An open letter to the victims of Californian fires

In November 2017, my wife and I bought a farm. Nearly seven acres in the rural scrub between Spokane and the Idaho border. We quickly found ourselves to be a blue dot in a red corner of a blue state. But it was home, and it was good. We did everything we could to make it our own little slice of paradise.

A year later, the first flames sparked on Boeing property near the Simi Valley. It quickly erupted into the Woosley Fire, ravaging the city of Malibu and surrounding hills. It completely destroyed over 1600 homes and killed three people. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only blaze terrifying Californians that month. Two other wildfires began the same day: Hill Fire 15 miles to the west of Woosley and the Camp Fire near Chico. The Northern Cali fire was deadlier, ending 85 lives. It destroyed 18,000 structures and displaced 50,000 people.

Our tale of homesteading bliss and collected Californian disasters might appear both emotionally and geographically unrelated. However, these contrasting events are not completely divergent.

Come January 2019, home sales in our area increased. Over the next few months, real estate prices in the Spokane area continued the upward trend. Before long, complaints arose from locals priced out of buying a home. Annie and I considered ourselves lucky to purchase when we did - a year before the spike. We were still confused though. Sale prices exceeded actual property value. It defied logic which unsettled my analytical autistic brain.

At a holiday party late that year, a family member (who happened to be a realtor) provided an explanation. Californians who lost their homes in the wildfires were bringing their insurance settlements northward. They flooded the inland northwest with enough money to make cash purchases, often offering tens of thousands of dollars more than the seller’s asking price. If there was a bidding war, the Cali expats were going to win. Some of them could buy two houses in Spokane with the amount of money they got from insurance.

It made sense. Relocate to a state with similar cultures, geographically close, with climates less wet than Portland or Seattle. Process of elimination made Spokane an ideal destination for their new hometown.

It took a full two years for the skyrocketing market to hit the top and another two for actual values to catch up with listing prices. During the pandemic, a national article was released by a major media outlet detailing the ten most over inflated real estate markets in America and the Spokane area was plopped right in the middle of the listicle.

The collective disasters of the Camp, Hill, and Woosley fires were unfathomable tragedies for the state of California but they were not isolated events. The fallout caused financial burdens upon uninvolved populations in regions outside their state.

Now, a little more than six years later, history is beginning to repeat itself as multiple fires rage around Los Angeles, including the Sunset fire in the Hollywood Hills. Much like Hollywood blockbusters, the sequel is worse than the original. There are five separate fires ablaze in the area with at least 180 thousand residents under evacuation orders and 1.5 million people without power. Two of these wildfires are already the most destructive in LA’s history and they’re not yet contained. Five deaths have officially been reported with thousands of structures destroyed, a number sure to grow before this horrible saga is over.

Image courtesy of KTLA

I don’t want to make light of the harrowing ordeal consuming the greater Los Angeles region. The heartbreak, loss, and fear are all valid as these Americans are living through an apocalyptic nightmare. I know because Spokane experiences a wildfire season every year. Even if the flames are not dancing on our doorsteps, winds bring the smoke into our neighborhoods, slowly choking out the outdoor activities and entertainment which make the unbearableness of the inland PNW more bearable.

The devastation also hits close on a personal level. Several family members on my wife’s side live in Medical Lake - the site of 2023’s Gray Fire. We are intimately aware of the fear and pain of a wildfire’s invasive touch.

If history truly is repeating, the people of Spokane should prepare to meet some new neighbors. A lot of new neighbors. I hope not though. Not because of an anti-Californian bias which is common around here. Not because we’re already struggling with the logistics of population growth even though we are. I hope for something different this go around because our nation is in crisis. Californians might not be the heroes we deserve but they could be the heroes we need.

We can laugh as a way to cope with tragedy but there is nothing funny about the massive and destructive force of nature in its cruelest moments. In lieu of jokes, I offer a proposal.

Take that fire insurance settlement and move to a red state. Hear me out.

States like Oklahoma, West Virginia, Indiana, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Kentucky are among the cheapest places to buy a house in America and they’re all red states. They also have some of the worst education systems compared to other states. They are most in need of improvement. A little insurance money can go a long ways in states like these.

Move there. Property is cheap. Buy a home and work remotely. Buy two or three homes and turn them into rental properties for ongoing income. As soon as you’ve met residency requirements, run for political office: school board, library board, city council, county commission. Or be entrepreneurial; start a small biz and join the town’s business association or Kiwanis club. Become a foster parent or sponsor a refugee family. Volunteer with a local chapter of PFLAG, Color of Change, or Citizenship Coalition. Donate to homeless shelters and organizations that help women escape domestic violence.

Whatever it is, where ever you go, use your money, time, and votes to make that place a little better. Transform your new hometown into a safer place for immigrants, people of color, and the LGBTQ community. Build grassroots foundations to create something even bigger and better, something blue wavyish. And maybe, just maybe, people like you are the ones who save us all from MAGA. Perhaps you would be the ones to actually make America great again.

I’m happy to share Spokane with you but you should spread the love a little. If all else fails, Spokane will still be here. Please though … try a red state first.

Our Region In Flames

I thought about fire burning in your eyes. I thought about fire. - Blindside

Image Courtesy Thoma Casey

How can we dance when the world is turning? How do we sleep while our beds are burning? - Midnight Oil

Image courtesy Myk Crawford

We didn't start the fire. It was always burning, since the world's been turning. We didn't start the fire. No, we didn't light it but we tried to fight it. - Billy Joel

Image courtesy WADOT

Now I see fire inside the mountain, I see fire burning the trees, and I see fire howling souls. I see fire, blood in the trees, and I hope that you’ll remember me. - Ed Sheeran

Image courtesy Greg Halling

I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end. I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. - James Taylor

Image courtesy Tom Burgess

Death is on the top of her tongue and danger’s on the tip of her fingers. Streets are on fire tonight. - Lupe Fiasco

Image courtesy WADOT

Things we lost to the flames, things we’ll never see again. All that we’ve amassed sit before us shattered into ash. - Bastille

Image courtesy Zack Zappone

Liar, liar, the world's on fire. What you gonna do when it all burns down? - Dolly Parton

Image courtesy Erik Smith

We’ve built our confidence on wasteland. We’ve seen how the walls come down. Life burns. - Apocalyptica

Image courtesy Brian Jacob

Sleep now in the fire. - Rage Against the Machine

Image courtesy Colin Mulvany @ SR

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There are three major fires burning around us. To our east, Ridge Creek above Hayden Lake has burned 4100 acres. North of us, Oregon Road in Elk has burned 10,000 acres. Finally, the Gray fire west of us in Medical Lake has also burned 10,000 acres. There are two known deaths and hundreds of homes and businesses destroyed. The Spokane region is devistated and funds are being raised by the American Red Cross, Salvation Army, Giving Back Spokane, and No-Li Brewhouse. We also have family direclty impacted who had to evacuate including the grandparents in Medical Lake who host all of our holiday gatherings. If you think of us, please pray for rain.

Light in the Darkest Hours

It was a song from an underground hip-hop collective: lo-fi beats, heavy turntablism, and cypher styled rap verses: “The Night We Called It a Day” by Deepspace5. This song (along with the rest of their debut album) helped me fall in love with the art and culture of rap music. The track opened with a melancholic acoustic guitar sample and the static of vinyl before the DJ starts scratching records. In the scratches, there’s a single spoken line, broken up with the flick of the DJ’s fingers.

