Opinion
Atmosphere: Layers
By Amy Wilde
It was third grade before I realized that we did not live in the center of the earth. It's true. I always assumed that there was more space inside the earth for living and growing. I had no idea the vast amounts of space outside earth. I still remember thinking today will be the day that I ask Mrs. Harris how the the Space Shuttle finds the same exit hole each time it goes up and into orbit. It was a mind twister for sure.
I never got the courage to ask the question, and luckily, in the weeks that followed we learned all about earth’s atmosphere, space, the stars, and gravity. Earth’s atmosphere in many ways, is like the atmosphere we create in our own lives. It is fragile, protective, and has no end. It is built with many layers.
Our own atmosphere of layers is often defined by our challenges, built by our dreams and held together by our love. They help shape us, and define how much we want to share with others. Our atmosphere is what people see, and what they remember.
Everyone has their own atmosphere of layers. I have eleven.
Layer 1 - I know your name. You know mine.
Layer 2 – You know that I have always wanted to marry a cowboy. You don't know that I hate being called skinny.
Layer 3 - We share inside jokes, we have had at least one deep conversation. You like my style. You know that my mom is my biggest cheerleader.
Layer 4 - You have heard me brag about my five siblings. You have listened as I share stories that are close to my heart. You may have even been in one of those stories. You know that I love to bake, paint, and capture the moments of life with a camera. You know that running is my new escape, and that my kids are my inspiration and true love in this life. You have looked me in the eyes and truly listened to me.
Layer 5 - You have seen me cry.
Layer 6 - You know the story of the day I left my Grandpa in the hospital...alone...and the regret I still feel to this day. You know that I still think about this often and wish that I had not been so eager to go eat lunch, and instead stayed with him, and held his hand, so that he would have not been scared in his last hour on earth. You know I cry about this each time I hear "Song for a Winters Night" by Sarah McLachlan.
Layer 7 – You know that I am intensely patriotic, thanks to my father and grandfather.
Layer 8 - You understand why I fear dementia and cancer.
Layer 9 – You know my regrets. You know my flaws. You know the pain I have dealt with. You have seen pictures of me from way before the plastic surgeons got a hold of my face. You know the story of how my prom date changed my life forever, and the day I prayed so loud in my head that someone would see beautiful me. And you know how I felt when it happened.
Layer 10- You are in my life each and every day. You support and understand all of my decisions. You build me up on days when I am so low I can't see the sun. You jump higher than I do when good news pours down.
Layer 11 - You have seen the best of me. You have seen the worst of me. You still love me.
Complicated. Simple. Layered Me.
Loose Screws: Hair today, gone tomorrow
By Bryce Haderlie
There tends to be a union created between a woman and her hairdresser that can only be broken by death or nuclear war. The law has ways to dissolve a business partnership, contracts, and even a marriage. But the legal system has never dared tackle the inseparable connection formed by estrogen.
My wife currently has a stylist that she absolutely adores whom we will call Shanna since that is her name. While there are other qualified hairdressers who could perform the job it would never ever, ever, ever be a consideration based on the unspoken contractual relationship that exists between her and my wife.
Shanna has even given birth to twins during the time that she has done Angie’s hair and I’d be willing to bet that the delivery was scheduled between hair appointments. “Let’s see, I have Gladys’s coloring on Thursday afternoon and a trim and frost with Beth on Saturday so let’s have those kids Friday morning at 10 a.m.,” she probably said to her doctor.
Men on the other hand would rather undergo a bikini wax than profess allegiance to a barber. WAIT! That may be going too far; by show of hands, who’s in the fetal position? Let’s just agree that a man would never say, “OH NO! My roots are showing and I have split ends. I can’t leave the house until this mess is fixed.” We just go on looking like we’ve been struck by lightning until we get a trim or fall under a lawn mower.
While men have a preference for the person that cuts our hair we would never publicly admit it for fear of divulging our feelings. So we talk about our barber with the same affection we use for our wrench set. Even if we did have an inclination for a single person we would mask those feelings by saying that we prefer the magazine collection in his shop over someone else’s.
Take Barber J for example, he goes by this name because it’s painted on the front window of his business. Jason cuts most of the guys’ hair in town but you won’t catch us ranting about how much we love his buzz cut or mustache trim. We just speak of him with the same respect and admiration you show the guy who owns the boat and invites you to go fishing with him.
His shop has a sports channel on and a wide selection of hunting, fishing, and hot rod magazines to read while you wait. The conversations include the price of hay, how the fish are biting, or what’s happening about town. If a conversation starts drifting toward something negative, Jason’s quick to throw it a lifeline and pull it back to higher ground.
You’ll never hear a debate about a new hair style, if a coloring is needed, or how long bangs should be. In fact, the subject of bangs doesn’t come up in many conversations around Jason’s shop. How much the nose hair needs to be trimmed yes, ear hair removal, yes, but bangs are mostly figments of our memory.
With his shop on Main Street it’s easy to tell by looking through the picture window if it will be a long wait. Some of his customers stop in regularly to be sure that the hairdo doesn’t get erratic. People like me go from a buzz to looking like a musk ox before the next cut to be sure we get our money’s worth. Either way he keeps us from looking like we have mange.
