 |
| December 1994- Provo, UT David making the pastries for the first time |
Oh, Christmas Tree
By David Zinn
Now that Thanksgiving is over, and the Christmas season has official begun, I think it's the perfect time to reflect on some of my favorite childhood Christmas traditions. One of the first items on all self-respecting Christmas-lover's agenda is the acquisition of the family Christmas tree. This year, like several of those preceding it, said acquisition will occur when I brave the cobwebs of the deep, dark recesses of our garage, and gingerly remove the heavy-laden cardboard box in which lay the dismantled portions of our well-worn, prelit, 6 foot tall artificial Christmas tree. This is a relatively new tradition for us. My childhood Christmas tree tradition was actually quite different.
It usually occurred a week after the Saturday following Thanksgiving. This was a Saturday we all looked forward to. It marked our first official Christmas-related act of the Christmas season. As kids, it was in our best interest to ensure early tree retrieval, because it gave us extra time to study and analyze our Christmas gifts. We knew that the gifts would not begin to accumulate until the tree was up and ready to house them, for who could bear to see a decorated Christmas tree sit too long without presents underneath?
Our day would begin like all Saturday mornings – get up, get dressed, bowl of cereal, and family prayer. Our usual 4 hour workday was replaced by a 3 hour trek to and from the Christmas tree farm. Our family would pile into the car and listen to Christmas music as we headed deep into the Santa Cruz mountains. Upon arrival, the search for the perfect Christmas tree would begin after my dad received the ceremonial Christmas tree saw-sickle thingy. Searching for the perfect tree was always an exhilarating experience. It seemed we were in a race with everyone else to find the one and only tree that would be the centerpiece of our lives for the next month. I remember carefully inspecting each one, looking for a crooked trunk or an uneven distribution of branches. I would try to imagine how well the tree would accommodate our decorations, determined to make sure everything would be perfect. I felt like I had the weight of the whole world on my back as I contemplated the ramifications of an imperfect tree on the happiness our family. The good trees always had markers on them already, meaning they were “taken” by individuals whose only purpose, it seemed, was to thwart my plan.
Of course, we would eventually find the perfect tree. I was never really satisfied with it, however. My dad would cut it down, haul it to the dudes that prepared it for transport, pay for it, and off we would go. After arriving home, the preparation of the tree would begin. This is when my mom would prune and shape it. It was only after then did it turn into the tree I had envisioned. Every year, year after year, imperfect as it was when we cut it down, it always seemed to become the tree our family deserved – one that perfectly displayed our lights and decorations, and helped make our memories of Christmas ones full of happiness and joy. It's funny how moms seem to find a way of removing the rough edges and helping others see what they saw all along.
My First Job
By David Zinn
Many who know me are surprised to find out that in my younger years, I had a brief career in construction. Yes, it's true. I used to dig pools with a Caterpillar tractor. Of course, I was three at the time, and my career lasted about 5 minutes; but it left an indelible impression on me. What is it about tractors and young boys? Or older boys (namely, men) for that matter. I can vividly remember moving the levers and watching the tractor's arm move in response. I had no idea what I was doing, or how long our neighbor would allow a small child such as myself wreak havoc on their backyard, but I had the time of my life. Even though my career didn't last long, I learned that a small act of kindness (in this case, by our neighbor) can create memories that last a lifetime.
The first Halloween I can remember left an indelible impression on me. My mom dressed me up as some kind of ghoulish hunch-back. I remember feeling a little weird wearing the funny-shaped pillow she used to sleep on, which served as the hump in my back. I was somewhat frightened when I saw myself in the mirror for the first time. We still have pictures of it, it was quite the ensemble.The only trick-or-treating I remember doing that year occurred during the daytime. My mom drove me to a few familiar houses. Being somewhat of a novice, I guess I wasn't fully prepared for prime-time Halloween madness. The first house we visited, I remember my mom pulling over to the curbside and telling me to get out, knock on the door, and say “trick or treat.” I had never done this before, and I was a little embarrassed about the idea of approaching a strange house as a hunch-back ghoul and asking for candy. Tentatively, I walk to the door and rang the doorbell. The door was answered by someone who was clearly equal to the task. He/she, fully decked out in ghoulish attire, quickly opened the door and shouted “BOOO!” Well, actually I have no idea what they said because I made a very quick B-line back to the car and almost wet myself in the process. I was completely freaked out, and I told my mom it was a bad idea to do this and let's go right now because there is a scary ghoulish thing after me. When she realized there was nothing she could say that would get me to go back and collect the candy, she walked apologetically to the doorway and explained what just happened to the freaky ghoul dude that was trying to kill me.
