Be sure your sins will find you out…

My Mom was always able to tell when one of us kids was in trouble. But she wasn’t the kind of Mom that tried to catch you doing wrong. She didn’t need to. I believe her theory was that one way or another, sooner or later, whether it was her or my dad that found you out, or it was just the final come-uppance that you could count on from God, you could always be sure your sins would find you out!
And yet, I still tried to pull off the monkey-shines. There’s something in the teenage genome that made me believe I was invincible, impregnable, impervious to the consequences – and just a little too tricky for my parents to catch me. Armored by those teenage “defenses” and a really thick skull, I rode out to do battle against my parents’ wits, only to keep losing and being found out. I never seemed to learn. It never occurred to me that teenagers since the time of Cain & Abel have been trying to fool their parents, and there is little evidence that I should be more adept at this lost cause than any of my predecessors. I wonder if it isn’t true that half the fun of shenanigans comes from the fear of getting caught.

I skipped my last year of high school because my college of choice had a program where you could get in just by having enough (and the right kind of) credits. I did OK grade-wise in high school, but I kept getting kicked out (the Academy had some pretty strict rules, but the shenanigans were nobody’s fault but mine – I knew the rules.) So, I thought I would do well to by-pass the drama of getting kicked out in my senior year. In retrospect, I realize that I could have forgone the drama by just behaving myself. But that didn’t occur to me then, which proves that I probably wasn’t really ready for college as I was just too busy having fun. In fact, I was having a lot more fun than I was having study time. I did have a part-time job doing some sort of paperwork for the music department, but it was a breeze. Classes were pretty easy – I took almost exclusively music classes and didn’t even type my own papers. I left that chore to this cute blonde farmer’s daughter I had met for the first time the year before at Band Camp. (No, seriously! And then a couple years later we were married and talking about kids.)

When it came time for Thanksgiving break that first year, I told my folks that I was going to stay in Lincoln and work at school instead of coming home. I knew that if I came home for break, I’d be working for my old man with no time left over for fun and games – and that’s just not fair; not when you’re 17. So, once again, I tried to pull a fast one on Mom and Dad.

I didn’t work at my music job at college that week. Instead, four of us piled into Jack’s VW van and headed to Colorado to ski. The van was just barely reliable enough to make the trip with a lot of crossed fingers, and was sorely deficient in the heater department. It was freezing cold as we drove all night to get to Colorado. I remember that Dan and Suzie (the names might have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent) spent almost the entire trip to Boulder in a sleeping bag in the back of the van trying to stay warm. It must have worked because the van’s windows fogged up very badly. Jack & I stomped our feet and wished we had a couple sleeping bags in the front seats too so we could stay warm. Suzie offered to share theirs, but there wasn’t really room for three people in it and I could tell by the look in Dan’s eye that he wasn’t going anywhere.

As I recall, it was mostly a miserable trip, but we didn’t care – we were off on a fabulous adventure. Just a quartet of kinda-hippies living wild at the thought of having no one to tell us what to do. We got to Boulder on Tuesday and headed up to the Lake Eldora Ski area. Cheap, close and not so high in the mountains that we couldn’t survive a night or two in the drafty, cold van. My brand new, perfectly fitted skis were at home in my closet. Since I was not supposed to be within 500 miles of home, I rented skis that first day. Bet you can’t guess what happened next…

Second run; feeling good; high on life and skiing as fast and recklessly as you might expect from a kid with no one to tell him what to do. I low-bottomed a dip in the moguls and went flying through the air to land in a damaged heap amongst some rocks and logs. Though it was a jarring, twisting landing, my rented too-tight skis hadn’t come off. After a moment of being stunned, I reached down to unbuckle my skis and that’s when I noticed something amiss. Oh yeah, that’s it: my foot is pointing the wrong way! I’ll just take off this ski and turn my foot around to the front. There, that’s bett…oh holy $%*#($. And then I think I went into shock.

Boot-top fracture, both bones, non-compound, but seriously messed up. Lake Eldora in 1971 didn’t have anything in the way of a medical unit. In fact, they could not even get me an aspirin for the pain. They DID duct-tape my shattered leg onto a folded piece of cardboard and took me down the mountain on the stretcher of shame. I climbed into the back of the van as I pondered my options. Finally, I figured that since my parents would eventually find out my nefarious scheme and I would have to ultimately take my lumps, I might as well head on home to Loveland to the hospital there. So, we headed down Boulder Canyon to catch the Diagonal to Longmont and then home.

The VW POS Mini-van broke down on the Diagonal.

No cell phones in those days, so we hitch-hiked with a mother and teen-age girl to the hospital in Longmont, where a welcome shot of morphine came none too soon, and a humble call to my Mom happened way too soon. Besides being in a lot of pain, I think I finally realized just how selfish I had been and how pulling one over on the old folks wasn’t as cool as it had seemed just the day before. I was pretty doped up for the next few days, but I’m still pretty sure that Mom never said anything. I was in a constant state of foggy horror at the thought of being confronted by her about my lie. I think she may have sensed that the pain I was going through might actually slap me into having a clue.