I imagine if anyone wanted to go someplace else to get a haircut it wouldn’t require a separation agreement. By the same token I don’t know that any of us would dream of looking elsewhere even if we had the chance. Why would we? Jason has the best magazine selection in town.
See Bryce’s past stories on his blog www.readloosescrews.com or e-mail him at readloosescrews@hotmail.com.
Loose Screws: The things some people won't tell you
By Bryce Haderlie You may have seen articles titled “Things Your (blank) Won’t Tell You” which includes folks like your doctor, waiter and the friendly IRS property confiscator.
Unfortunately there are other professionals who have been overlooked, and as such have information that will improve your life . . . or at least the condition of your stomach.
Today we will focus on a job that literally keeps the wheels of society hurling along. You would recognize this person as your friendly carnival worker, or “carni” as they so lovingly like to be called. If they could share something with you (which they won’t) it would be the following (if I hadn’t made it up).
“I just assembled this machine that you trust your life in, after being awake for 36 hours straight surviving on the ‘Ine” diet; that’s caffeine, nicotine, and acetylene.”
“That seat you just sat in was full of puke 30 minutes ago and all I did to clean it was dump a bucket of water over it”.
“I make more money on the change that falls out of your pockets when this ride goes upside down than what I make in wages.”
“When you turn green riding the Hurl-a-Whirl I’ll give you a few extra minutes to see if I can get you to launch your lunch.”
“You think your daughter is babysitting but she is really here meeting up with her boyfriend.”
“Yes, I smoke four packs a day; the monotony is killing me faster than these cigarettes.”
“These are my real teeth, all six of them.”
“Your boyfriend is checking out other girls when your back is turned.”
“I’m checking out your girlfriend when you’re checking out the other girls.”
“I’m not a food service worker so I don’t wash my hands after I use the bathroom.”
“You have greater odds of winning the $260 million lottery than winning a prize shooting out the star with the BB machine gun.”
“When your child is whining they want to ride the Tilt-O-Hurl and you waste five minutes of my time fighting with them, I want to strap you both in it together until you resolve your differences or kill each other.”
“Is that your daughter who showed up here looking like a street walker because I think I’d like to date her.”
“I leave your toddlers on the airplane ride a little longer until the one crying to get off has snot running off his chin.”
“Those plastic rings you’re tossing don’t actually fit over the pop bottle tops because we stack them too close together.”
“I may not have finished high school but you’re the one dishing out $20 bucks per kid for nine minutes of entertainment and two hours of standing in line.”
“We’ve never had the seats fly off a ride and kill everyone but Larry did lose his left arm when he was caught with it around Farmer Johnson’s daughter.”
“When you play the Merry-Go-Round music backwards it is Led Zeppelin’s Stairway To Heaven.”
So, as you can see, there are a lot of career opportunities to be had at the carnival.
Tune in next time when we interview people in the porta-potty business to see if they intentionally put enough blue water in the tank to give it the splash factor.
See Bryce’s past stories on his blog www.readloosescrews.com or e-mail him at readloosescrews@hotmail.com.
Loose Screws: A class reunion should have a little class
By Bryce Haderlie
I got a call from one of my high school classmates the other day and because I live 500 miles from my alma mater I was a little suspicious. My mind raced ahead of the conversation wondering if the call was to solicit a business opportunity, news that someone had died, or to sell me some multi-level marketing driveway detergent.
In spite of the fact that my friend is a successful insurance salesperson, the call had nothing to do with purchasing high deductable coverage for my spleen. He was calling to let me know that we were approaching our 25 year class reunion and that I should join the rest of my friends to compare receding hair lines and expanding waste sizes.
I would rather have a root canal than attend a reunion of any type. These feelings emerge from life experiences that have scarred my soul. The first is the way my brain offers up a blank instead of a person’s name at the exact moment I should be saying “Hello …”.
The second reason stems from wetting my pants at a family reunion at the age of three, or maybe it was 23, I don’t remember now. As a result I spend my time greeting everyone with “Hey dude”, “What’s up man?”, or “How ya doin’ guy?” to people who include my aunts and female cousins when I’m not randomly bolting for the restroom.
The fact that I was not very popular in high school is another reason I’ve not signed up yet. Why else would I have been voted senior class president? Everyone knows that this position is a life sentence to organizing class reunions and being a member of the glee club.
My friend reminded me that I had been slacking on my duties, and had it not been for him and other organized members of our class, we wouldn’t have a clue as to anyone’s existence. It is doubtful any of these people are suffering from name incontinence and weak bladder syndrome like I have. They are likely successful airline pilots, lawyers, and medical professionals who are capable of conducting open heart surgery on a picnic table.
My brother-in-law just returned from his 20 year reunion and was elated after years of being teased about missing the puberty plunge that he was one of the few who didn’t look like he was at varicose vein convention. The icing on the cake had to be that he has a darling wife, two amazing boys, and that he finished dental school while some of his classmates where still on probation.
Aside from bragging about the exploits of the past 25 years it’s hard to know what other conversation topics will come up during a gathering of my peers. This is not the time that you want your spouse to hear one of your old war stories.