Come to think of it, I don't remember visiting any more houses that year. Are the pieces of the puzzle finally coming together?
Physical Affliction
By David Zinn
Some of you may have noticed that I skipped last week's blog. No, I have not slacked off, and I intend to keep this up for the foreseeable future. For the past week, our family has been plagued with a nasty flu virus. While some of us are still recovering from the effects, I am able to take some time today to give you braves souls a little more insight into the events that lead to me being the person I am. Plus, our little bout with physical affliction gave me great inspiration for today's post.
By the time I was five years old, I had racked up two lengthy hospital visits (not counting the day I was born). The first visit occurred when I was 3 ½ years old. I had developed a nasty infection in my neck (of all places). It was so bad, in fact, that the doctors had to lance it in a few places. Fearing the infection could be life-threatening, they OD'd me on penicillin. This caused an allergic reaction, resulting in a more dangerous health concern than the infection presented. Of course at the time, I was oblivious to all of this. I just remember that it occurred around Christmas time, and I spent a lot of time (a few weeks?) in the hospital. My second visit came about a year later due to a tear in my hernia. I can't remember how long I was in the hospital, but I had full-blown surgery.
As I explained in a previous blog, the memories surrounding the two incidents are jumbled together. So instead of narrating them as separate incidents, I will lumped them both together as if they occurred concurrently.
First, my most poignant memory is of the complete abandonment I felt at night. I did not understand why I was there, and why I could not be with my family. I received frequent visits during the day, but I was all alone at night. My mom has told me that I tried so many times to escape, that they had to strap me in bed. I don't remember that part, but I do remember one night when I was feeling particularly lonely. One of the nurses came into my room, and sang to me while holding my hand. I can still see the city lights flickering like Christmas lights as I looked out the window and drifted off to sleep. I know it was just as hard on my parents. One evening, after saying goodbye to my mom, I called for her as she disappeared through the door. She came back, gave me another hug and kiss, said goodbye, and heard me call for her again as she headed out the door. This process continued five or six times until, finally, my solicitations went unanswered. Being a parent now, I can imagine how utterly painful this must have been for her.
Second, the gifts. Ah yes, parental guilt. It was better than Christmas. I scored big time, and it really did help to have something to play with to kill the time.
Third, the pain. I was probably heavily medicated to help alleviate it, but I remember being in an awful lot of pain. When I finally “came to” after one particular operation, I felt my neck, and I thought for sure there were chunks of it removed. One funny anecdote is my experience being wheeled into the operating room. Everyone looked completely foreign to me. They looked like a cross between a chef and an alien. One of the “dream gang” bears a striking resemblance to the people I saw in the OR that day. Even though their faces were mostly covered, I could tell they were smiling at me. The lights were very bright, which gave them an other-worldly aura. I was bare-chested, and they were putting these suction cups attached to wires all over me. I did not like this, and I remember pulling them off until everything went dark.
Forth, Grizzly Adams and Popsicles. This became a common staple for me, and I could tell the nurses were more than happy to have found a past-time for me that did not include me attempting to escape every time they turned their backs. I have Mr Adams to thank for keeping me sane and content, and getting me through some pretty tough times – and what kid is going to say “no” to Popsicles. I mean, come on.
Well, that's about it. I have many other memories, but I think I've bored you long enough. One of these days, I'll fill you in on the incident that lead to my second visit. Until then, happy weekend.
Removing the Training Wheels
By David Zinn
I vividly remember the day I learned to ride a bike without training wheels. My first bike was yellow, had solid rubber tires, no brakes (fixed-gear), and like nearly all bikes of that era, had a great big banana seat. It was also pretty low to the ground, so it was perfectly suited for a novice. The real give-away that the bike's owner was still a cyclist-in-training was what were affixed to the rear tire: the training wheels. I remember desperately wanting to learn how to ride a bike without them, but I could not see how this was physically possible. I remember watching my sister, Lori, and her friends as they rode (sans training wheels) up and down the street in front of our house. I even remember seeing one of our neighbors ride without hands. To me, it seemed like magic that I would never be able to conjure.