“Those who need light - light-light - for those who need light in they darkest hours - in they darkest hours”

It’s like a grown up version of “This Little Light of Mine” for those who enjoy coffee shops and old school beats. Millions of kids listen to hip-hop as a means of escape. They enter it like a refuge - an oasis in the desert of urban violence. I understand them. I once used grunge and punk rock as a safe place from the torment of the bullies who verbally and physically abused me through my teen years. It was my light in my darkest hours.

Even though it’s been a while since I’ve listened to the song, I still get this Deepspace5 phrase stuck in my head, repeating like a mantra. I walk around with those nine words on repeat. For those who need light in they darkest hours. They darkest hours. Light in they darkest hours. Then I see those in their darkest hours who need some light and feel moved to speak up, to do something.

These days, those who need light in they darkest hours are easy to find. Between school shootings and police violence, natural disasters and pandemics, extreme politics and foreign wars, there’s a lot of light needed for a daunting number of people in their darkest hours.

Not everyone seeks light from darkness. Many seek light in darkness. While it seems counterintuitive, there are those who find light through scary stories. Whether told around campfires, read in pulp novels, listened to in true crime podcasts, or watched on the big screen, the elements of horror can distract us from the frights of real life. Somehow the darkness of vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and aliens are brighter than homes filled with abuse and addiction.

Kids will watch a slasher movie and think “if the final girl survives the masked serial killer hunting down teenagers, then I’ll survive my abusive parents.” Those in pain will read books about an exorcism and think “if the demons can be cast out from this possessed child, perhaps I can conquer my own demons.” Laughing at jump scares in video games help some kids feel less fear when police arrive to defuse a domestic disturbance.

So why do I love the horror genre? I was raised in a safe community by two parents who loved each other with no darkness to escape. My parents were not abusive. Despite being poor, they fed me and kept a roof over our heads. They supported my creative endeavors. I did not endure any major adolescent trauma. I never got into legal trouble. I was socially awkward but still had a few great friends. My parents didn’t even allow me to watch scary movies. Aside from being bullied, I had a decent childhood.

And I have a good life today. My parents are still together after nearly fifty years of marriage. I am married to a woman who loves me more than I knew was possible. I have a great job. I’m DJing and writing and farming and raising kids and have a life so full I could burst. Between the dogs and the horses and the family, I am surrounded by a loving support system and many reasons to celebrate. Yet I still crave books by Stephen King and Dean Koontz. I’m enraptured by movies from Jordan Peele and Guillermo del Toro. I’m still thrilled when a creepy book or game keeps me awake all night. It seems I seek darkness in my brightest hours.

Thanks to the world of podcasts, I think I understand my unique proclivities. While driving around the INW for work, I’m listening to storytellers do what they do best. Hood Politics, Murder Myth & Mystery, The Secret Room, Haileywood. If iron sharpens iron, I hope to hone my own abilities to craft engaging tales.

In a recent episode of Morbid, Alaina Urquhart and Ashleigh Kelly shared stories of haunted lighthouses in America. One of those spooky landmarks is the Bolivar Point Lighthouse in Galveston Texas.

When a hurricane entered the Gulf of Mexico in 1900, H. C. Claiborne (the lighthouse keeper) wasn’t worried. He had purchased enough food to last through the season so he and his family could remain at Bolivar Point for a few months, and the lighthouse structure was strong. Claiborne was confident it could withstand any storm.

image courtesy of Lighthouse Friends

As you could imagine, meteorology was not as technically advanced at the beginning of the 20th century as it is today. No one was sure where the hurricane would make landfall. The big waves thrust into the shores of northeastern Texas became a spectacle with thousands of curious people crowding the beaches of Galveston Island and Bolivar Peninsula. Many of the onlookers ignored the warnings of local officials urging them to move inland and seek higher ground. By the time the storm surge reached land, it was too late. They were experiencing the deadliest natural disaster in American history.

It could have been deadlier - and would have if it had not been for Claiborne. The rising waters stranded a train with more than 300 passengers near the Bolivar Point lighthouse. They waded through the waters to reach the door of the tower. Claiborne opened it up and let in at least 125 of the passengers before he had to close and barricade the door.

Those who sheltered in the stairwell of the lighthouse found safety, but not comfort. Two or three people sat on every step of the spiral stairs, from the flooded entrance to the top level where Claiborne continued to perform his duties keeping the light shining to guide wayward ships into Galveston Bay. In the dark of storm and night, Claiborne rationed his family’s food supplies to make sure the storm’s refugees had something to eat, and the crowd drank rainwater to sate their thirst. What they didn’t know of until after the storm had passed were the bodies piling up outside the lighthouse door.

The Bolivar Lighthouse was a bright spot along the Texas coast. It was a beacon for sailors seeking safe harbor. Yet its greatest moment came when the tower was plunged into darkness and one selfless man saved 125 souls from a hurricane that killed 8000.

Within a week of hearing this story, I listened to a remastered episode of Lore about more lighthouses. The show focused on the reason tales of haunted lighthouses are so prevalent. These landmarks were designed to offer light, guidance, and hope. Yet throughout history, lighthouse buildings have been filled with the loneliness of isolation. They’ve been sites of grief and tragedy; homes to mental anguish, injury, and death. Ghosts may not exist but the reasons people believe they are real are valid.

Then the show’s host, Aaron Mahnke said something that was an a-ha moment for me. From this perspective, it all makes sense.

My interests and pursuits seem unlikely. A good boy raised in a stable Christian home should have never taken a liking to the horror genre. Yet I’ve found myself thriving somewhere between The Tell-Tale Heart and 30 Days of Night. I’ve lived a blessed life while reveling in the macabre.

The book I’m working on features characters enduring some dark events. When I’m done with this, I will begin working on a Christmas themed ghost story about a man haunted by his mistakes. The stories I’m crafting are filled with grief, loss, tragedy, and death - the basis of many of the monsters which lurk in the myths and fables of scary legends and modern lore. It seems Mahnke’s hypothesis is proven in me - my tales of horror come from where my light shines brightest.

In this way, I hope to become what God created me to be: a lighthouse. A place of light and a shelter in storm, often plunged into the agony, muck, and mire of human existence. Then from the darkness, continue to illuminate a way for others to survive the strife of their own lives.

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, for those who need light in they darkest hours.

Like Orion on a Cloudy Night

It was a stressful day. Which is weird because it should not have been so burdened by stress. The morning started like any other Sunday: Joylyn and Annie helped me complete barn chores before we all went out to breakfast as a family at our favorite little greasy dive in Rathrum. Later in the day, Annie went out for a horseback ride with one of her friends while I relaxed and played video games. I spent some time cleaning in the kitchen while Annie prepped the dining room table for a crafting project. Then we went on some errands to get wood stain and groceries. The day ended after a walk with our Mastiff at the dog park, more housework, and bedtime barn chores.

No dire emergencies. No kids arguing. No mishaps. No perceivable cause for frustration. Still, while we were on the freeway between home and Winco my brain declared battle against itself, like there was a civil war waging between my prefrontal cortex and my amygdala. From the coattails of a relaxing Sunday, I was suddenly and inexplicably overwhelmed by anxiety. My shoulders tightened, my chest was constricted, and my breathing grew shallow. Thoughts of impending dread and inevitable failure flooded over me.

There was no logical reason for me to feel the way I felt. Even in the moment I knew there was no validity behind my anxiety. It was what it was. I knew my emotional paralysis was devoid of substance yet I was powerless to avoid it. I felt better the next morning, ready to tackle a new work week and carry on as if I hadn’t been plagued by self sabotage less than 24 hours prior. But Sunday night, for causes beyond my capability to describe or understand, was rough. Sometimes it’s hard to get out of my own head.