“Hey Ralph, remember the time the football team hung you over the bleachers by your underwear in the Atomic Wedgie and you got chaffed so bad that you walked bull legged the rest of your senior year?” one of the jocks asks.
Or the girls bring up the old story of, “Betty Sue, that was so funny the night you and Dilbert Spukerman got caught steaming up the windows of his dad’s car at the prom and we got pictures of it for the yearbook.”
I’m still undecided if I’ll be joining my classmates. There’s a chance that if I do I’ll have a way of keeping the chatter short and sweet. “Hey sport,” I’ll say as I pull one of them aside and speak in a hushed voice, “have I got an investment deal for you that will only cost $10,000 if we aren’t indicted. I’ll tell you about it as soon as I get back from the bathroom.”
See Bryce’s past stories on his blog www.readloosescrews.com or e-mail him at readloosescrews@hotmail.com.
Loose Screws: My cup holder runneth over
By Bryce Haderlie
Now that summer is here the thought of a nice cool beverage sounds great. Thank goodness we have plenty of places to store that drink when we aren’t holding it. Don’t trust a friend with it unless you have a big cold sore to deter them from taking a swig. In any case there’s a chance they’ll spit in it when your back is turned.
There was a day when it was common to hold a drink between your legs when driving. This was when gas and brake pedals had enough room between them for the dog to sit on the floorboard. Now if you try to carry a drink there you’ll look like you have a weak bladder.
I was looking through a catalog for extreme outdoor enthusiasts who believe that scaling a mountain should only be attempted in 4-wheel drive, a tent that fits in the back of your truck, check; camouflage steering wheel cover, check; rappelling gear for you and your ATV, check. You’ll need to write out a humongous check.
It was the cup holder bolted to the motorcycle handlebars that caught my attention. There are many places to carry a drink, but strapped to the steering column is not one of them. Think about the consequences of this.
If you’re carrying a can of soda pop in the device then you’ll end up stuck to your bike as the liquid bounces out of the can like a lawn sprinkler. You can screw the top on a bottle and watch the bubbles disappear until the drink has as much carbonation as prune juice. The last place you want to have your drink is in your hand because that would interfere with shooting your rifle.
At work we have giant loaders capable of pushing thousands of pounds of snow and dirt. A machine capable of picking up a truck should be designed to hold a drink. But for some reason the cup holder has a large upper opening the diameter of a 55-gallon drum and smaller bottom section would barely hold a baby bottle. As a result the drink cup bounces around the holder like it’s in the spin cycle of a washing machine, causing the liquid to fly around to the point that windshield wipers are needed inside the cab.
Cup holders in cars have become somewhat of a novelty. One manufacturer has bragged about 14 drink holders in a vehicle that can only carry eight passengers. What did they plan on using the extra spaces for, French fries from the drive through?
We have a truck that has four places for drinks in the front seat that will only hold two people. There’s nothing like being prepared for maximum drink intake when you’re in the backwoods. The only downside is that the sticky mess in the bottom of the cup holders make the beverage impossible to actually pick up and drink.
To make matters even worse, a few small pieces of candy, hamburger parts, or loose change are stuck to the bottom of the cup holder. This in turn makes the drink tip to one side so that more sticky liquid covers the mess like another coat of finish on a piece of furniture. Some day scientists will discover the mass, like a fly caught in a glob of ember, and will strip the DNA from the organic products in order to produce the first ever Jurassic potato.
If it weren’t for the tragic accident involving a McDonald’s customer holding a steaming cup of coffee between her legs we may not have experienced the abundance of cup holders that we have today. Don’t think of them as a variety of useless empty spaces. Think of them as an overflowing display of wealth. Consider it a permanent investment since you’ll never get that change chipped out of the sticky goo.
See Bryce’s past stories on his blog www.readloosescrews.com or send an email to readloosescrews@hotmail.com.
Loose Screws: Celebrating our nation’s birth outside the delivery room
By Bryce Haderlie
In a few days we will celebrate the birth of our nation that has been around longer than most of us, except for maybe Larry King. This is an amazing accomplishment when you consider that on her first birthday when all of the other nations got together to party, France was heard to say, “She’ll never make it to 16!”
Let’s review a few historical facts so history teachers don’t think their careers are a waste of time. Remember the citizens of this budding nation sought relief from the tyranny of taxation without representation. It’s much like today only back then they held a tea party by actually dumping tea overboard. Now all citizens can do to express their displeasure of unfair taxation at a tea party rally is to throw reporters into the harbor.
When the British soldiers arrived it was Paul Revere who took off on horseback on a dark and stormy night to let citizens know that during the coming weekend there would be a fantastic sale at the furniture outlet.
Of course we don’t want to forget that July 4th is the day our Declaration of Independence was signed by a select group of brave men. You see, the fact they participated in signing the famous document was considered an act of treason. This is why when you try to read the actual manuscript the penmanship is a little hard to decipher. That is in spite of the fact that most of the signers thought they were confirming their Amway membership.