Inevitably, the day finally arrived when my training wheels were removed, and I was faced with the decision to either learn how to ride without them or never ride again. Oh well, I thought, at least I had my trusty go-kart. My dad had other plans, however. He was determined to see me learn how to do it. He always had a way of showing me how to turn the impossible into the possible. One evening, he positioned me (mounted atop my much cooler, training wheel-less yellow bike) at the top of the driveway, released his grip, and watched as I haphazardly careened down the steep (well, it seemed steep to me) grade toward my utter demise (slightly over-dramatized, but you get the idea). Shock therapy was the order of the day as this was repeated over and over again. After a while, I noticed that each successive trip resulted in a slightly less haphazard trajectory. I was even able to begin making the turn onto the sidewalk at the bottom. My dad, encouraged by the fact that his son wasn't completely uncoordinated, made a deal with me. He told me that if I could make it down the driveway, turn, and ride all the way to the street corner, he would take me to McDonald's. Well, my motivation stepped up a few notches. Everyone knows that for some inexplicable reason, McDonald's is the Holy Grail of happiness for children. A level of focus and patience rarely experienced by children of my age overtook me. With the sweet smell of french fries and hamburgers on my mind, I rode. Steep driveways, sharp turns, long pebble-infested sidewalks? No problem. That night, with my Dad as my witness and the smiling face of a red and yellow clown on my mind, I transitioned into manhood.
General Forty-Four
By David Zinn
I have come to realize that memories are tricky things. As we get older and our distant memories become more...well...distant, our minds do tricky things with chronology. I have been known to associate two similar, yet completely unrelated incidents as if they occurred concurrently. Hopefully, this will not be the case in the narrative that follows.
Another one of my first memories is that of my family's trip to Utah when my dad became a bishop. Way back then, all bishops were ordained and set apart in Salt Lake City at church headquarters. We have many pictures of the trip, mostly of us doing things in places that I cannot remember. I am not 100% sure, but I think I was around 2 ½ years old. I remember seeing snow for the first time. It must have been either very early or very late in the snow season because I remember making a very dirty snowman from remnants of snow that clung to the ground. I had always envisioned snowmen as being more like Frosty, so I was a little disappointed that our version looked more like “Pigpen”. I also noticed that snow was cold. Very cold.
My other memory of our trip to Utah is when I was riding in the car with my dad. I can't remember if anyone else was with us. I recall asking him where we were going. He responded by saying that we were going to see General 44. I had no idea what General 44 was, but he said it as if I should know exactly what he was talking about. It wasn't until we arrived at our destination that I discovered that General 44 was a group of really, really old men. I had never seen men so old. They all looked at me with huge smiles, and they shook my hand and gave me hugs. I couldn't see how it was possible they could be so old. It sort of freaked me out. My dad made it seem like seeing these guys was the greatest thing in the whole world. I clearly wasn't as impressed with General 44 as he was.
It took years before I realized he was really saying “the General Authorities.” When it finally dawned on me, I had a good laugh. I guess General 44 was sort of a big deal after all. Now, every time I watch General Conference, I chuckle inwardly as I relive the experience of seeing a bunch of old guys that I have grown to love and respect. Now, I suppose we can all laugh together as we watch General Conference and listen to the words of wisdom from General 44.
Boardman
By David Zinn
Before I was old enough to say my prayers on my own, either my mom or my dad would say them with me. Just like Dixie and I have done with our kids, they would say the words and I would repeat them. I can remember the first time I felt old enough to say them on my own. It was just as my dad and I were kneeling beside my bed one evening. I told him that I felt like saying my prayers by myself and that I didn't need any help. After giving me a hug and kiss goodnight, he turned off the lights and closed the door leaving my alone to say my prayers in private.
I cannot remember why, but I did not say my prayers. I climbed in bed and snuggled with my favorite blanket while feeling the cool, silky sensation of the satin trim against my face. I could see the faint outline of hallway light as it reached through the edges of my bedroom door. I always took comfort in that light. Not that it made the room any less scary. It was knowing that light was just on the other side of my door. This night, however, was an exception. More light than usually was pouring through my doorway. A wide rectangular swath of light shown through a portion as if a section of the door had magically been cut away. “This cannot be,” I thought, “It's impossible.” I sat upright (or as upright as I could in the lower bunk of my bunkbed) and squinted my eyes as if to get a better look. The view was the same. I was convinced that I wasn't dreaming because I had barely laid down before I noticed the aberration. No sooner had that thought come to me when I noticed movement. The monster was caught, and he knew it. Knowing that the gig was up, he attacked me. A new villain was born...Boardman. As he approached, I realize the rectangular swath of light was his head. Somehow, though, it was no longer made of light, but wood. The aptly named “Boardman” (I came up with the name myself – clever, huh?) was made entirely of 2x4's. His method of torture: tickling. My older sister, Lori, hadn't yet introduced me to “Night of the Living Dead,” so tickling, I guess, was the most macabre act a monster was capable of perpetrating on a young child.
