A Shout Out to the Old-Timers

Last Monday, we had a themed FHE: Party like you're 99. While some of the people there were a little too good at being "in character," we all enjoyed the "sit and be fit" exercize routine, and the elementary school style bingo.
That experience didn't prompt this blog, but it was the first thought to old-timers that I had this week.
What did prompt this blog was the essay I read for my english class about the author's grandpa. I like the type of old-timer he described: a hard-working, no-nonsense, work-until-you-die-cause-the-work's-never-done-on-a-ranch type of old-timer. In fact, I think I have a little of that in me.

My great grandpa, Nephi Moon, was a farmer in Duschene county, and reportedly was the type of man I'm talking about. Characteristic of his breed of human, he could let a word or two slip, but was more honorable than most men you'd meet today. Perhaps that's one reason I like those guys so much. They could look anybody or anything in the eye because there was nothing to be scared of. Their "don't squat with your spurs on" type of common sense is a treasure lost to most intellectuals and urbanites. Their perserverance mixed perfectly with their practicality to make a man--someone to be looked up to.
But, I never knew my great grandpa, I know Bob Mendenhall. Bob was the one that taught me such truisms as "there's no fertilizer like the footprints of the owner." That's how he lived too. Artists have paintings, composers have music, and sometimes one of them will create a masterpiece. Bob has his ranch; that's his masterpiece. He has walked everyfoot of that ground hundreds of times over, and he's changed people's lives in the process. The effect of these men on young people is, to me, the greatest effect of their work. Between his kids and his employees, Bob has turned out a pretty good crop of people who know what it's like to work. And, if it didn't kill them, maybe they'll be tough enough to pass on some sense to future generations.

Speech Digression

My apartment is heavily painted with invisible reds and skyblues. The result is somewhat different than the sky when it turns from day to sunset. That's at least progression. The result is the opposite. It's digression. Each day is like the movie Groundhog Day. It's as predictable as the last time you lived it.
The number of colors in the apartment reflects the number of topics that exist in apartment converstaions. Both topics of conversation utilize x's and o's. One topic discusses how teams score points, the other discusses how individuals score points. It's a game of tactics in which doing nothing is a tactic, and playing too hard is losing. But, loss is never admitted. Strangely, victory is either missing or mocked. However, mocking must abide one rule: you have to say the same thing every time. No new material is allowed for mocking.
Experience's classroom teaches that, in the land of opinions and self-proclaimed geniuses, there is only enough room for silence and the assurity and there is still nothing valuable being said.

The Story of the Box Boy

Once upon a life, a young boy lived with his parents. He loved life with them and life at home almost seemed heavenly. Unfortunately the king of the land was amazingly large, so large in fact, that he literally could have the whole kingdom under his thumb. In contrast to his size, the king had an unusually small sense of self-esteem. He didn't think anybody liked him. He was right. To compensate for his sense of unpopularity, the king tried to involve himself in everybody's lives, with the thought that it would cause them to like him. That was the bane of the young boy's childhood.
The way the large king involved himself in everyone's lives, was he required a tax. The tax was related to the box service. Every child, when they were old enough to understand what was happening, was required to be put into a box for 6 hours a day, nine months a year. Since the boxes cost money, the subjects were required to pay for the boxes. The young boy's parents consented obediently. Oh, how the boy hated curling up into the box everyday.
Years passed under this system of taxation and government unpopularity. The king died and another king took his place. The new king changed all the laws because he was from a different party than the old king. Under the new king, the box system was only required up to a certain age. The boy shouted for joy at his immenent freedom! The first thing he did was run around town shouting for joy. When he got tired, he realized that he would need a job, since his parents had removed him from their insurance. He started job hunting, but soon realized that his newfound freedom turned off most employers. The boy realized that everyone that had jobs, had learned how to function in life, with their boxes on! Grudgingly, we went home, curled up into his box, and, to this day, he works to function with his box, hoping that someone doesn't accidently ship him off.

Paul Newman's Legacy

For ages, mankind has desired immortality. People have always tried to figure out how to live beyond death, either metaphorically through legacy, or literally by some other means. Paul Newman figured it out. There is no better way to secure your legacy than creating a salad dressing line and posting a drawing of your head on each and every bottle. I am a perfect example of the perpetuating life of this bygone actor. I had no idea who Paul Newman was until one revelatory dinner in which this man's mug prompted a dinner conversation that filled me in on his celebrityship. Now Paul lives on through me.
So maybe it doesn't have to be a salad dressing line, but think about it. People sho would otherwise have been "gone with the wind," have lived on by gracing future generations with their faces. Artists, for example, understand this concept, and, as a result, often paint their faces into their pictures; despite the fact that they often have no reason to be in the context of the painting. Michaelangelo was perhaps the most creative at this. He immortalized himself in one of his paintings by painting himself as just hollow skin. Gross. The warped thinking of artists is a subject for another day.
One last example is the Incan king who had himself carved into the side of a mountain at Ollantaytambo, Peru. No one today really cares more that he lived as opposed to anyone else, but there he his. Immortalized by his face.
With the increasingly easy creation of media, we are going to have to get more creative at leaving our faces behind. Paul Newman got salad dressing. I call hot air balloons...

Sometimes Your Saddle Just Falls Off

As many of you probably already know, I was able to spend Christmas break in Peru. One of the things we did was stay in a little town called Patabamba, which is a small village in the Andes mountains outside of Cusco. The villagers there are trying to establish some sort of tourism industry to support or grow their economy; so, part of our service was being tourists. The first experience there was a horse ride. They called them horses, I was less sure as to what they were. Generally horses are big enough to carry people; I had serious doubts about these mangy mounts. Luckily, I was proved wrong about their strength. My horse was kind of a fireball (most horses I ride are, it's kind of a curse I've had since I started breaking horses)but I tried to not handle it too much and just it go with the other horses. Things were going well for a while; the horse and I reached an agreement (I would act like a bag of sand, and the horse would follow the other horses) and got along reasonably well. That was the situation when the horse turned up hill but something on the "saddle" (it wasn't what you generally think of when I say that word) came undone, and the saddle and I came tumbling down. That spooked the horse, and it started bucking. Luckily, the short fall (short horse) didn't land me on any of the numerous surrounding rocks. I mostly felt bad for the guide who is trying to do something good and work to improve his circumstances. I tried to let him know that it wasn't a big deal, but the whole situation kind of got me thinking. Sometimes we have to ride stupid horses, but generally you can deal with it, and if it tries to get you off, it's rare that you can't stay on. Sometimes we make stupid mistakes as riders - hopefully we're improving. But sometimes, your saddle just comes off. It's not anyone's fault. It may be bitter, but don't we have inexplicable moments of sweet? Granted, sweetness is always His fault. So, the next time your saddle comes off, pick yourself up, get back on your horse, tie the saddle on tighter and get back to enjoying the scenery.