From the Mouths of Children

The Golden Years

Last night, I went to visit my grandparents to drop off their Christmas presents and visit for a few minutes. It was a surprisingly nice visit. We talked about my school which led them to the discussion of how they met at college and my grandma being caught trying to shave her legs when the lights went out at 10:30. It is insane to think about how much has changed since those days. The campus only had two stone buildings which have since been demolished and replaced with multiple, modernized buildings.

It was nostalgic for me to hear these stories and think about the things I would one day discuss with my grandchildren. It's weird to think of me being old someday. Will I be one of those cute, little, old men who holds his cute, little, old wife's hand everywhere we go, never spending more than a night apart? Will I be a grumpy recluse who will only leave my house if it's burning down? Or will I be one of the creeps who hangs out at the mall, all day, every day?

I don't really know what type of old man I'll make. I do know, however, that as I age, I hope to have someone with me to hold my hand and make breakfast for and basically everything Cory and Topanga had.

Too. Cute.

Think Before You Speak

Prior to Thanksgiving break, I was in my history class learning about the disappearance of the middle class in ancient Rome and how the same patterns are presenting themselves today. My teacher asked, “…so, what do you find in a banana republic?”

Feeling overjoyed that I finally knew the answer to one of his questions, I raised my hand and without being called on shouted, “Underwear on hangers.” In retort, he said, “Yes, and toilet paper flying out the windows.”

Quietly I turned to the girl behind me and asked, “He’s talking about the store Banana Republic, right?” Immediately the class erupted in laughter. Luckily, I managed to make it look like a joke that I was in control of, that I knew what I banana republic was, and that I didn’t feel 3 feet tall.

I discovered after investigating what exactly my professor was referring to when he said, “banana republic”. For those of you who don’t know, if there be any, it is a small country with an unstable government and its economy is dependent on the export of a single product and/or outside financial help. They are countries with a vast gap between the very rich and the very poor.

I suppose it is experiences like these that help us to grow and learn. I know that I will never walk into a Banana Republic again without an instant recall of what a banana republic is, which leads to a whole other discussion. Why is it called Banana Republic? Does the clothing company manufacture their clothes in a country filled with sweat shops and old women sewing their fingers to the bone? If so, this seems like poor advertising on their part. Maybe they should have considered a name more like “Prosperous Fatherland” or “Plentiful States”. This way, naïve college students like me wouldn’t have to think twice before grabbing the underwear off the hanger.

The Countess and the Impossible

Last Sunday, I heard this story as a part of the talk that was being given in church. This is impressive because I HEARD it, and LISTENED to it. (Not something I often do in church) It really impressed me and I decided I should share it with you, my faithful readers. It’s a tiny bit long, but very worth it. So, without further ado, The Countess and the Impossible.

No one in our Utah town knew where the Countess had come from; her carefully precise English indicated that she was not a Native American. From the size of her house and staff we knew that she must be wealthy, but she never entertained and she made it clear that when she was home she was completely inaccessible. …

The Countess always carried a cane; not only for support but as a means of chastising any youngster she thought needed disciplining. And at one time or another most of the kids in our neighborhood seemed to display that need. By running fast and staying alert I had managed to keep out of her reach. But one day when I was 13, as I was shortcutting through her hedge, she got close enough to rap my head with her stick. “Ouch!” I yelled, jumping a couple of feet.

“Young man, I want to talk to you,” she said. I was expecting a lecture on the evils of trespassing, but as she looked at me, half-smiling, she seemed to change her mind.

“Don’t you live in that green house with the willow trees in the next block?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you take care of your lawn? Water it? Clip it? Mow it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I’ve lost my gardener. Be at my house Thursday morning at seven, and don’t tell me you have something else to do; I’ve seen you slouching around on Thursdays.”

When the Countess gave an order, it was carried out. I didn’t dare not come on that next Thursday. I went over the whole lawn three times with a mower before she was satisfied, and then she had me down on all fours looking for weeds until my knees were as green as the grass. She finally called me up to the porch.

“Well, young man, how much do you want for your day’s work?”

“I don’t know. Fifty cents maybe.”

“Is that what you figure you’re worth?”

“Yes’m. About that.”