Needless to say, I was pretty freaked out. At some point, my hysterical cries were interrupted by the image of my mom as my eyes opened to reveal that I was, indeed, having a nightmare. Instantly associating cause and effect, I asked my mom if she could help me say my prayers. Of course, she agreed, and I prayed more fervently that day than I ever had. I learned a powerful lesson that night about the comforting influence of prayer. Boardman eventually joined the Cheerio-eating clown who, much like Freddy Krueger, haunted me frequently in dreamland. Others eventually joined the “dream gang,” but I knew that as long as I said my prayers every night, I was a member of the most powerful gang of all.
Lost and Found
By David Zinn
Getting lost in a department store is a very traumatic experience for a young child. I know. It happened to me; and I can remember it like it happened yesterday.
Let's face it, young children are at the mercy and whim of their parent. Being a parent now myself, I can see how it sometimes feels like it's the other way around. Parents need to get stuff done. Kids need to play. These conditions are sometimes not very compatible. This lack of compatibility often leads to frustrated parents and extremely bored children. This is the condition in which I found myself many years ago.
It happened at the mall inside one of the name-brand department stores. As a kid, you really only have one option if you don't want to die of boredom: the clothing racks. They called to me every time I stepped foot in a store that had them. They would seduce and beckon with words such as “come, David, your mom won't be too mad,” and “all the other children are doing it.” It was too much for a boy of my age to resist. I would part the clothes and play inside the hidden jungle gym. Not all the racks were the same either. Every one had to be explored, conquered if you will. It was like having my own private playground. The problem is that moms hate the clothing racks because they don't like losing track of their kids. I don't know for sure, but I'm pretty certain the guy who invented the modern clothing rack was the same one who designed the “great and spacious building”.
I must have been playing for just a few minutes, when I peered out from my private fun house to find that my mom and Lori (my sister) had vanished. I spent a few frantic minutes searching the areas surrounding their last known location, but my quest was in vain. I had an overwhelming sense of helplessness as I realized I had lost them. I also felt a little betrayed by the fact that my mom had allowed this to happen. A helpful store clerk, having recognized the look on my face from years of dealing with this sort of thing day after day, came over and comforted me. She assured me they would locate my mom, and I would be reunited with her very soon. She led me to her manager's office where I gave my name and as much personal information as I could. I was pretty frightened, and crying pretty hysterically. I have no idea how they managed to understand a word I said. Having been crying for some time, my face was a total mess. I had tears and snot everywhere. The manager gave me a tissue (exactly one tissue), which I used to mop up a portion of my face. It was nowhere near enough. Having been reassured my mom was on her way, I turned my attention to the utter discomfort I felt having a messy face and one tissue (now completely useless). I was annoyed. Couldn't she see that I needed another tissue? Was she blind? I look enviously at the large tissue box on the other side of her desk. I pictured myself pulling out tissue after tissue and cleaning my face and hands. I would even share with her, but no. She would not offer me another. Looking back, I know that I could have just asked, but I was a little too frightened and intimidated. I didn't want to wear out my welcome.
After what seemed to be hours, my mom finally showed up. She had been looking for me as well, and was as happy as I was to be together again. She gave me a big hug, a kiss, and a pack of tissues. All to myself.
Cheating Death
By David Zinn
I am, instinctively, a very careful person. I possess an acute sense of self-preservation. Everyone who knows me will tell you that I tend to shy away from danger. I rarely throw caution to the wind; and when I do, it usually blows right back at me. It has, therefore, always puzzled me that danger has reared it's ugly and plagued me throughout my life – even under the most benign of circumstances. Case in point: A canoe trip down the American River.