After we returned home, and when the worst of the anxiety faded, I walked out of the house to retrieve groceries from the trunk. I briefly looked up and noticed a small break in the clouds perfectly framing the constellation Orion. The belt was shining bright. A few years of living on the farm has made those three stars the easiest for me to identify among the abundance of distant suns populating our night sky. I stood still for a moment and traced the outline of Orion up to the club and shield then down to the hem of his garment. I marveled at the unique position of my geographical location. The constellation was perfectly framed by cloud cover - grey masses above and below it, and to both sides. The overcast sky obscured all other constellations visible in early February.

I removed a few grocery bags from the trunk, closed it and looked up once more before going inside. In the time it took me to gather our purchases, the clouds shifted, blown by currents of wind. The only stars still visible were Zeta, Epsilon, and Delta – Orion’s Belt. A few seconds later and those stars also disappeared behind the overcast weather.

A couple hours later, I ventured outside once more to feed our animals and refill their water troughs. At the barn, my eyes wandered toward space again and the clouds populating the inland northwest earlier in the day had dissipated, pushed further east by the jet stream, revealing the clear and beautiful expanse of endless galaxies above us. Orion the hunter still stood proud above me, joined by his neighbors Cassiopeia and Pisces.

Orion is there somewhere

In a short span of time, Orion was the only constellation to be seen, vanished, then reappeared joined by dozens of visible constellations. Time and meteorological changes in the atmosphere alter the way we see the stars. Yet the shifts and adjustments in astronomy move slower. Night after night, Orion is still Orion. Mars and Jupiter move into and out of our night sky in long lethargic arcs. The moon cycles through its phases from full to new and back again every 29 and a half days, the subtle change barely perceptible from one night to the next.

As I pondered these quick adjustments in weather and its effect on our perception of the longer lasting existence of astronomical phenomena, I realized my struggles with depression and anxiety were much the same. My emotional state is often like the clouds, moved by circumstance and unseen forces. My melancholic disposition sways between bitter and sweet, often lingering where the two are blended. There are times my anxiety completely blurs my grandeur, other times it breaks long enough to observe glimmers of greatness. Then there are days where depression breaks and I feel as if I can shine. Regardless of how I feel from one moment to the next, I’m still me. I possess the same hopes and fears while overcome with anxiety as I do when serotonin and dopamine levels in my brain are stable. Moods come and go like the weather but my goals and beliefs remain, only to be changed through slow progression.

When I am feeling down, I know that feelings are only temporary. Anxiety comes, but it also goes. Happiness exists on the other side of these temporal adjustments. This concept isn’t an easy one to explain to someone who doesn’t struggle with depression and anxiety. If you want to better understand what it’s like to be me, just watch the stars on a partially cloudy night. Perhaps you could learn something from Orion.

Bragging Rights

On April 24, 2013 Mark Encarnación sent a simple text message: “The razor-toothed piranhas of the genera Serrasalmus and Pygocentrus are the most ferocious freshwater fish in the world. In reality they seldom attack a human.” It took him 25.9 seconds while standing outside Microsoft Studios in Redmond, WA. He was also wearing a blindfold. It is a world record; no one on earth has written those two sentences into a text message in less time than 25.9 seconds. Mr. Encarnación has the right to brag about being the fastest blindfolded texter on planet earth.

Super Mario Bros was released in 1985. Since then, the video game has challenged and delighted several generations of gamers. Most people are not able to beat the game in a single sitting. Some people (like myself) gave up after the water level. However, it is possible to complete it - defeating the final boss after 4 minutes and 55 seconds. Well, you can if you are a streamer with the pseudonym Kosmic who currently holds the record for the fastest Super Mario Bros speedrun. He is definitely bragging about his achievement.


Albert Gonzalez is in the middle of serving a 20 year prison sentence for hacking. It is the longest penalty given to any person for cybercrimes. Not sure he wants to brag about that but he could if he so desired.

Catalin Alexandru Duru rode a homemade quadcopter across Lake Oareau setting a record for farthest flight by hoverboard. Feliks Zemdegs holds the Rubik’s Cube record for solving the puzzle/toy in 4.22 seconds. And Joey Chestnut is the hot dog eating champion consuming a record of 74 hot dogs with buns in 10 minutes. They all have rights to brag about their feats of skill.

Not everyone has bragging rights worth of a world record. However, we all find something to brag about. Whether it is drumming in a band at local bars or the ability to make a really good souffle, we all have claims to make ourselves feel special. Sure, we might not be the best ever but we are pretty damn good. This is how we navigate our social hierarchies and find status amongst our tribe. Me? I can tell a great story. You? You’ll have to let me know your bragging rights.

Today, however, I do not want to brag about me. I would like to brag on my fiancée’s behalf because she will never do it for herself. Why am I bragging about Annie? Well ...

In this picture, she is nearing the end of a four mile hike along Rialto Beach to Hole in the Wall. This is the longest path we have hiked together as a family In addition to all the walking: we also scrambled over rocks to observe tide pools along the shore. The next day, we drove into the Hoh Rainforest for another hike. It was shorter but a bit more strenuous, a little under 100’ elevation gain in about a half mile before coming back down to the trailhead.

It might not seem like much. Just a couple short hikes. A walk in the woods and a stroll along the beach. Most people would call it romantic. However, there’s an additional detail I should add. Annie completed these consecutive hikes while tent camping the previous nights in occasional rain while six and a half months pregnant.

We only have 18 summers with each of the kids. They will still be around after they turn 18 but we hope they begin to seek out their own adventures after graduating high school. We have 18 summers to make memories with them before the real world takes over. 18 summers of life lessons, magic and wonder, unique experiences, the thrill of travel, and the joy of discovery. Annie is more aware of this reality than anyone I have ever met. She did not go hiking last week for her own enjoyment - she went for the sake of our kids so they could see and do and be there. She is a determined woman who will jump through any hoop necessary and make personal sacrifices to ensure our kids get the best summers with us during the limited time we have as a whole family.

Thousands of people visit Rialto Beach and the Hoh Rainforest every year. Our hikes are common destinations for people visiting Olympic National Park. Annie’s feat of endurance is one that has been completed countless times before us and will be done many more times in the future. However, I can’t think of anyone who did so with as much purpose and passion as Annie. And that’s pretty damn good.

Trumpianity

Today, Donald Trump did something decent: he visited an area of the country devastated by a recent natural disaster. It is an act any American President should do. When a populace is shaken by great tragedies - whether from a hurricane or a mass shooting, it is normal for people to look to their leaders for hope. In our darkest hour, we want to know that our government hasn’t forgotten us, that they are on our side, and that everything is going to be OK. So Trump went to Alabama to see the havoc caused by tornados and speak with the citizens dealing with the loss of life and property. This is a good thing. It is presidential.

In the middle of these commendable events, Trump’s behavior took a wild detour. He did something I have never seen any other president do. While speaking with storm victims at a church in Opelika, he started autographing bibles.

image courtesy of Carolyn Kaster/AP

This might come as a surprise to some people, but Donald Trump did not write a single chapter or verse of the Bible. He’s not even one of the characters found in those holy pages. If you want a copy autographed by the author, you will need to wait until the afterlife.

Are you as skeptical as me?

Whatever this is, it is not Christianity. You might call it religion but it has nothing to do with Christ. This is not the worship of a humble carpenter from Galilee - it is the glorification of an unrepentant and immoral fool. Other than money and power, what Trump craves most is the adulation and adoration from the masses. We are just giving it to him. This is Trumpianity.