I was in a hip-to-toe cast for 6 months; on crutches for 6 weeks. My leg itched so bad I had a specially bent clothes-hanger that left gaping holes in my bleached-white skin from my constant, aggressive scratching. I had only 2 pairs of pants that would fit over my cast: a pair of overalls (shucks, garsh, I’m just a country boy) and a pair of Red, WHITE and Blue jeans (what a radical, eh?). When I finally got out of that cast, my leg was the size of a baseball bat handle. I’ve been overeating ever since trying to fill that leg up to its original size! Well, I exaggerate a little, but that puny leg looked more like a T-Rex appendage than anything else, and actually has affected me the rest of my life. Wearing the walking cast for so many months caused my pelvis to tip sideways, which, in turn, caused my spine to twist, which eventually paid off the school loans of more than one chiropractor.

But, no, Mom never chastised me for my lie. I know she was disappointed in me, but more, I think, she was hurt. Hurt I’d lied to her, then hurt because she knew I was going to be hurt by my own actions. And great moms hate more than anything to see their kids get hurt.

Mom, it’s your birthday in a couple of days. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate the way you handled this epic adventure in one of the time periods when I was most trying to you and Dad. I appreciate your love too, through it all, and I know that’s why you’ve done so much for me; it’s all about the love. And I love you more than words can ever say.

Oh, and thanks too Mom, for teaching me words that I not only believe but am quick to use to admonish others not as lucky as I was to have a phrase that, once taught, didn’t have to be overused in order to be effective: Be Sure Your Sins Will Find You Out.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Declaration of Independence

I saw a car covered with anti-American, anti-Bush, conspiracy theory rhetoric the other day. Every window and most of the body of the car was covered with sloppy, rambling and apparently maniacal handwriting. White paint spelling out in gruesome detail how many deaths have been caused by the US since 9/11 (allegedly); how many refugees have been displaced by failed US policies (ostensibly); how many countries hate us (purportedly); why it was all Bush’s fault (hypothetically). I didn’t have time to read the writing at the time as we were traveling side by side at 60 mph on I-25. I did have time, though, to grab my camera and snap a couple of pictures that I just got a chance to look at. Back at home, the barely-legible writing became a manifesto of hatred and paranoia that did not present its author in a very lucid light.

I remember thinking at the time that the driver must be a nut-job without even knowing that he was blaming my beloved country for all the ills in the world. Though I’m even surer of his status as a top-notch whack now that I’ve had the time to study the photographic evidence, another curiosity has occurred to me that is even more intriguing than his nut-job-edness. That is, the propensity of Americans to project their feelings, beliefs, stature and status through their vehicles. Not only do we identify with our cars, but we force them to identify us through the statements we make in them, on them and with them.

Forget the conspiracy whacko. Forget the peace-nik I photographed recently whose car was literally covered with peace/love/harmony/co-exist bumper stickers. (He, no doubt, wanted to save the world and thought that if he could overwhelm enough other sheep into walking the green path of righteousness by virtue of witnessing the plethora of witty, pithy bumper stickers he bought at the local Circle K, nirvana would be one step closer the whole barnyard.) Forget the born-again proselytizer with Bible verses painted on the fenders and crucifixes hung in the window who wants to save our immortal souls (or does he just delight in flaunting his soul being more saved than yours or mine?) We discount all of these fringe dwellers as being just a bit outside and rarely give their arguments for peace or government transparency or soul-searching much credence, and thus neutralize their ability to change the way the rest of us see the world.

The vehicle propaganda that probably affects us more is the more subtle statements that are made via more traditional methods. Where else but in America can you bribe the government to advertise your social standing by giving them extra money for a personalized license plate? The aptly named vanity plate is everywhere you look and is a testament to the American ego and the American creative spirit. Don’t get me wrong, I love the vanity plate! I enjoy the creativity that you often see, the messages conveyed, and the statements made through the intelligent use of just 7 letters and numbers. My plate should say “L8ASUSL.”(For further evidence of creativity, see www.coolpl8z.com)

Personally, I’m too cheap to pay for a vanity plate and too subdued to go for the painted-on manifesto. (or it could be that until the truck is paid off, any painting done by anyone other than Maaco makes for a poor investment.) But that doesn’t mean I don’t want others to know who they’re messing with when they cut me off on the T-REX. My “Native” and “Mountainman” bumper stickers clearly prove to the world that I am a higher (pun intended) life form than they are and deserve their envy and respect as one born in God’s Country. I feel somehow inadequate, though, as I don’t have any really witty bumper stickers although I know I shouldn’t feel that way. I mean, it isn’t as if the guy with the bumper sticker that says something cool (like, “Just say NO to negativity”) made it up himself. He just happened to find it as he stood in line at the 7-Eleven waiting to buy a Slim Jim. (For more fun, check out www.funny2.com/bumper.htm)

Funny or not, I am identified as a skier by my “Loveland 216” highway logo window sticker (the “216” denotes the I-70 exit to the humble resort that is the hardy local’s choice for skiing and boarding.) Not only does it prove I’m an outdoorsman, but it shows, I’m afraid to say, a bit of reverse snobbery as this is NOT the tourist’s preference for powder hounding and those of us who ski there like to make that clear! (It’s higher and colder and windy-er and cheaper and offers no frills for the out-of-state crowd, and that’s the way we like it!) In addition, I can be recognized as a Broncos season-ticket holder by the sticker that is only given to one of the 50,000-ish fans who fork over a month’s pay for a year’s worth of Bronco-mania.