One of the fun adventures that I looked forward to every year as a Boy Scout was our annual canoe trip. I can't remember exactly when it would occur, but I remember it being very hot – probably early to mid August. The location was different every year, but we usually chose a stretch of the American River. With it's headwaters originating from melting snow-pack high in the Sierra Mountains, it snakes its way down through treacherous canyons, deep gorges, and narrow channels, churning and boiling all the way. This particular stretch is well-respected and even feared by the most experienced paddlers. As it reaches the Central Valley, it's banks widen, it's waters calm, and it's path straightens as it begins a much more lazy journey toward the salty waters of the Pacific Ocean – it's final destination. Knowing that class 5 rapids + unstable canoes + inexperienced (and often very stupid) boy scouts = disaster beyond comprehension, our leaders chose various sections of the latter for our annual adventure.
One such year, I found myself much more confident and exited as we began our watery journey. Every year, we would learn a little more about the essentials of good paddling. During one such learning exercise, our Scout Master dutifully pointed out some of the dangers (there's that word) that exist to those navigating rapids. Many of the warnings were already familiar to me (ie. Keep toward the center of the river, stay away from large rocks, avoid standing waves, etc.), but one. He explained that often, as rapids converge with slower-moving water (usually at the end of a rapid), a whirlpool can form. This could be the first recorded instance of when a scout master had the full attention of the entire scout troop. These, he explained, are to be avoided (duh!) because they will likely cause a rapid rotation of the canoe resulting in capsize. To spot a whirlpool, look ahead toward the end of the rapid. Calm water: Good. Swirling water: Bad. Yeah, got it. Avoid whirlpools...check. “Um, why haven't we seen them before?” I asked trying to remain as calm and cool as possible. With a smile, the scoutmaster replied “Well, this part of the American River is more susceptible to them.” Great! Just what I wanted to hear.
Most of the day passed without incident. The whirlpools, we discovered, were actually fairly benign. Every now and then, our canoe would pass over one, and we'd barely notice the change in current. It seemed we'd been had by our scoutmaster. A little fun at our expense.
At lunch, we parked the canoes on a large sandbar in the middle of the river and quickly ate before spending a few leisurely minutes getting into as much mischief as possible. A few of the braver scouts hiked up river about 50 yards, jumped in (life-preservers on), and rode the swift rapids downstream beyond our lunch site, swimming back to the sandbar before it disappeared back into the river. More scouts joined as the promise of fun and exhilaration overcame their sense of self-preservation. Finally, I relented to temptation and rode the rapids sans canoe.
It was fun. This apparently dangerous activity was actually fun. As I got more and more comfortable with the cold, wet, and somewhat perilous activity, I began wondering how to make it even more fun. This thought was going through my mind as I was nearing the point where I had to swim back or lose my chance to get back to the sandbar in time. As I shifted my position to begin the 50 foot swim, a strange sensation overcame me. It's that same sensation you get when you're on a treadmill, and no matter how hard you run, you still don't go anywhere. This was the initial sensation. As I looked back to shore, another sensation overcame me. I didn't see the shore, or anything else for that matter. What I saw was that my head was below the level of the water, and yet I was still breathing. In the few milliseconds that transpired before my body was sucked under, several thoughts occurred to me. I finally figured out what was happening. I was being pulled underwater by a whirlpool. How ironic, I thought. I probably should have seen that one coming. It really, really stinks to die of something I was warned of just hours before. I don't want to die. Not this way. Not now. I should probably take a breath before I go completely under. I did.
The forces of nature can be quite overwhelming. The veil of stupidity really knows no bounds (or depths in this case). As I was pulled further and further under, I remember being astounded by the fact that my “life preserver” did nothing to repel the force. I also could not believe how deep the river was at that point. How far under was I? 10, 15 feet? Yet I had not reached the bottom. I missed my mom. I missed my family. Was this really the end? It wasn't, obviously. Mercifully, yet dutifully, nature released it's hold on me. Whirlpools, I learned, are transient events. They last as long as it takes for the forces of the river to return to equilibrium. Which they did. My life preserver did the rest. It pulled me from the jaws of death, and popped my head back out of the water. Slightly disoriented, and extremely relieved, I began swimming back safety. Unfortunately, the current had pulled me further down the river, and I thought I might not make it back to the shore in time. Lucky for me, a fellow scout, having seen my predicament, waded out just far enough to help me back to shore.
Well, there it is. Death came a' knockin', but I sent it walkin'. This was the second of three times in my life I almost drowned. The others will be retold on another Friday night...because I have no life.
