron’s lower lip (Aaron had predominant lips) and stretched it half way across the room. Henry just said, “Put that back!” and carried on with the lesson. Aaron gave Frannie a fatherly smile, half impatience, half adoration, smacked his lips in his characteristic manner and turned his attention back to Henry’s lesson. I couldn’t take my eyes off Aaron’s lower lip! I still can’t believe it could stretch that far.

The classroom had coarsely textured plaster walls, smoothed by several heavy layers of cream colored paint. I never could ignore the bucktoothed mermaid that seemed deliberately sculpted in the texture of the west wall. The paint was rubbed off her breast so apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed her over the years. Once, I sat with my back to her and rocking back in my chair, bumped my head hard on that same worn protrusion. I don’t know how many pounds per square inch the impact produced, but it hurt like the Dickens.

Rob Hanke was also in that class. He usually slept. Rob spent all his energies on misadventure and used church to catch up on lost sleep. The night before one particular class, had been spent shooting frogs he’d inflated with a straw, then floated on the pond behind his house. Instead of a scope on his pellet gun he’d duct taped a flash light. The poor frogs couldn’t sink, being blown full of air. That is, until he popped them. Which is why Rob bolted out of his chair from a dead sleep when in Henry’s lesson, he told us that it was his opinion that God would punish us in kind. Or in other words, that we’d get precisely what we gave, as punishment for cruelties we had committed in this life.
Rob had what we called “Coke Bottle Bottom” glasses. The thick kind that magnify the wearer’s eyes. He was turning a tinge of green and his eyes looked so big and froggy that some of us thought the punishment had already commenced.

Lily Tomlin once lamented, “I always wanted to be somebody…I should have been more specific.” Thank you, Brother Steinmetz, for teaching me to be specific.