Please do not misunderstand – I am not opposed to people asking Trump for an autograph. Collecting signatures of celebrities is an American tradition. I have some autographed liner notes in my CD collection and a few books signed by the author. Nor do I object to people writing in their Bibles. If Christians are to study it and learn the precepts contained in its pages, highlighting words, underlining passages, and scrawling notes in the margins is the most reasonable thing anyone could do. People should feel free to personalize their Bibles, anything that makes the word of God more real and living for them. My Bible is unmistakably mine - decorated with stickers, comics, and photos on the cover and in the blank spaces of pages inside. On the spine, there’s a hand drawn design I want tattooed on me someday, and a picture of Lajon Witherspoon precedes the book of Galatians.

In Deuteronomy, God commanded the Israelites to “Fix these words of mine in your hearts and minds; tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads.” Many scholars in Jewish tradition took these words literally - wearing phylacteries (little leather boxes containing scripture) tied to their arms and foreheads during prayer services. In Christian tradition, we apply this verse more figuratively - binding scripture to our hearts and minds through familiarity and memorization. If you want to learn more about scripture, you should do whatever is needed to help you - excessive note taking, doodling, adding color. If it makes it easier for you bind it to your heart and mind, do it. I am a fan of creative biblical study.

But to see a politician scribbling their signature onto the Word of God? It seems offensively wrong. Blasphemous. Sacrilegious. Heretical. The Bible is a wonderful collection of stories, poems, and letters about God, how the authors understood and related to the divine. Signing your name in someone else’s Bible changes the narrative. With the stoke of a pen, you’ve made the story of God all about you. It is perhaps the most heinously narcissistic thing you could do. It is apostasy.

I am not God. Neither is Trump. When a bunch of people are clambering to have their Bibles autographed by the President of the United States of America, we should call it what it is: idolatry. If we actually read our bibles, we would know the scriptures instruct us to only worship one true God. Those words would be bound to our hearts.

Then It Happened (Mea Culpa)

Monday was a long day. The previous Saturday brought heavy snowfall and blowing winds. The wind created massive drifts covering many of our area’s roads and messy driving conditions. Snow continued throughout the day Sunday, and by the time I headed out to do barn chores Monday morning, there was over a foot of snow on the ground. My work commute was double my usual travel time so I was not the happiest of campers when I finally reached my office.

I couldn’t get out of the office at my normal time – there was a project that needed completion and I had to get it done before heading home. I headed out to my truck about 20 minutes later than usual, and needed to brush more snow off my truck. As I started to pull out of the parking lot, I discovered the worst possible malfunction to happen during a snowstorm: my windshield wipers weren’t wiping. Additionally, my blinkers didn’t work either and my seatbelt was stuck in the retracted position. It would not be safe for me to drive home. Luckily, my truck is like a computer, all I needed to do was turn it off and back on. After restarting (rebooting?) the engine, everything was fine.

By then, I was tired, frustrated, hungry, and facing a long slow drive back to the farm. All I wanted was to be home with the woman I love where all the stresses of the day were irrelevant. Then I found one more obstacle in my way.

After driving through the parking lot, as I approached Ironwood, there was a red SUV stuck in the snow between me and the main road. The driver had it turned sideways blocking the parking lot exit. He was spinning his tires so I assumed it was some Californian transplant who didn’t know how to drive in the snow so they bought a vehicle with four wheel drive to overcompensate. Everyone knows – or at least should know – spinning your tires on snow and ice is a bad idea. It packs down whatever has you stuck into smoother and slicker ice. In turn, it becomes more difficult to get un-stuck. On top of violating commonsense rules of winter driving, this guy popped the hood for his engine compartment and started poking around in there. His actions left me aggravated and confused. I can be a judgmental jerk sometimes.

In order to cement my moment of jerkiness, I did what any perfectly self-righteous pompous ass would do. I ranted about it on facebook for anyone to see.

After clicking the share button in facebook, a more civilized version of myself resumed control. I couldn’t safely navigate around him and wasn’t going to be able to leave until he was out of the way. I shut off my engine, turned on my hazard lights, and got out to see if he needed any help. Perhaps, I thought to myself, all he really needs is someone who knows how to drive in snow to get him out of his jam. Even in my generosity I was selfish with an added bonus of superiority.

“Are you having some problems?” I asked the world’s dumbest question with the most obvious answer.
He chuckled, “Yeah, you could say that. My front axle is locked up.”
“Do you have it in four wheel drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you try taking it out of four-wheel and putting it back in?”
“Yup.”

This is the moment when I finally felt like an asshole. First, because I’m not a mechanic. In fact, I am embarrassingly lacking in mechanical skills. This stranger stuck in the parking lot presented me with a problem I didn’t know how to fix. Second, and perhaps more urgently, I heard the rest of his story.

His girlfriend was running late for work that morning so he let her drive the Xterra. It was safer for her to take it than their other car. She dropped their kids off at the daycare next door to her office then went to work. With the day over he dropped their junker car off for her to drive when her shift ended, then he picked up the kids to head home. I looked in the back window of his rig and noticed three young children sitting shoulder to shoulder in the back seat. He was on his way out from the day care parking lot when his vehicle shuddered and everything when haywire.

“My girlfriend must have done something to it to mess it up. The back wheels are turning but not the front. I can still steer but those wheels won’t rotate no matter what I do.” He closed the hood and jumped back into the driver’s seat. Then to demonstrate as if he had to prove it to me, he attempted acceleration in both forward and reverse. The back tires spun in both attempts, but the front tires remained motionless.

Mea culpa.

With my ego completely deflated, I only had one more question to ask. “Do you need me to call someone for you?” At last, I was trying to be helpful.

“Naw.” He declined. “If I can’t get it to go, I’m gonna have to call a tow truck.”

In reverse, he could get enough traction to drag the Xterra backwards – even with the front tires locked in place. He managed to move far enough out of the way for other drivers to pass through. There was nothing I could do to remedy his situation so I returned to my truck and drove away.

I’m sure he called a tow truck. He and the kids eventually made their way home. He and his girlfriend are now reduced to one car between them, one vehicle to transport them both to two different jobs with no clear answer to when their Xterra would be fixed. I know how hard that is because I’ve been there before. Even though I’ll probably never see this man again, I felt a little bit of a kindred spirit in him. He’s a dad trying to take care of his kids just like me. And we live in a world where things tend to go awry. The struggle is real. He’s there, and I’ve been there.

Consider this a long winded explanation of a lesson we all should have learned as children: Don’t judge a book by its cover. Despite my best efforts to not be a judgmental jerk, my inner asshole rears his ugly head every now and then. Perhaps I feed him a bit too much.

ps: if you happen to be the driver of that red Xterra, I apologize for my arrogance and impatience. I hope things worked out for your good. And I owe you a drink.

Where I've Been: the Sights Camping @ Two Rivers

Nuestra Vida Loca

"We have a crazy life." This is the first of two true statements my fiancée made while we were at the grocery store trying to figure out dinner for the night.

The conversation transpired around 6pm at the end of a long and exhausting weekend. We were both tired, weary, hungry, and attempting to feed four people with the least amount of effort without resorting to fast food. She was correct though. Our depleted energy levels in the moment could not contradict her. Rather, it was evidence to the veracity of her claims. We do have a wonderfully crazy life.

Friday night, my oldest went to his first school dance. I drove into Coeur d’Alene from Newman to drop him off then spent an hour working on my book before picking him up and heading back home. While we were out, Annie cooked spaghetti with meatballs and dyed the pasta blue. Then she threw an impromptu dance party in the living room with the three kids who did not have a school event. After their fun evening, JJ and Zu bestowed upon Annie the title of "coolest mom ever."