The Dream Gang
By David Zinn
Many people are amazed by how many details I can recall from my early childhood. The more I think about it, though, the more I am convinced that my capacity to remember such things has less to do with cerebral prowess and more to do with the kinds of things my mind chooses to convert from short-term memory to long-term memory. For instance, my wife can attest to the fact that we have entire conversations that somehow fail to register in my subconscious. In any case, over the years, the details of these early memories, poignant as they may be, have begun to fade. Putting pen to paper (or finger to keyboard in my case) is now the only way to preserve them.
The first nightmare I can recall still looms vividly in my memory. How old I was, I do not know. I must have been no more than 3. The dream was actually quite unremarkable. I awoke to discover that a clown was sitting on me while eating a bowl of Cheerios. For some reason, this really freaked me out. I was in my crib, so there was no easy escape (assuming I could muster enough strength to get him off of me). He spoke to me, but it made as much sense as the adults in Charlie Brown. The memory fades at this point. I can't remember at what point the dream ended – the memory kind of disappears into a thick fog.
This same clown would return to terrorize me in future dreams. As a matter of fact, the cast of characters in my early nightmares grew into sort of a gang. The clown was kind of the ring leader, but other members included a monster made entirely of 2'x4' boards and a hybrid skeleton dude that bore a striking resemblance to the one shown in the Scoody Doo intro. I often heard them conspiring together on the best methods to capture me. Fortunately, I was smart enough to stick around and spy on them, because that's a lot safer than, you know, actually finding a good hiding place.
The Legend of Gray's Bones
By David Zinn
Very few people who have lived in Saratoga, CA can say that they woke up to the sound of chickens every morning. The Zinn family, however, didn't live the life of the average Saratogan. At any given time, we had 8 to 10 chickens that provided a steady flow of farm-fresh eggs on a daily basis. Chickens are filthy, disgusting creatures; and taking care of them was no small undertaking. But I have a father who likes fresh eggs and had a strong desire to teach his children the value of good, honest work, so we were stuck with the chickens for better or worse. Of course, looking back, I am grateful for the experience it gave me; and the endless supply of childhood memories that I can pass on to my children.
The most significant memory is that of the birth of the legend of Gray's bones. Gray was the name of one of our first chickens. Gray was a unique chicken in many ways. First, she was the only chicken that I can remember who had a name. The others, I suppose, looked so much alike that giving them names made about as much sense as naming the boards of our patio deck. Which brings us to the second reason Gray was unique. She was, well, gray. All our other chickens were either white or brown. Finally, she laid grayish-blue eggs. This fascinated us. We had seen plenty of white eggs and more than a few brown eggs, but it was always extra-special when we collected Gray's eggs from the chicken coup. As time passed, our attachment with Gray never wained. That all changed one morning when we woke up to discover Gray had disappeared during the night. The particulars of the circumstances surrounding her sudden departure are a little hazy, but I do remember seeing no signs of foul play (no pun intended). Indeed, the tell-tale signs of a hostile intruder were nowhere to be found. Several search attempts were conducted to no avail. It seemed Gray had simply vanished. We were sad that Gray had left us. She was the only chicken we took pity on – the only chicken whose eggs we looked forward to collecting.
No more than three or four days later, we got our first break in the case which led us to discover the truth behind Gray's disappearance. She was murdered! No more than 50 feet from the scene of the crime lay Gray's bones. It was an eerie part of the property – halfway down a ravine. At night, it was pitch-black. On clear, dark nights, if you had the courage to venture near the site of Gray's bones, you would most likely hear the ominous scratching and pecking of Gray's ghost – or so the legend goes. Most children go to bed fearing the arrival of the bogeyman or some unseen monster hiding in the closet. I went to bed with chicken ghosts on my mind. It's not quite on par with the likes of Michael (from Halloween) or Jason (from Friday the 13th), but for a young boy living among chickens, it was legend.
Boys "Bee"ing Boys
By David Zinn
Those who have witnessed a group of boys in action have probably noticed the unspoken, yet carefully organized social structure that exists between them. Each member of the group has a specific set of skills that enables the group to operate at maximum efficiency, thus ensuring optimal success in whatever mischief happens to fancy them that day. While the roles may differ slightly depending on the size of the group, they can be categorized in the following manner:
The Workhorse. This role is usually reserved for the biggest of the group. He comprises the muscle of the organization. Alone, you will most likely find them repetitively heaving large objects to and fro or demolishing and dismembering dead trees. But in a group, that raw energy can be channeled into productivity such as building bicycle ramps, constructing tree houses, or setting up booby traps. They also provide excellent protection from rival groups. Although they are usually the perceived leader of the group, there are others “pulling the strings” from behind the scenes.