The fact that my not-so-funny bumper stickers are plastered on a Ford truck is another statement – irrefutable evidence of my toughness and hard work ethic. Or so I imagine. Don’t most of us judge others by the vehicle they drive? The VW Beetle with the dashboard flower, the Subaru Forester, the Mazda Miata, the Monster truck with the requisite ladder to reach the running board, the “fast & furious” Japanese coupe, the Ford F-1 pick-up, the Beemer, the Escalade – all of these personal conveyances give the outside observer a distinct insight to the personality of the driver. That insight may be stereotyped and it may sometimes be wrong, but more often than not, it’s either correct or, at least, the image the driver wishes to convey.

Now that I think about it, I guess I don’t have any room to be criticizing someone who paints John 3:16 on his hood. We’re all just trying to be noticed and to tell the world how we’re special in some small way. Ironically, we’re all alike in wanting to show the world that we are somehow unique and different. That we often choose our vehicles as the way to advertise our individuality is as American as baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Ford Trucks. (So, you think that should be Chevy? Just my way of being different…)

The Suitcase Man

It’s the end of a long, cold day of skiing. It snowed all day and the wind on top of Loveland pass was brutal enough to keep the tourists driving on towards Vail and leave the fresh powder for us hardy locals. My daughter and I are tired, wind-burned and muted as we absorb the warmth of the truck heater. The hot blast, added to the affects of a day in the wind and cold, has turned our faces a deep red and our muscles into jelly. The “Après Ski” mood is heavy and pleasant. The big snowflakes and the swish of tires on the road compliments the mood. We’re listening to the Beatles as we enjoy the quiet, easy friendship of each other’s company. We’re comfortable in silence – always have been. We don’t have to fill the air with idle chat. We’ll wait until something needs to be said.
As we cruise through the slush of the interstate through Idaho Springs, we suddenly break the silence in unison, “What the …?” Half running, half walking on the shoulder of the road, a man in a 3-piece suit is tugging along two rolling suitcases. The big one looks heavy – his face is red from exertion. The smaller carry-on bag bumps and swerves, jumps off the pavement, then twists in his hand, causing him to stop and collect his balance and alignment before starting off again at a careening sprint. He doesn’t look up at us in embarrassment. He doesn’t even look back quizzically like most of do when we trip on the non-existent crack in the path. He doesn’t thrust out his thumb in hopes of catching a ride, even though there are many cars for him to choose from and the chances are probably good he’d not have to walk for long if he only tried. He just doggedly keeps on like he’s nearing his destination. But what destination? The nearest exit is a couple of miles ahead and the nearest airport is 50 miles on the other side of Denver.
Is this the proverbial traveling salesman, chased from the farmer’s house where he has stolen the reputation of the oh-so-nubile, ostensibly naïve, yet undoubtedly willing, daughter and is now in such a hurry to escape the farmer’s shotgun that he’s had time to grab only his suitcases full o’ Fuller Brushes but left his car keys on the vanity? His own vanity, only minutes ago in full bloom, now overshadowed by his fear of death and his hope that the shotgun is loaded with rock salt and not buckshot. Clearly not thinking clearly of the best mode of escape, only thinking that he must!
Is this the dim-witted businessman who, returning from the mortgage-bankers conference at the Vail Weston with his wife, gave the wrong answer to the famous trick question, “Do I look fat in this outfit?” and now has to find his own way home? He too, could stick out a thumb but is perhaps too embarrassed at being laid low by the oldest ambush in the book of marriage. And, knowing that he’s a double loser for not getting his testicles out of his wife’s purse before being unceremoniously dumped on the highway, he can’t stand the thought of looking another man in the eye for some time to come, so his thumb stays wrapped around the suitcase handle.
Is this a well-dressed hitch-hiker who criminally absconded with his generous host’s travel gear after knocking out his do-gooder host (whose wife and mother had always cautioned him to not pick up strangers but was always oblivious to his own fallibility and so never thought it could happen to him) and is now trying to make the next exit before the hapless ride-giver awakens and comes rudely searching for him? But then, why steal the suitcases and not the car?
Is this a homeless man with a sense of style who maybe lives in his big suitcase and is running from some real or imagined threat, his home-on-wheels in one hand and his sum total earthly possessions in the careening carry-on in his other? Maybe there’s a bear that chased him from his woodsy hideaway and is just out of our sight on the side of the road, trying not to laugh at the same scene that we find hilarious. The bear saying to his friend, the moose, as he stares at the clip-on tie that is snagged on his claw, “Dang man, I was so close to having that guy for dinner.”Now, months and two seasons later, we’ll never know the real story. Unfortunately, the real story is probably boring and nowhere near as fun and interesting as the scenarios presented by the fertile, well-watered and freshly-plowed field of human imagination.