We awoke to a 5am alarm on Saturday for our family farm-work day. We started with a sunrise pancake breakfast (also dyed blue) then moved into the regular chores of feeding all the animals, both in the house and in the barn. The kids were all dressed and outside by 7:30 to help us assemble field fencing, complicated by a fresh layer of snow that fell the day before. This project took longer than any of us imagined. There was a short break for lunch and a trip to North 40 to pick up more supplies. We hung a 12-foot gate, stretched and secured 466 feet of fencing, twisting the final bits of metal wires as the sun began to set behind the ridgeline on the opposite side of the valley.

Sunday started with a morning drive to the rural outskirts of southwest Spokane to the farm where Annie had been boarding her horses. We loaded the tack and grooming gear into the van, got the horses and a several alfalfa bales into a truck and trailer, then made the drive back home with a pit-stop to buy coffee for the friends who were helping. Then the group went out for lunch at a local cafe before trekking out to Garwood to pick up Annie's new horse trailer. We spent an hour setting up the horse trough and tossing food over the fence to the horses before returning some borrowed tools in a second trip to Garwood.

The grocery store visit was the conclusion of this eventful weekend. "We have a crazy life," she said. I nodded in affirmation. After all, we had just spent the entire weekend - all our time and energy - to bringing Carwyn and Roxy home. Aching to our bones, mentally fatigued, itchy from sweat and hay, longing to eat something warm and delicious. We recalled how much we had accomplished, both a little astonished that we were able to do it all considering we are rookies in farm-life and neither of us have ever built a fence before now.

She asked me if I had ever imagined spending an entire weekend working to take care of a pair of horses. The younger version of me had drastically different dreams. She also asked if I could imagine doing anything different now. I cannot. Annie smiled. Then she said her second true statement: "I've never been happier."

As for me, I feel the same. Every muscle in my body hurts. My mind is spinning in bewilderment from how much work got done and how much we have yet to do. My future thoughts of what movies I want to watch and blog posts I plan on writing now include when I get to ride the horses, what rodeos we will attend, and where we will fence in the next pasture. It is a crazy life. And I have never been happier.

Adventures with Microwaves

"Do you have a fan?"

It was an odd question from a coworker for a couple of reasons. First, it's the middle of winter; outside highs have been dipping into single digits and sub-zero temperatures this week. Second, my office is typically a few degrees warmer than Hoth. 'Tis not the season for circulating fans.

My colleague recognized the confusion on my face so she provided an explanation. Someone tried to cook a microwavable pizza in the break room and tried too hard. They nuked the pizza long enough that it caught fire and filled the room with a smokey haze. Flames had been extinguished yet my coworker was looking for a way to dissipate the stench hanging in the air.

The door to the break room is ten paces from the door to my office and I was completely unaware of the excitement happening so nearby. Unfortunately, I do not posses a fan so an alternate method of air circulation would be needed. Days later, our break room still smells like burnt cheese.

By the end of the day, after I left the office and made my way home, I almost composed the following sentiment to post on Twitter: "It takes a special kind of stupid to microwave a pizza so long it actually catches fire." But I stopped myself. Why? Well, haven't we all done something similar? I know I have.

During the winter of '99, my two roommates both traveled home for Christmas, leaving me alone for the holidays. I had moved out of my parent's house earlier that year and it would be an eight hour drive if I wanted to visit them. Other circumstances prevented me from heading back to the Seattle area. The main reason was my retail job that expected all staff to be working the day before and after Christmas.

I worked the late shift at Old Navy and was a team-lead throwing freight after the store closed. We worked until midnight. My crew and I frequently went to Sheri's after work where we would hang out for a couple hours over coffee and conversation. It was usually between 2am and 3am when I drove back to my apartment.

If I was still hungry in those pre-dawn hours, my typical dinner was a plate of nachos. A handful of chips, a handful of cheese, stick it in the microwave for seventy seven seconds. Simple, quick, cheap - three things a twenty year old bachelor craved. While my roommates were out of town, I would turn on a movie and lounge in the recliner while I ate, then I'd often fall asleep in the living room without a worry of anyone waking me up while they got ready for school or work the next morning.

After an unusually late night, followed by another late night of holiday shoppers and abnormally large product shipments, I was exhausted. I still ordered my plate of fries at Shari's and hung out with my crew. After finishing there, I had another conversation with one coworker in the parking lot before driving home. It was almost 4am when I walked in the door. Still, I kept my dinner routine: plate, chips, cheese, 77 seconds, recliner, movie.

Except, I made a mistake. When I placed my nachos in the microwave, I pushed the seven button one too many times. Instead of my normal duration, I tried cooking my food for seven minutes and seventy seven seconds. I sat down expecting to hear the ding notifying me my meal was ready, but it didn't chime. Because I was so drowsy, I dozed off in the recliner before eating. I woke up a few minutes later to the smell of smoke.

image courtesy of Dorset Fire Protection

The plate was too hot to touch, I needed oven mitts to extract it from the microwave. The chips were all charred black and the cheese melted to the point it welded to the Pyrex. I tried to pull the nachos off the plate to dispose of it in the trash. Nothing budged. I attempted chiseling it off with a steak knife without success. I had to throw it all away, plate with the torched food.

The bottom floor of our apartment was filled with acrid smoke and was beginning to waft up the stairs to the bedrooms. Despite being the middle of winter, I opened the sliding glass door to the back patio and tried waving a towel in that direction to clear the air. By sunrise, the smoke was gone but the stench remained.

One of my roommates was due to return five days later. My goal was to have the apartment back to a normal odor by then. Every night when I got home from work, I opened all the windows and the sliding door to create a breeze. With snowy weather and daytime temps below freezing that whole week, I slept under every blanket I owned. I closed the windows and doors the next day when I left for work, then repeated the process when I returned.

I left the front windows open when I drove to pick Shane up from the airport, my last ditch effort to eradicate the vague burning scent. On the drive home, I warned him that the apartment smelled funny. When he asked why, I explained how I had burned some nachos. He laughed and said, "How bad can it be?" My parking spot was directly in front of the open windows. When Shane stepped out of my car, he took a deep breath and asked, "What's that smell?" I replied, "Remember how I told you I burned some nachos?" Yes, you could smell it from the parking lot.

Lesson learned, and I've never burned anything in a microwave since then. This week, my nearly posted attempt at humor reminded me of past failures. I deleted my tweet before I even tweeted it. If it takes a special kind of stupid to set a microwavable pizza on fire, then I am that special kind of stupid. There's no need to insult an unknown coworker for sins I've so easily committed.

Oh, Sunburn (in other words, ow)

Sunburns are a rarity in my life. Perhaps that is because my day job keeps me inside for most daylight hours. Maybe as a writer, I'm driven to work where there is a wi-fi connection: coffee shops, libraries, fast food joints. Beaches are not known for offering internet access, and let's be honest, I'm not the kind of guy who is going to bring his laptop to the beach for a three-hour writing session.

Looking back on the thirty-some-odd years I have been alive, I wasn't the kind to frequently burn - even when outdoors more frequently. Those occasions I did turn a little red, the strawberry tint would quickly fade into an enviable tan.

Until this weekend. I took the kids swimming on Saturday and we spent a few hours at a Spokane Valley public pools. Everyone had fun and afterwards, I felt like a normal human being. I changed back into street clothes, and headed to Art on the Green with my daughter. Zu and I ate some fair food. We wandered through the vendors and crafters. Zu tried samples at every booth that offered them. Even then, I still didn't notice any ill effects of prolonged sunlight exposure. Night approached, I began to feel a little funny, like something was off. When we got in the car to return home, I wondered 'why do my shoulders feel so warm?' It wasn't until I was standing shirtless in front of my bathroom mirror when I realized the full extent of what I'd done. A bright red hue covered my upper body. Biceps into my shoulders and down onto my pectorals. Forehead. A little on the cheeks and tip of my nose.