Lastly, let us not forget our national anthem that was written by Francis Scott Key who obviously had a poor seat for the pivotal battle in the Revolutionary War. How do we know this? Because in the first verse he says, “O’er the ramparts we watched,” Now days the average soccer mom will yell “SIT DOWN! YOUR @#*%*& RAMPARTS ARE BLOCKING MY VIEW!!”
And yet, if it weren’t for this song we probably wouldn’t have the magnitude of illegal fireworks ricocheting around our neighborhoods. Ponder for a moment these famous words, “And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our house was still there.”
Don’t these words stir up a desire to see flaming objects screaming through the night sky? If not then you are probably a mother of young children or an insurance adjustor. None the less, we have an obligation to celebrate in a way that sets us apart from the rest of the world.
Take the parade for example. In colonial times they used to throw actual livestock from the float to the people lining the street. After several minor injuries they resorted to fruits and vegetables. When whole watermelons proved to cause concussions it was decided to downsize to candy. Now thanks to liability reasons the parade route is free from throwing any objects that contain sugar, peanut oil, or campaign promises.
After a meal of hamburgers, hotdogs, and warm potato salad it’s off to the park to watch the fireworks display. This is the one time of the year when the fire department gets permission to burn thousands of dollars of merchandise in a matter of minutes. The best seat in the house is lying on a blanket on the cool grass and watching the brilliant colors stream across the sky.
Who could ask for anything better than to be a citizen of the greatest nation on earth? Let’s salute the men and women who have fought to maintain our freedom. And to that person in front of me at the fireworks display,
“SIT DOWN, YOUR RAMPARTS ARE BLOCKING MY VIEW!!”
See Bryce’s past stories on his blog www.readloosescrews.com or e-mail him at readloosescrews@hotmail.com.
Lighten Up with Lori
By Lori Hunsaker
I never met Brad Perry but in the last five years I’ve had a glimpse of the terrible road his family has traveled since his murder in 1984. I saw his parents, Newell and Claudia, along with his siblings Valerie, Nan, Lee and Everett in the courtroom for numerous proceedings.
Contrary to journalistic objectivity, Brad has become personal to me through the eyes of his family and the evidence describing the brutal attack that led to his violent death.
There have been delays, legal maneuverings and interesting twists and developments along the way. After DNA from the scene was matched to Glenn Griffin, there was finally something to go on.
Since then there have been two trials, one conviction and one acquittal. At this point there are no new leads but a bloody fingerprint which has never been identified remains. This case isn’t neatly wrapped up and probably never will be.
I’ve witnessed some interesting moments. Here are a few of them.
· The heavy thud of the Dr. Pepper canister was jarring as the prosecutor placed it on the floor in front of the jury.
· Watching the video of the crime scene numerous times. It included Brad’s body in the back room. My heart was pounding as I turned away from the footage while trying to ignore the tears of the Perrys. I didn’t want it to be real. Claudia usually wore a sweater or was wrapped in a blanket during all proceedings. She wasn’t sure if it was the air conditioning or the trauma that chilled her. The family was determined to see all the proceedings. One of them explained part of the reason was they didn’t want to give the defendant the satisfaction of seeing them flee. They wanted to be there for Brad.
· The sight of Wade Maughan swaggering in his orange jumpsuit, restrained with shackles at his wrists and ankles. He entered the courtroom when called to testify against co-defendant Glenn Griffin in his capital murder case in November, 2009. He refused to testify.
· I saw the concern and affection of Brad’s parents toward Glenn’s mother. They hugged and talked, each bearing their own specific grief yet mindful of the other side of the painful equation.
· The affection of the Perrys toward the two college students who notified police of a crime at the Short Stop. Both were called as witnesses several times.
· Finding out one of the employees of the Short Stop was the wife of a bailiff in the courtroom. She had been scheduled to work that shift but Brad traded with her. He wanted to get more hours so he could buy an engagement ring for his soon to be fiancé.
· Listening to Dennis Abel of the Brigham City Police Department describe the process of video taping the crime scene. Before processing anything he put on gloves and a baseball cap. “I had hair back then.”
· Wondering what the defendants looked like 25 years ago.
· Thinking of a young man who never got older. Brad is frozen in time. He didn’t get married. He didn’t have children. Brad’s fiancé finally got married and now has several young children.
· A touching moment occurred when a man from Spokane, WA, testified and identified Wade as his best friend. They hadn’t seen each other for 4 1/2 years. A look of true affection passed between them.
· During the sentencing phase of Griffin’s trial, Brad’s sister Nan testified about how much she missed him and the impact he’d had on her life. Juror #3 must have been impressed. After the trial ended the two spent some time together and have become very close friends. He attended several days of Maughan’s trial.
· On the lighter side I heard testimony that the officers transporting Maughan from Seattle to Brigham City got pulled over by police but didn’t get a ticket.
· Ogden’s Second District Courthouse is often filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, wafting in from the Wonder Bread facility located next door. This led to conversations about peanut butter sandwiches during court recesses.
· Speaking of recesses - I saw an attorney pull a chilled Perrier out of a small cooler. Other court personnel drank water poured from pitchers into paper cups.