“Very well. Here’s the 50 cents you say you’re worth, and here’s the dollar and a half more that I’ve earned for you by pushing you. Now I’m going to tell you something about how you and I are going to work together. There are as many ways of mowing a lawn as there are people, and they may be worth anywhere from a penny to five dollars. Let’s say that a three-dollar job would be just what you’ve done today, except that you would do it all by yourself. A four-dollar job would be so perfect that you’d have to be something of a fool to spend that much time on a lawn. A five-dollar lawn is—well, it’s impossible so we’ll forget about that. Now then, each week I’m going to pay you according to your own evaluation of your work."

I left with my two dollars, richer than I remembered being in my whole life, and determined that I would get four dollars out of her the next week. But I failed to reach even the three-dollar mark. My will began faltering the second time around her yard.

“Two dollars again, eh? That kind of job puts you right on the edge of being dismissed, young man.”

“Yes’m. But I’ll do better next week.”

And somehow I did. The last time around the lawn I was exhausted, but I found I could spur myself on. In the exhilaration of that new feeling I had no hesitation in asking the Countess for three dollars.

Each Thursday for the next four or five weeks I varied between a three- and three-and-a-half-dollar job. The more I became more acquainted with her lawn, places where the ground was a little high or a little low, places where it needed to be clipped short or left long on the edges to make a more satisfying curve along the garden, the more I became aware of just what a four-dollar lawn would consist of. And each week I would resolve to do just that kind of job. But by the time I had made my three- or three-and-a-half-dollar mark I was too tired to remember ever having had the ambition to go beyond that point.

"You look like a good, consistent three-fifty man,” she would say as she handed me the money.

“I guess so,” I would say, too happy at the sight of the money to remember that I had shot for something higher.

“Well, don’t feel too bad,” she would comfort me. “After all, there are only a handful of people in the world who could do a four-dollar job.”

And her words were a comfort at first. But then, without my noticing what was happening, her comfort became an irritant that made me resolve to do that four-dollar job, even if it killed me. In the fever of my resolve I could see myself expiring on her lawn, with the Countess leaning over me, handing me the four dollars with a tear in her eye, begging my forgiveness for having thought I couldn’t do it.

It was in the middle of such a fever, one Thursday night when I was trying to forget that day’s defeat and get some sleep, that the truth hit me so hard I sat upright, half choking in my excitement. It was the five-dollar job I had to do, not the four-dollar one! I had to do the job that no one could do because it was impossible.

I was well acquainted with the difficulties ahead. I had the problem, for example, of doing something about the worm mounds in the lawn. The Countess might not even have noticed them yet, they were so small; but in my bare feet I knew about them and I had to do something about them. And I could go on trimming the garden edges with shears, but I knew that a five-dollar lawn demanded that I line up each edge exactly with a yardstick and then trim it precisely with the edger. And there were other problems that only I and my bare feet knew about.

I started the next Thursday by ironing out the worm mounds with a heavy roller. After two hours of that I was ready to give up for the day. Nine o’clock in the morning and my will was already gone! It was only by accident that I discovered how to regain it. Sitting under a walnut tree for a few minutes after finishing the rolling, I fell asleep. When I woke up minutes later the lawn looked so good through my fresh eyes and felt so good under my feet that I was anxious to get on with the job.

I followed this secret for the rest of the day, dozing for a few minutes every hour to regain my perspective and replenish my strength. Between naps I mowed four times, two times lengthwise, two times across, until the lawn looked like a green velvet checkerboard. Then I dug around every tree, crumbling the big clods and smoothing the soil with my hands, then finished with the edger, meticulously lining up each stroke so that the effect would be perfectly symmetrical. And I carefully trimmed the grass between the flagstones of the front walk. The shears wore my fingers raw, but the walk never looked better.

Finally about eight o’clock that evening … it was all completed. I was so proud I didn’t even feel tired when I went up to her door.

“Well, what is it today?” she asked.

“Five dollars,” I said, trying for a little calm and sophistication.

“Five dollars? You mean four dollars, don’t you? I told you that a five-dollar lawn isn’t possible.”

“Yes it is. I just did it.”

“Well, young man, the first five-dollar lawn in history certainly deserves some looking around.”

We walked about the lawn together in the last light of evening and even I was quite overcome by the impossibility of what I had done.

“Young man,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, “what on earth made you do such a crazy, wonderful thing?”

I didn’t know why but even if I had I could not have explained it in the excitement of hearing that I had done it.