I'm sure my naked appearance is far more comical than usual. I should mention I had sunscreen with me and failed to apply it.

This burn is the worst of my adult life. Perhaps the worst since high school. But I've been thinking. Is it the worst ever?

The first truly memorable sunburn I ever got was a series of burns over the course of a single summer. At the end of my seventh-grade year, my grandparents drove me from Seattle to visit family near Kansas City, Missouri. In the few weeks I was there, my cousin Allen and I spent our days playing in a local park, hanging out at his dad's church, walking to the candy store in downtown Weston, or swimming.

Twice a week, my aunt would drive Allen, his sisters, and me across the river into Leavenworth, Kansas to go swim at the public pool – a twenty-minute drive each way. My aunt made sure we would get there as early as we could and stay as long as possible. Twice a week, for three weeks, for hours on end, with no use of sunscreen, my cousins and I would play in the water with little shade and fewer breaks. I left the state of Missouri looking like a skinny tomato.

My next road trip was from Weston to Cheyenne, Wyoming. A long drive through the cornfields of Nebraska listening to nothing but country music with my mom's little sister and her husband. My mom was in Cheyenne and we stayed there for Frontier Days before heading back west. The second leg of my journey home was from Cheyenne to Twin Falls, Idaho with my mom and her aunt. We stopped for a weekend long family reunion in Twin Falls - camping at an RV park that had a pool with water slides. I spent two full days riding those slides. There, I received another burn on top of what I got in Leavenworth.

We finally returned home and I resumed my normal summer routine: hiking in the Cascades as much as possible. Toward the end of summer, I attended my church's youth camp on Elbow Lake outside of Yelm, Washington. The camp gave us three hours for free time every afternoon and I spent most of my free time on the water in a canoe … working on my third sunburn of the summer.

After the pool in Leavenworth in June, the water park in Twin Falls in July, and the lake in Yelm in August, I turned into a human slice of toast. By the time I started school again in the fall, those consecutive burns had turned into the darkest tan I've ever been.

The second major memorable sunburn happened when I was fifteen and hiking above the Paradise Lodge on Mount Rainier. The air gets thinner above 5500' elevation. And that afternoon, at 6800' the sky was the deepest and clearest blue I had ever seen and the sun was deceitfully warm. So close to the glaciers and walking on snowpack, I would have expected cooler temperatures. As the day wore on I stripped off layers; by midday, I was down to shorts and a tank top.

(incriminating evidence)

There were two things that my skin had not anticipated. The UV rays are stronger in thinner air. Also, sunlight reflects off snow. At the end of the day, it was obvious I was burned. Legs, arms, shoulders, neck, sides, and back. There were clear tan lines (red lines?) outlining the length of my shorts and shape of my tank top. What made this sunburn memorable are the burnt areas that had never burned before. Light bouncing up from the snow tinged the undersides of my chin and nose.

Now, I'm burned again and it feels like the worst ever. But is it? I don't know. In comparison, it is mild compared to what I've done before. Maybe my age has made me over sensitive. Or it has been so long I've forgotten what it feels like. Or maybe I've lost the youthful energy that compensated for the pain in my younger years. Regardless, I am not enjoying this experience and I am eager for it to fade away.

Going forward, I’ll be adhering to the admonition offered in Mary Schmich's commencement column, which she published in the Chicago Tribune the year I graduated high school: "Wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience."

Doing Something Right: Summertime Edition

Summer has arrived in full force. A little belated but North Idaho has seen gradual warming since Father's Day and last Friday was the first time we reached 100 degrees this year. The sun is out and will be lingering for a while. For some people, summertime weather means beaches and boats, hiking the mountains or floating the river, sunburns and tan lines, summer camps, bonfires, volleyball, frisbee golf, cliff diving, baseball games, and backyard barbecues.

Not me, though.

Sure, my family participates in many of those typical summer activities. My oldest has earned himself sunburns on two consecutive Fridays and is slowly learning the value of sunscreen. My youngest has played his first two baseball games of the season and I took the kids out to watch the Spokane Indians last week. We will partake in opportunities for swimming and hiking and grilled foods. However, those activities and experiences don't make my summer summer.

For me, there is only one thing that makes this season feel truly summer-like. A soundtrack.

There are certain songs that should only be played between Memorial Day and Labor Day. There is music that makes you feel like you belong where the waves crash along the shore. There is a particular collection of tunes that dance and in hand with inflatable pool toys and roasted marshmallows. Whole genres that beg to be played during the summer months. Reggae. Ska. Salsa.

Or maybe I am just weird. Which is always a possibility. However, summer just isn't summer until I hear a couple specific songs.

This year, with a new car (I named it Emrys, BTW) that has an excellent sound system, I needed some cruising music. So, I did what I have enjoyed doing since I was a teen growing up in the 90's. I did what I was once paid to do in my former job as a DJ. I created a mix of songs for the occasion. It has been playing in my car for the last three weeks with a few breaks to listen to Spanish lessons with the kids.

My munchkins are growing more familiar with the music I selected. After listening through the full playlist a couple times, each of my three kids have picked out the songs they like best. One day, about an hour into the mix, Zu had a question for me.

"Where's the Fresh Prince?" She asked.

DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince's classic summer jam 'Summertime' is the second track in my playlist. It is one of those songs that I must hear before I can accept that this hot weather is valid and acceptable. It is one of those songs I believe is best played while driving around with the windows down and volume up. And that song is the one my daughter wants to hear the most.


This is how I know I'm doing something right. My daughter, like most girls her age, wants to listen to Justin Bieber or Ariana Grande or Shawn Mendes. Yet she has an appreciation for old-school Will Smith. She will belt out the lyrics when Corinne Bailey Rae plays. I will catch her singing along with some obscure artists like Ozomatli or The Sundays, bands I know she would never be exposed to without having a father like me. It makes me smile every time.

Because serious musical conversations with others is one of my favorite things, I'm sharing my summer playlist with you. These are the songs that define summer for me. Enjoy.

Knowing

Knowledge is infinite. The more I learn, the more I find is yet to be learned. I know what I know but I don't know what I don't know. I will never know everything, but I know a lot. As I reflect on my birthday, here are a few of those things I do know.

I know there is value in sarcasm because it is when most people are truly being honest. This is why Malcolm Gladwell said, "Comedians have become our truth-tellers."

I know there is a link between suffering and creativity, but that doesn't mean an artist must suffer to create their art. I know that an abstract painting or the perfect song can mend a broken heart.

I know the two most healing words in the English language are “Me too.”

I know the word necessary is unnecessarily difficult to spell.

I know anything is possible with quantum mechanics. And because of quantum mechanics, I also know that everything I know could be wrong.

I know everyone has biases and there is no such thing as an unbiased news source. Therefore, a biased news story is not the same thing as a fake news story. Possessing bias does not make someone a liar, it makes them human.

I know people are far more shallow, insecure, and self-centered than any of us would care to admit. All of us are selfish and struggle with our self-image, so let's just admit it.

I know there is a healthy balance between optimism and pessimism, between introversion and extroversion, between megalomania and self-deprecation, between the silly and the serious. I'm trying to find that balance.

I know white privilege is real and I am a benefactor. I also know what it is like to struggle. Therefore, I am willing to sacrifice my privilege to speak on behalf of those who don't have privilege and give them hope to see an end to their struggle.