The Thinker. This roles is reserved for the runt of the group. Neither physical nor athletic, the runt must find a way to fit in. Confronted with the realization that he needs to justify his standing in the group, he refines the one attribute he knows where he knows he can excel: His mind. He, too, may enjoy the pleasures of a good game of tackle football or a hazardous dirt-biking journey through the backwoods of his neighborhood; however, he knows that he can really only just keep up. The group puts up with the occasional slow-down because the thinker provides a veritable cornucopia of ways to get into mischief.
The Mikey. Think “Life” cereal. The Mikey is there mainly to provide comic relief. He is the guinea pig – you know, the one who “tests” out whatever contraption the thinker designed for the workhorse put together. Usually, the Mikey is the athletic one. He may be big enough to be a workhorse, but he lacks the patience to be effective in that role. Many a Mikey have been born through a demotion from workhorse. Mikey's have almost no fear, or rather, they fear being cast out of the group more than any possible physical harm that could result from playing their role. They are the ones who have had no fewer than five trips to the emergency room due to a Mikey-related injury. The next time you sign a young boy's cast, just think “...hey Mikey, he likes it”.
A perfect example of this social order in action is the story of my second painful interaction with bees. The story begins with three boys standing on the side of Via Regina Rd in Saratoga, CA on a hot summer day while pondering the solution to a problem they could no longer ignore. There was Tom, the workhorse, Oliver, the Mikey, and me, the thinker. The object we were staring at was a large oak tree set back from the road about 30 feet. Our neighborhood was a boy's paradise. Set back in the middle of the foothills, there were plenty of trails to roam, wildlife to terrorize, and a small creek in which to play. The old oak tree marked the opening of a trail that we used frequently to access the creek. The problem was ever since I can remember, the tree was inhabited by a rather large colony of honeybees. A hole located just below the “V” where the trunk meets the branches was the gateway to their kingdom. Being somewhat of an expert on what happens when you mess with bees, I was always uneasy about how close I got to that hive every time I wanted to frolic in the waters of the creek. An uneasy haste would guide our stride as we would pass through the area that marked our entry to creektime funness.
We finally decided that enough was enough. We weren't going to let a few bees cause us anymore undue stress. We were going to take a stand. The bees would have to leave and find another home elsewhere. The problem was, how do we convince the bees to obey our wishes? The thinker began pondering this very subject as he mindlessly pulled out his veil and donned it like a knight putting on his armor in preparation for battle. One by one, as if guided by the same power, the workhorse and the Mikey followed suit. As my mind searched for a solution to our problem, it occurred to me (mind you, this is after putting on the veil) that the answer lie in keeping them in their hive, not forcing them out. Yeah, brilliant idea! Can you see where this is headed?
So there we stood, rocks in hand, ready to “plug” the hole with a few well-placed throws. After a few minutes of fruitless effort, initially from a cautious distance but closer and closer with each throw, two things became apparent. First, the rocks (even the accurately thrown ones) were just bouncing off the tree – duh! Second, the bees appeared to be more irritated than before – double duh! No, rocks just wouldn't do. My eyes scanned the ground, searching for a more suitable “plugging” object. They soon rested on a scattering of fallen buck-eyes. Hmm, I'd had some experience with those things...not too soft, yet malleable enough to perhaps adhere to the tree and plug the hole if it was just the right size. The thinker, having improvised a new plan, directed the others to employ his new strategy. Shortly thereafter, something remarkable happened. The plan worked...well, sort of. None of us really know who threw it, though it would become the subject of much debate for years to come, but a buck-eye became perfectly wedged in the hole that had for so long served as the bees access to the outside world.
There is a scene in Jurassic Park where Jeff Goldblum, having just arrived at the doomed theme park, uttered his concern that bringing the dinosaurs back from extinction might have unforeseen consequences. Undaunted, the creator of the park explained the elaborate containment structures and fail-safes they had created to control and contain his prehistoric spectacles, to which Jeff Goldblum simply replied, “...nature always finds a way.” Well, in our case, nature found a way. And it didn't involve a greedy computer programmer driving a jeep in a tropical storm. It involved the fact that our buck-eye did not form a perfectly hermetic seal around the hole. In fact, we had barely begun to celebrate when we realized the buck-eye did not provide enough of a barrier to even annoy the bees.