· There was some frustration during the lengthy proceedings, often caused by the repetition of questions. What was the point of asking a witness repeatedly, how many dollar bills were given in change? A witness gave the man at the gas station five one-dollar bills. Then his friend wanted cigarettes. The man went inside the store and came back with the cigarettes and four one-dollar bills in change. After asking two or three more times, the answer was still “four.” I started answering questions under my breath.
· My favorite interchange between a witness and an attorney was the revelation of what a window can do. If you are outside and you look through a window, you can see what is inside. If you are inside and you look through a window, you can see what is outside. I kid you not. This really happened.
I don’t mean to make light of proceedings that have such a great impact on human lives. When all is said and done, I have several final conclusions. When I first started covering this case, I was worried about writing the details and hurting the Perry family. I didn’t want to remind them of their tragedy. But as the first trial and then the second trial proceeded, I saw them bombarded with the ghastly details day after day after day. I realized my repetition could cause little additional harm to them but would help my readers understand the case a little better.
What I take away from this case is regret that I never knew Brad, but gratitude I got a glimpse of him from his family. They love him and each other. While his death has taken a terrible toll, they have been strengthened by each other and are closer because of it. That love and their faith in eternity leave me feeling uplifted and optimistic.
Loose Screws: Who hid my cheese? Adapting to everchanging refrigerator
By Bryce Haderlie
“Back up and shut the door!” I chide our child as he stands in front of the refrigerator as if the light coming from it is a personal tanning device. It goes without saying that there are more undiscovered items in the average icebox than in all of Antarctica. If you don’t agree with this claim then tell me where my cheese is.
Food cooling appliances have changed substantially over the years. In the early days they earned the name “icebox” because you literally had to find a box to put over a chunk of ice in order to keep your food from being hauled off by coyotes. Initially they used old covered wagons or coffins.
The fad took a while to catch on due to the hernia injuries from getting a gallon of milk from the box. Sizes fluctuated over the years with the current average appliance providing 20-25 cubic feet of space. It is interesting to note that these dimensions are roughly the same area as the Bermuda Triangle; which explains why my brick of cheese is still missing.
Refrigerators used to have a few small shelves in the door, a drawer in the bottom for aging fruits and vegetables, two shelves, handy butter and egg holders, with an icebox in the top that was capable of forming glaciers and occasionally holding a frozen food item like a pot pie.
Losing something in this size of cooler took real skill and ability. I mentioned the aging drawer from an experience many years ago. While serving as a Mormon missionary I found myself foraging for food in another missionary’s fridge. After opening the drawer I made a comment about how bad the half-dozen blackened avocados looked. “Avocados?” the elder responded, “I thought there were only old grapefruit in there.”
It’s not uncommon for food to go missing in the fridge like it’s one of Harry Houdini’s magic acts. Salad dressing and steak sauces are some of the worst culprits. If you don’t believe me then check the dates on your bottles and decide if they looks like a rare wine collection. “Let’s see, we’ve got some ’75 Blue Cheese that has a new strain of penicillin growing in it. Here we have an ’82 Italian dressing that should be deported. And down here is a Heinz 57 steak sauce that . . . all be darned, expired in 1957.”
Children and men suffer the worst signs of “fridge blindness” in the human species. Teenagers have reported suffering thousands of cases of frostbite while on food scouting expeditions. Women on the other hand possess a homing beacon that is capable of locating a funny smell coming from one of 857 sealed containers. And yet, no one is able to tell me what happened to my cheese.
Speaking of cheese, I got the munchies writing about this subject and found myself looking into the bowels of a cottage cheese container at something I’m convinced was looking back at me. It’s common to find at least one or two containers that are developing “hair,” “slime,” or some other form of bacterial growth that resembles road kill.
Items that are merely obscured in the fridge become totally invisible in the freezer. This is due to a coating of ice that gives a bag of frozen vegetables a ghostly appearance. A clump of stick-like objects turns out to be a horrifying black bunch of mummified bananas. All they need, to be truly authentic, are to be individual wrapped in little bandages.
It’s been a couple of weeks now and my brick of cheese is still missing. Then my wife discovers a strange green substance in a plastic bag hidden behind the corn tortilla chips. Seems the cheese was inadvertently left there to die a morbidly moldy death.
I think I figured out who hid my cheese; it was the grapefruit.
Visit www.readloosescrews.com or e-mail Bryce at readloosescrews@hotmail.com.
Loose Screws: Social networking is the new form of homework
By Bryce Haderlie
As members of the geezer squad we stand in amazement at the individuals in society who have tapped into a new form of communication that many of us can’t conceive.
Facebook and Myspace are two portals to a parallel universe where most of the pictures are taken at arm’s length with camera phones. There’s a theory that the ultra-sound taken before birth is really downloading children with computer knowledge so they can function as programmers at age three.
In the meantime, the rest of us are debating the dilemma of forwarding sappy email messages to at least eight of our closest friends for fear God will stop loving us. Social networking is a new term that refers to communicating with people through the computer. Up until a few weeks ago I thought it was something we should all be doing at business meetings to expand our contact list for a stronger career.