I know that rainy days make me happy, sunny days give me hope, thunderstorms make me feel alive, and foggy mornings remind me of home. Yet there is nothing more calming than waking up to find the world has been covered in a fresh blanket of snow.

I know I’m Team Cap in the comic books but Team Iron Man in the movies. And I know that not everyone will agree with me.

I know I am far nerdier than the typical North Idaho male. My natural habitat is inside a library or movie theater, yet I feel most at peace while hiking a trail through the woods.

I know being nerdy is fashionable these days. And I know that geeks and nerds were bullied when I was a kid. I was a geek when I was growing up. I also got beat up a lot. Times change. At least I can say I was a nerd before being a nerd was cool. I know that last statement might be the most hipster thing I’ve ever said. I also liked dad-jokes before they were popular.

I know I am not mechanically inclined and I would be helpless without how-to videos on YouTube.

I know I am both a skeptic and a believer. I doubt and question everything. I know I have an analytical personality; I crave evidence and data. I have difficulty coping when I do not understand all of the details. There is no logical reason I should believe in God, yet I do. I know my faith is different than the God of Sunday School bible stories, sanitized for elementary-aged audiences and romanticized for American tastes, but I still believe.

I know there are two types of family: the kind you’re born into and the kind you chose. I love both my biological family and the friends who have become a second family. I would not be where I am today without either of them.

I know I am short and the shape I'm in is round. I can't do anything about the former but I am working to fix the latter.

I know caffeine is a drug; I'm addicted to Mt Dew and white chocolate crème de menthe breves. I know this contributes to my round shape.

I know I am a night owl by nature and an early riser by nurture. I know I have learned to cope with minimal sleep.

I know that I will be still be tired enough to go back to sleep after drinking coffee at 6am. But if I drink coffee at 6pm, I’ll be up all night.

I know my favorite word in the German language is schadenfreude. I know schadenfreude in action brings me more joy than it should. I also laugh at inappropriate jokes far more than what is socially acceptable.

I know live music almost always sounds better than studio recordings. I know there are exceptions.

I know hip-hop makes more sense to me now as a grown adult than it ever did in my youth. Yet, my heart will always belong to my 90's grunge and Seattle suburb roots.

I know that I am a single dad in the upper half of my 30s. This is not always an easy or comfortable place to be.

I know that my three kids are some of the most awesome humans on this planet. One of my favorite activities is trying to convince people to see my kids’ awesomeness.

I know this list could continue ad absurdum and if you’re still reading you deserve a medal. Or a gold star. However, the most important thing I know is that I am not done learning. There is still too much that I don’t know.

About that snow

My daughter and I had very different reactions to the snow this morning.

When humor fails

Every day, when the final bell rings at Christian's school, my oldest walks one mile to the school his younger siblings attends. There he waits for a few minutes until their classes are over and I pick all three kids up in one location. Or, at least that is how it usually works in warmer weather.

I don't mind making him walk to and from school when there is snow on the ground, but I don't want him walking when the the temperatures are in the low teens or single digits. Since the last week of school before Christmas break through today and potentially into next week have been cold enough to discourage his status as a pedestrian, I have been dropping him off in the mornings. I still give him the option to walk after school but also let him know that he is free to call me if he wants me to pick him up.

Today, right on schedule, my phone rang and I saw his school's name flash onto the display. I answered.

Me: "Hey kid."
Christian: "Hi. So, um ... I was calling because ... "
Me: "You wanted to let me know you were going to walk to your brother and sister's school?"
Christian: "No."
Me: "Because you wanted to borrow my teleportation device?"
Christian: "NO!"

Like most dads I know, my goal is to be a good dad. I want my children to grow into functioning and productive members of society. I want them to know that I will be there for them whenever they need me, whether it is to celebrate their success or to support them when the road is rough.

Yet I aspire for something more. Sure I desire to be a good dad, but also wish to be a funny dad. The kind that can make my kids laugh. The kind my kids' friends think is cool even when my kids find me embarrassing. Most days I feel like a success. I enjoy my time with the kids and the smiles and laughter they bring light up my world. My oldest is unquestionably sure I could find a second career as a comedian.

Sometimes I fear, however, that my attempts to be funny are mistaken for my serious face. The moment when Christian called this afternoon to ask for a ride was one of those times where my humor and my lack of humor where indistinguishable.

Of course I knew Christian wanted me to pick him up on the way to get his siblings. I knew his intentions when he called, before I even answered the phone. I don't own a teleportation device so that comment could not have been a logical or serious suggestion. But for a bizarre few seconds, Christian thought I was completely somber. He was getting impatient with my repeated failed attempts to guess what he wanted from me.

It all turned out well. I assured him that yes, indeed, I would pick him up from school. When I arrived, I found him out front waiting for me, reading a book, lounging underneath the cold winter sun. Like this:

He said it was surprisingly comfortable.

Later tonight, he asked me if it was time for him to go to bed. I told him, "You must ask yourself, it it a good time to go to bed now? Or if now is a good time to go to bed?" That one made him laugh. My work here is done. Thank you, goodnight.

Glass Cutters

Marcus was my first artistic friend. Granted, it is hard to brag on the artwork of four year olds but I remember his skill exceeding the rest of those in our age group. We were in the same preschool class which was inevitable since his parents and my parents attended the same church.

He was always doodling pictures of monsters and he had imaginative stories to accompany each piece. His parents would frequently invite me over to their house for lunch after church and the earliest memories I have with him were in his yard re-enacting epic sagas of his invention.

He was also a big Star Wars fan. One day, for show-and-tell, he brought in a Millennium Falcon playset. It was one of those huge plastic beasts large enough to fit action figures inside of it, with removable panels to see the cockpit and other sections of the interior. Back in 1983, it was the holy grail of Star Wars toys and cost more than my parents would have ever spent on a gift for me. I had a Han Solo action figure. And Chewbacca. But Marcus had their ship, their home, the place where they belonged.

From that moment on, I thought Marcus was the coolest kid my age. In 1987, he was the first in my circle of friends to see The Monster Squad and Spaceballs. Afterwards, he told me about all of the most salacious parts of each movie and the phrase "Wolfman's got nards" quickly became an inside joke.

Unfortunately, geography drew us apart. He and I were districted for different elementary schools, so once preschool was over we would only see each other at church. We both developed friendships with classmates that we interacted with more frequently. A few years later, we attended the same middle school, but by then we rarely interacted.

Over the years of our childhood, his personality changed. Once the most comical and outgoing of my peers, Marcus grew to be more introverted and soft-spoken. By the time we were teenagers, he didn't speak much. At a rewards ceremony for our wrestling team when we were in ninth grade, Coach Iverson praised his skill on the mat and gave the most accurate description of Marcus's personality that I've ever heard. Coach said, "When Marcus joined the team, I didn't know much about him. But after working with him every day for the past few months, I still don't know much about him."

Even in youth group, Marcus maintained his brevity. He and I didn't hang out much but he was always someone I respected because of our shared status as youth group misfits. Like me, he wasn't one of the popular kids. Due to his quiet and unassuming persona, he was often overlooked or ignored. He did not go to any of the youth camps or retreats but he would show up for other events like attending Mariners games or parties held at the church.

At one of our white elephant Christmas exchanges, he brought a big heavy box that everyone assumed would be the best gift. Instead, it contained a large rock (miniature boulder) that he dug up out of his yard. Even in silence, he was a practical joker.

Once a year our youth group held an all-nighter. My favorite memory with Marcus happened at one of these all night parties.