At this point, we should have just given up. But, hey, we weren't quitters. Plus we were still wearing our veils of stupidity. Tom and Oliver looked at me as if awaiting orders. I couldn't let them down, and as the thinker it was my duty to find another solution. My eyes began a frantic search. Emboldened by the fact that the bees barely noticed our presence, I decided a more “hands on” approach was needed – can you say “moron”? I noticed that, laying in front of me, was a dead tree branch that appeared to be just the right size to reach the beehive. In fact, it seemed to be custom-tailored to accomplish the task I had in mind for it – scratch that – what I wanted the Mikey to do with it. At one end, the branch curved at about a 90 degree angle. According to my calculations, that was the end that would be plugging the hole and stopping those bees once and for all. After carefully absorbing my instructions, Oliver brazenly grabbed the branch, and while placing the straight end on the ground, levered the angled end into the bees' point of entry. This accomplished two tasks. First, it shoved the buck-eye further into the hole. Second, it served as a “fail-safe” plug in case the buck-eye was insufficient.
At this point, our fate was sealed. I'm sure the bees were looking on with amusement at our failed attempts to plug their hole, but it became much less amusing when actual damage was being done to their home. Oliver was, understandably, the first to feel their anger. His response was to scream, begin wildly slapping at his head, and take off running down the street while repeating steps one and two. My response, like Tom's, was to laugh uncontrollably at Oliver's misfortune. The laughing, however, stopped when I felt a rather large flying insect collide with my head. Based on Tom's reaction, a similar event occurred to him simultaneously. At this point, Tom and I joined Oliver in the slapping, the screaming, and the running. The bees pursued us for a surprising distance – probably at least 100 meters. As much as I tried to slap away the bees as I felt them land on me, I ended up with several bee stings to my back and side. Tom and Oliver suffered similarly. Another lesson, unfortunately, not fully learned.
The beehive remained in that tree for the remaining years of my youth. The bees eventually forgave us, and we learned to tolerate the other's presence. A few years after leaving home, a storm blew through and split the tree right where the beehive was. Undeterred, the bees continued living in the remaining portion of the tree. Who knows, they may still bee there. If they are, I'm sure they have quite a story to tell about how a few kids almost got the better of them.
My husband, David, always has a good story to share about his childhood. I am usually left speechless with my mouth hanging open at the end of his stories. Not only has David had bazaar experiences, but he's great at telling them. For years I have been trying to get him to write them down for posterity purposes, but he's full of excuses. I finally convinced him to be a guest on my blog once a week to share his life stories that have made him the man he is today.
Here's his first entry. Enjoy!
The Veil of Stupidity
By David Zinn
It is a commonly known fact that young boys wear a veil of stupidity when it comes to their interactions with nature. There is no finer example of this than me. As a matter of fact, at age 37, I still have mine. Sure, it's a little worn and slightly thread-bare, but I assure you it works just as flawlessly now as it did 33 years ago when I received my very first lesson on what happens when you're being stupid with nature.
It began on a day much like today – you know, with the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening. Actually, the story begins an indefinite amount of time before that fateful day (funny how time blends together as you recall events from a distant past). I witnessed my sister Lori and her friends having fun with trapping bees in a flower with their fingers, and throwing them to the ground (Lori was plagued with a much weaker version of the veil). I was fascinated by this because I had always been taught to stay away from bees (my parent's weak attempt at hiding my veil). Fast-forward to that fateful day, and you will find me alone standing in front of that same flower bush curiously watching the bees collect pollen for their hive – queue the veil. Forgetting about the part where the flower acts as a shield against the stinger, I grabbed for an unsuspecting bee using the same technique as I had witness earlier (sans the flower). Queue the screaming child.
It would seem that a lesson should have been well-learned. As it turns out, the veil of stupidity is a carefully woven tapestry composed of 80% stupidity, 10% curiosity, and 10% forgetfulness. My encounters with bees (including all flying, stinging, creepy-crawlies) are too numerous to record in a short guest blog, but according to Dixie, they are all worth retelling. As if there weren't enough things about me to make fun of...Who knows, maybe Dixie will con me into writing another one of these snippets. When will I ever learn?