While attending a class on social networking it was interesting to note that the instructors where a man and woman in their twenties. They spoke of portals, interfacing, downloading and uploading like many of us talk about hunting mastodons. Once again it was proof that something is going on with the ultra-sound machines because no one over 35 even had a clue what they were talking about.
The idea is that people don’t talk to each other anymore so news and information is shared via the internet. Since I was a little boy I wanted to have a weekly newspaper column and write books. Now I feel like I’ve come out with the latest version of the buggy whip.
I took the advice of one of my editors and decided to get a blog. The address is www.readloosescrews.com and that is all I can tell you about it. Because I was born in the era where forceps and spanking on the bare bottom were the norm I was forced to hire a professional to assist me with the project.
“Hey son” I begged, “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you set up my new blog.”
I made the offer thinking I was getting a great deal and knowing that the money would pay for prom. What I didn’t know is that kids are now required to create blogs, websites, and national missile defense systems in school on a regular basis. Sometimes they have to do it just to get permission to go out to recess.
What I wasn’t prepared for is the content that needs to go on the site to entice people to read. Of course there’s my old stories, and pictures of exciting events like Minnie flying over Brian Head in the dummy jump. Then I started getting nervous about what else I should put on this site that wouldn’t jeopardize my full time job or what’s left of my reputation.
In 2006 a bank vice president was reportedly fired for posing in a newspaper photo in a bathing suit. Apparently the banking industry of Sequatchie County, Tennessee (County motto: “The more vowels the better!”) takes a firm stand on covering their assets. “Note to self, leave the Speedo shots of our basset hound LeRoy off the web page.”
I considered a photo of me posing rather close to a toilet brush (which was brand new by the way) but worried that people would look at me and say, “What’s that stuck between your teeth. Or better yet, “Wow! That’s some seriously rank breath. What did you do, drink toilet water?”
So come visit my blog and dig into the old stories, view some photos, and have a good laugh at my expense. After all, I’m the one paying my teenager $50 an hour to play on the computer. He thinks that it’s much better than doing actual homework.
Visit www.readloosescrews.com or send an email to Bryce at readloosescrews@hotmail.com.
Lighten Up
by Lori Hunsaker
Sean, don’t freak out, I’m not trying to horn in on your sports column niche. I’m not in the least bit interested in sports nor will I ever be. I’d rather wash dishes than watch sports on television. When I had a husband and sons in the house I’d get some accidental exposure to the sports world but not anymore.
However, I did watch my children and now my grandchildren play soccer. Some things have changed from one generation to the next. The fields are smaller, the teams are smaller and the goals are smaller, made from flimsy, portable nets. They are nothing like the full-size goals when my kids played. Those goals were sturdy enough that a bored goalie could climb the net and then get his foot caught just as the opposing team had a break away and was able to easily score, thanks to the unguarded goal.
I remember the swarm of five-year-old players hovering around the ball as it made its way up and down the field. Some players weren’t really in the game. They would be distracted by dandelions in the lawn or practicing their cartwheels.
The swarms are smaller these days with only three children playing at a time on each team. Granddaughter Ally spent a lot of time last summer hugging her cousin Larissa throughout her games.
One thing I distinctly remember from my children’s soccer years was “that kid” on the other team who made all the goals, resulting in our loss of 0-8.
Despite our efforts to encourage the kids to be more aggressive in the game, those first few years the kids were pretty low key. Quinn and I would get a little giddy with excitement if they touched the ball with their foot, let alone score.
Imagine my surprise when I went to Quinton’s first soccer game last fall. He’s a member of the Black Ninjas or the Knights, no one knows for sure.
Within a minute of the game starting (games are shorter now with two 10-minute halves) Quinton had scored a goal. The crowd went wild (me, Luke, Erica and Grandma Diana) and he flashed us a great big grin. He came over and we gave him lots of high fives, then he was back in the game.
He scored another goal within a minute. I couldn’t believe it. He surpassed my five kids’ accumulated total number of goals scored in their first seasons. I kinda liked it. Quinton was in the game. He took the ball, he changed direction, he ran and dribbled and he scored. He knew what the game was about.
He scored again and again. Before the game was over he had eight goals. The score was 8-0.
More high fives and cheers. There was some strutting and posturing, of course. Like I said, I couldn’t believe it. Quinton was ‘that kid’ on the other team. Never thought I’d see that.
Quinton’s trend is continuing but some of his teammates are starting to score as well, which is great. The more kids who score the better. My favorite outcome with young players is a tie game. Then everybody wins.
However, if one team is going to score more goals than the other, it’s kinda fun to be on the winning team sometimes.
But always in the back of my mind are the words of dearly departed Quinn, AYSO coach extraordinaire, “What’s the number one rule in soccer? To have fun.”
Loose Screws: Spend time staring at the back of your eyelids
By Bryce Haderlie
It’s 4:30 in the morning and I’ve been flopping around like a fish in bed for the past hour thinking of everything from water balloons as a legitimate tax deduction to choosing my favorite waffle syrup. When I was younger – say 30 - it sounded so odd to hear older adults talk about insomnia. I’d laugh and think, “Those poor old coots, I can’t believe they can’t just lie down and go to sleep.” Now that I’m living the dreamless dread I’d like to find a rock to pound my head against until I lose consciousness for a few hours.