On a Friday night, all of the teens gathered around dinner time at the church where we played group games that only 90's era church kids would understand and snacked on the type of foods potheads buy when they get the munchies. One of the leaders led a quick devotional then we piled into church vans to travel to our first destination: the Family Fun Center in Edmonds. We spent the evening with mini-golf, batting cages, and arcade games until closing time. We returned to the vans and headed off to the next location.

Around midnight, we arrived at a gym facility rented out from a local campground. Inside was a basketball court, volleyball court, a couple ping-pong tables, an air hockey table, a foosball table, a collection of Nerf footballs, and several of those rubber balls once used for dodgeball. We were trapped there until 5am and no one was allowed outside.

I don't know which of our youth leaders thought it would be a good idea to herd a bunch of sleep deprived teens into a gym in the middle of the night and expect them to be sporty for five hours, and I don't know if they would do the same thing today. What I do know is when we left the gym, most of us were exhausted and would have preferred bed instead of breakfast.

Sleep would have to wait because our leaders took us all out for breakfast. During the 20 minute ride in the church vans while we drove from the middle of nowhere to the Denny's in Everett, half of us dozed off and the rest were were silently staring out the windows like zombies.

We typically held these all-nighters in late January or early February. That meant the mornings were cold and frosty as we climbed out of the van and stumbled into Denny's. The coldest of our all night excursions happened during my junior year of high school and it was on this trip where Marcus uttered one of the funniest statements I have ever heard.

The van he and I rode got to Denny's first; our leader made us get out of the vehicle and wait in the parking lot for the other van to arrive. We stood there, shivering, complaining of the low temperatures, and observing our breath form clouds as it escaped our lips.

Then Marcus spoke: "My nipples could cut glass."

All conversation ceased. Everyone turned and stared at Marcus. For some of the kids in our youth group, they had never heard Marcus say more than one or two words at a time, let alone a complete sentence. Furthermore, our church was extremely conservative. Mention of certain body parts was taboo and the nipple was one of those parts of which we shouldn't speak. To describe nipples as being as hard as a diamond or tungsten steel was definitely verboten. His comment broke the ice - literally and figuratively. Suddenly, no one cared about the cold. We were laughing by the absurdity and audacity of what Marcus had to say.

When we were four, Marcus gained my admiration for his Star Wars fandom. When we were sixteen, he cemented my admiration for saying things no one else was brave enough to say.

Why do I share this story now? Because it is that time of year. The nights are long and the air is frigid. For those of us in North Idaho, this is the season where single digit and negative temperatures are normal. Through the years, that one out-of-nowhere comment has stuck with me. And last night, in my apartment, it was the only way I could think to describe how cold I felt. My nipples could cut glass.

It is not a phrase of my design. I am neither funny or creative enough to create such a remark on my own. I can only thank my childhood friend Marcus for his inventive eloquence.

Driving in a Winter Wonderland Part 1

In the closing scene of It's a Wonderful Life, George Bailey receives a Christmas card from his guardian angel Clarence. His daughter Zuzu hears a Christmassy sound and explains its significance. "Look, Daddy. Teacher says, every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings." This winter, someone had the brilliant idea to place a seasonally relevant spin on the sweet sentiment, turning it into a meme. Instead of referencing bells and angels, Zuzu warned us "Every time a snowflake flies, an idiot forgets how to drive." For the Inland Northwest, that statement is comical because it is true. Street crews in and around Spokane are frequently unprepared for the first major snow accumulation of the season. Drivers around the region undercompensate by driving slower than needed causing traffic hazards or they overcompensate driving faster than they should as if streets were clear and dry. The first winter storm often causes more accidents, spinouts, and cars sliding off the side of the road.

By any measure of logic, I should be one of those idiots who forgets how to drive after that initial snowfall. After all, I grew up in the Seattle suburbs. The whole Puget Sound region is known more for rain than as a winter wonderland. It does snow there. Occasionally. But "White Christmas" is not in their vocabulary. Municipal budgets do not plan for snowplows or sanding trucks. Seattleites tend to flock to grocery stores at the first forecast of snow to stock up on bottled water and canned goods in preparation for hibernation. They're worried that their infrastructure will collapse the moment snow hits the ground and no one wants to be stuck without food – forced to make the dangerous trek to KFC for dinner. Schools close with mere fractions of an inch accumulated because the steep hills are too hazardous for busses. Or traffic. Or anything other than sleds. Winter driving is not a native skill for those who come of age in the greater Seattle metropolitan area.

It was even worse in my home town. Marysville is in a warm meteorological shadow created by Camano and Whidbey Islands. There were many storms that blew through town dumping snow in Everett to the south, Arlington to the north, and Granite Falls to the east while those of us in Marysville were stuck with a cold drizzle of rain. My childhood was peppered with disappointment when the Marysville School District remained in session while every other district in Snohomish County shut down for a snow day. When it did snow in Marysville, it was like a Christmas miracle. Just not on Christmas Day.

The teenaged version of me rarely received the opportunity to drive in snow. But one winter, the impossible happened. When I woke up there was more than enough snow to cancel school. It was deep enough to paralyze the region. Overnight, several inches fell from our Pacific Northwest skies and I rejoiced. I ventured out into a whitewashed world of silence. It gave me a deep understanding of the carol's lyrics "All is calm, all is bright."

I waded out into the nearly knee-deep snow with intentions to build a snow fort and a snowman and spend my day playing in the fluffy white powder. But my dad had other plans.

He followed me out the door, handed me his keys, motioned for me to brush off the car and climb into the driver’s seat. I thought he wanted to drive down to the donut shop for breakfast or make a quick trip to get groceries. Both assumptions were incorrect. Instead, he directed me turn for turn on a scenic tour of the neighborhood.

We lived on a corner lot of a busy intersection. Both roads received plenty of through traffic, even in inclement weather conditions. By the time Dad and I went out for a drive, enough tires had compacted the snow down into ivory colored pavement. It was slick but not much of a challenge. Dad said he wanted me to learn how to drive in the snow, but after a few blocks I was convinced there was nothing to worry about. How hard could it be?

Then dad found what he was looking for. He directed me to turn onto a road that was still covered in virgin snow - untouched by Goodyear treads. The short street was only four blocks in length terminating in a T intersection at both ends. The only reason anyone would have to use that stretch of road is if they lived in one of the homes in between point A and point B. I was excited. How often does a teenager in the Seattle area get the privilege of being the first to drive through pure and undisturbed snow?

"Floor it. Get it up to 35 MPH," were my dad's instruction.
"But," I objected, "The speed limit is 25."
"Look around. Do you see any other traffic? Do you see a cop car setting up a speed trap?"
"No."
"Then speed up."

I pressed down on the accelerator and reached speeds that would earn me a ticket in drier conditions. Dad leaned over my shoulder to watch the speedometer rise. As soon as I reached the instructed speed, he gave me the next step in my lesson.

"Slam on the brakes." He said.
"WHAT?!?"

I was sure my dad had lost his marbles. I even expressed my concern for his sanity but he insisted. "Slam on the brakes." I complied. I thought I was going to die.

When the car finally came to a complete stop, pointing askew in a direction that I don't think it should have been facing, my dad smiled with glee.

"Remember that feeling?" he asked. After I nodded, he continued, "Don't ever forget it and do everything you can to avoid feeling it again."

His words sounded like the advice of a mad scientist after sending you into a lightning storm with a metal rod in your hands. However, it worked. In the last 20 years, I have never caused or even been in a snow related accident. Only once have I slid off the road and into a ditch. Only once did I attempt to perform a right-hand turn while my car continued to go straight. Both of those incidents were in the same winter, 16 years ago in Boise. Now with more than a dozen years in North Idaho where it snows aplenty, I consider myself a veteran winter driver.