“I think I know,” she continued, “how you felt when this idea first came to you of mowing a lawn that I told you was impossible. It made you very happy when it first came, then a little frightened. Am I right?”

She could see she was right by the startled look on my face.

“I know how you felt because the same thing happens to almost everybody. They feel this sudden burst in them of wanting to do some great thing. They feel a wonderful happiness, but then it passes because they have said, “No, I can’t do that. It’s impossible.” Whenever something in you says “It’s impossible,” remember to take a careful look. See if it isn’t really God asking you to grow an inch, or a foot, or a mile that you may come to a fuller life.”

Since that time some 25 years ago when I have felt myself at an end with nothing before me, suddenly with the appearance of that word “impossible” I have experienced again the unexpected lift, the leap inside me, and known that the only possible way lay through the very middle of the impossible.

Words of Wisdom From the Dullest Knife in the Drawer

Earlier this week in my Science class, we had a discussion on DNA, twins, genes and cloning. Somehow, this led to a tangent on artificial insemination. One bright star in my class raised his hand and said,

"But do they have a bellybutton?"

Today our discussion was on evolution. Our professor was explaining how dogs, whales, humans, and birds all have a similar bone structure in the leg, flipper, arm, or wing, respectively. Never one to disappoint, the same bright boy raised his hand and, barely composing himself from the laughter, said,

"Too bad we didn't keep the feathers because then we could fly!"

It truly saddens me how horribly the public school system has failed some people so badly.

The Ever Changing Times

Yesterday, I went home for the day so I could get my hair cut, run some errands and do a few chores around the house. I was able to get a lot done and as a reward, my mom sent me to get take-out for dinner. When I arrived at the Chinese restaurant, I noticed a sign taped to the door reading "We gladly accept cash or check but are unable to process credit or debit cards". Immediately I was frustrated because the only form of money I had on me was my debit card. I decided I should go in anyway to let them know I was there and they shouldn't throw my food out.

The woman at the counter said to me "I help you?" (Which seems like more of a declarative statement than a question.) Nevertheless, I replied "I have a take-out order but I only have a debit card". Before I had the chance to explain to her that I would be returning quickly with cash, she said "We no take Visa. No Mastercard. No American Express. No debit, no credit cards!"

Generally, I'm not one to complain about such trivial things as this. However in this moment where I had a 4'9" Chinese woman yelling at me only for committing the sin of trying to stay alive in the 21st century, I thought to myself, "I'm sorry. Is it not 2009 where plastic is swiftly taking over the world?" I thought back to the days long ago when my mother handed the sales associate at The Bon Marche a credit card only to receive foul looks in return as the clerk reached under the counter and pulled out the archaic machine to make an ink-swipe copy of the card.

In my dilemma, I ventured next door to a dollar store in hopes of buying something and getting enough cash back to pay for dinner. As I waited in the check-out line, I contemplated whether I should buy the pregnancy test or the Lemonheads next to each other behind the conveyor. I settled on the Lemonheads and took my twenty dollars back to the Chinese restaurant where, after my odyssey through the strip mall, I was able to pay for and eat my dinner.

Thank goodness we have evolved from the days of running our plastic through a machine that probably more than once took the acrylic nails off of sales people. Thank goodness we live in a day where I can wave my card in the presence of a detector and my payment is made that easily. It is comforting to know that in this day and age, my Gold card is just as green at the dollar store as anywhere else (with the exception of the Chinese restaurant).

Operation Renovation: BYU-Idaho Style

Since I started working at Hollister, I have wanted one of the much coveted six by eight foot posters on the walls. They are changed out for new ones every few months and the associates are more than welcome to take the old ones. However, it seems that every time I find an available poster, it is of a shirtless man. Not exactly the type of artwork I want hanging on my wall.

This weekend, I stopped in to Hollister just to say "hi" and kill some time. I noticed the posters were new so I thought I'd try my luck and see if there were any decent ones being given away. There were two left and they were the same design. A headless, beach-ready couple holding each other in a tight embrace. While this wouldn't have been my first choice, I decided it would do.

I brought the poster back to Rexburg and Shane and I hung it in his and Colton's bedroom. This was a feat in itself considering that it is gigantic and we had to cut it vertically and horizontally.

This is the finished product:

The best part? With a few post-it notes and a "Time and All Eternity" banner, this poster will meet the Student Living Code.