Every few months a new scientific study tells us how sleep deprived we are. An example of this is Dr. Vladomere Warnkoff of the Cleveland Institute of Sleep holding a press conference recently to say, “The people of this nation are not getting enough ... zzzzzzzzzzzz.”
Why is it that we can sleep so easily as babies? Could it be that since we can’t talk, walk to the fridge, or use our hands for anything other than to plug our mouths that we fall asleep from shear boredom?
We have teenagers in our house right now that if left to their own design would sleep 18 to 22 hours a day. Of course there’s a hazard to letting them do that and we handle it by jabbing them awake every few hours so we can use the couch too.
The biggest expense with teenage sleep disorders are clothes. We’ve had kids growing in their sleep so much that we have to buy them a new pair of jeans every time they wake up. With one boy at 6’ 2”, and another at 6’ 3”, we don’t dare let our third child sit down for more than a few minutes for fear he won’t fit in the car the next time we go somewhere.
Whenever I complain about teenage sleep patterns my mom reminds me of the trip she and I took to Hawaii with a school group when I was 15. She was constantly asking where I was and my friends would say that I’d fallen asleep while we were gathered in someone’s room so they just left me there. It’s awkward admitting that most of my memories of Hawaii were waking up in a different hotel room every few hours.
Some people argue that insomnia is caused by too many worries and that we need to rid our minds of them before we go to bed. It’s more likely caused by an aging body that can’t sleep more than a few hours without a potty break. Getting it resolved before 2:30 a.m. isn’t a problem but if it happens after 4 a.m. then the brain starts playing shuffleboard or counting the thread count on the pillowcase with the nerves in your face.
Lying in bed is a great time to develop a good worry list. Under the right conditions the brain is able to invent all types of concerns that weren’t there at bedtime. Interestingly enough, the brain doesn’t store these in long or short term memory to be used later. Those thoughts are rolling around like golf balls in the trunk of our skull until we wake up and they fall out of our ears.
Maybe sleep really is tied to growth and development so as we age and are falling apart we don’t need to sleep. That thought makes one wonder if instead of worrying we should lie in bed and listen to our bodies decay. “Oh wow, there goes my spleen,” you can say to yourself as you hear a snap inside your chest. If your knees make sounds like seltzer water fizzing you may wonder which direction your feet will be pointing in the morning.
Normally I wouldn’t be thinking about these types of things but since dawn is only an hour away I guess I’ll make the best of it. Or maybe I need another trip to Hawaii.
Email Bryce your insomnia stories at readloosescrews@hotmail.com
Lighten Up
by Lori Hunsaker
My granddaughter Ally had a ruptured appendix last month. She’s only six and had to miss a couple of weeks of kindergarten. Poor little thing, she looked so tiny in the hospital bed. But she was very brave and didn’t cry like her daddy, Jeremy, when he came out of surgery following his appendectomy 12 months earlier.
Jeremy, Aunt Brandy and I had considerable sympathy for her since we all lived through appendectomies as well. We are all part of an elite club.
Ally is the fifth generation of the Nelson family to have appendicitis as far as we know: her great-great grandpa Foster, great grandpa Dennis, grandma Lori, father Jeremy and now Ally. She’s the youngest.
Ally spent several days in the hospital fighting off the infection. She was weak and also bewildered by the pain. Her parents were exhausted, caring for Ally’s younger siblings Andie and Jonas, who were recovering from miserable illnesses. Thank goodness for Nanna and Poppa. And Andie wasn’t totally forgotten on her fifth birthday.
I get so tired just watching the parents of young children as they go about their day-to-day living, let alone during a medical crisis.
Things are back to ‘normal’ now for the Hunsakers. Ally’s back in school and fully mended.
During her recovery I told her about all of her Nelson progenitors who had appendicitis. I suggested that we’d have to look at each other’s scars when she got feeling better.
When we got together for Easter, Ally and I had a quiet moment so that is what we did. Ally showed me her tiny little scars on her slender little torso. I was appropriately wowed.
Then I discretely showed her my four-inch scar. She didn’t say anything but a look of mild horror flickered across her face. I was glad she was impressed with the way doctors used to slice their patients. And I was happy we could share this experience and bond even more.
In a careless moment a couple of days later, I got out of the bathtub with no regard for the mirror and accidentally caught a glimpse of myself. One of the advantages of getting older is failing eyesight, but even without my glasses the glimpse was alarming.
That got me to thinking and I reflected on Ally’s reaction when she saw my scar. I double checked which side the scar was on and got to wondering if I showed her the wrong side of my doughy, dimpled abdomen. I wasn’t sure at the time I showed her my scar because I can’t see my scar from my vantage point because the fleshy overhang blocks my view.
Maybe Ally’s horror had nothing to do with my scar at all, but rather the old and ample amount of grandma flesh that flashed before her eyes.
Ally’s physical scars will fade to near invisiblility. I hope the trauma of grandma’s scar will also fade, leaving no permanent mark on her young and tender psyche.
Loose Screws: Getting the date of a lifetime
by Bryce Haderlie
Dating rituals have risen to a whole new level than what they used to be. Dating once was a courting ritual that allowed two members of the opposite sex to determine if they could spend the rest of their lives with their braces locked together.
Now a date consists of 1) the invitation, 2) the answer to the invitation, 3) the day date, 4) the pickup, photo session, 5) the dinner, 6) the actual date, 7) the post date, and 8) filing a joint tax return following the date.
Let’s evaluate these various steps for the adult’s sake since the teenagers already know everything. Invitations to major events like prom, homecoming, or splitting a piece of gum start with the asker devising some diabolically creative plan to call upon the victim without having to actually speak to them. In one case our son got a T-shirt with 12 girls’ names printed on it with magic marker. At first I wondered, “Is he dating the whole cheerleading squad?”
He ended up having to wash the shirt to find the one name printed in permanent ink of the girl who was actually asking him out. There’s the story of a girl filling a guy’s car entirely full of popcorn with her name hidden inside. The guy reportedly called the police to report a corn harvester pooped in his car.
Our son just asked a girl to prom by embedding a sealed straw with his name inside, into a bottle filled with gelatin, and then putting it her car that he and a friend decorated to look like a parade float. This required her to properly answer yes - again without any verbal contact - by decorating his room to look like an exploding crepe paper factory.
The third part is a day date that involves visiting at least two states, travel by water, land, and air, and breaking a sweat from fear or physical exhaustion. One example is our son, his date and several friends exploring 15,750 acres of Zion’s National Park in six hours. This year, as luck would have it, our second son and his date will be competing against each other for the best ACT test score. We just don’t know if they will take a limousine or helicopter to the test.
During the pickup the boy has to decide if he dares plant a fragment of foliage on the girl’s flimsy gown with several long pins or laterally pass the responsibility to her mother. This is also the time when the pair pauses for a photo engagement on the front lawn to satisfy the parents and neighbors. The dinner segment of the date is where a boy suddenly realizes that he doesn’t know how to pronounce hors d’oeuvres, let alone have enough money to buy any.
Girls spend the night parading back and forth to the bathroom in large herds without actually accomplishing anything because there is no way to fit a girl in a formal gown into a bathroom stall. The actual date, or dance, begins with more photographs that will cost a small fortune because the family dog is not engaging in some form of personal hygiene in the background. These pictures are normally taken with a pack of couples to ensure that someone in the group looks like they are in severe need of Gas-X pills.
The actual date portion lasts for 27 to 32 minutes, depending on a number of related incidents like high-heeled stampedes to the bathroom, girls forming huddles to solve relationship issues, and boys clueless as to what they did to cause the uproar. The post date may or may not happen, depending on the outcome of the entire day or the last five minutes of the dance.
As you can see it’s a very challenging world our youth face as they attempt to participate in the ritual of courtship under today’s new standards. So do your part to help them out by loaning them your airplane, yacht or, better yet, your private island in the Bahamas. Their future depends on it.
E-mail Bryce at readloosescrews@hotmail.com for updated wedding rituals.
Lighten Up
by Lori Hunsaker
I was watching a “What Not To Wear” marathon on TLC a couple of Saturdays ago. I’m not sure why because the show makes me uneasy. I think it’s because I’m afraid my kids are going to turn me in for some of my wardrobe choices.
Anyway, I was watching an episode when I got nervous butterflies in my stomach. The woman was a little chubby and had mousy-brown, kinda frizzy, shoulder-length hair. She wore long flowing skirts on occasion and she detested one of the curses of womanhood, the supportive undergarment, so she didn’t wear one.
My breathing got more rapid and shallow the longer I watched.
When they showed secret footage of her wearing a scarf plastered with cute little kittens to help disguise her lack of proper support, I started to relax and breathe normally.
It wasn’t me after all. I don’t own any kitten scarves.
But you can be sure I watched the rest of the episode with great attention. I was so inspired and motivated, in fact, that before running errands a little later, I changed out of my baggy knit pants and put on a pair of jeans and changed from a baggy T-shirt into a more ‘flattering’ blouse.
I’m not a total Saturday slob, though. I had already planned to brush my teeth and wet down my ‘bed head’ before going out the front door.
When I got to the store, I saw Ruth, who will never be on “What Not To Wear” because she always looks adorable, put together and chic. At least I didn’t look as bad as I might have when she saw me.
When I got home I sorted through my closet and made two piles - clothes that looked like the kitten-scarf woman and those that didn’t. The first pile went to DI. I’m sure some clothes I kept should have gone to DI as well, but I’ll have to do this in stages. I also have to make sure I don’t buy any of them back when I see them on the rack. I must have liked them once and I might like them again if I’m not careful.
I can’t part with most of my long skirts, however, but I’ll try to pair them with tops which look less baggy and a little more contemporary.
As for the support issue, I continue to view the supportive undergarment as an evil entity (my nemesis) that I have to put up with for society’s sake when I absolutely have to, even though there is such discomfort involved.
But just so everyone is clear, I draw the line when it comes to high heels and pantyhose.
