Tanner Eats Humble Pie

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts higher than your thoughts." --Book of Isaiah, Chapter 55, verses 8-9.

So God and I haven't exactly been on the same page lately. You know, the page where your immediate future is written out all nicely and outlined for simplicity and convenience. Yeah. I don't think I even have page in my book anymore. Not that I haven't been looking for it, I've been searching for mine own reassurance--trying to steady myself with my own hand, digging my heels in deeper and gritting my teeth against the winds of change. It wasn't until I searched the Lord's book that I found the page I was missing.

"...Yea, even that they did forget by what power they had been brought up thither; yea, they were lifted up unto exceeding rudeness."

"And on the fourth day, which we had been driven back, the tempest began to be exceedingly sore."

"And it came to pass that I prayed unto the Lord; and after I had prayed the winds did cease, and the storm did cease, and there was a great calm." --1st Nephi, Chapter 18

Now albeit this is a jigsawed summary in its simplest form, it was exactly what I needed to read. Not necessarily have I been practicing exceeding rudeness, but I was forsaking my Lord enough that a change needed to be made. I guess the cold shoulder, or the silent treatment, is rude enough, when it is directed at Him--be it intentional or not.

And I believe that because of my lack of constant connection and preparation for a mission, a mighty tempest my life has been as of late, after a car accident took my brother and I by surprise and left us without transportation.

This event, taking no more than 30 seconds to occur, changed my whole path that I had scribbled in the margins of God's map for my life. In order for Carter to keep his job, we had to move out to my parents' apartment in Salt Lake City, and in turn I had to quit my job. It wouldn't have worked if I had stayed in bountiful anyways, I couldn't make it to work without a vehicle.

So, no more than two days after the accident, we were living in southern Salt Lake.

To say the least, this last month down here has been, how you say, character building. Commuting to school now took 2 hours, and making a trip up to Kaysville to visit my parents' house was now an all day event. I thought I was a patient man. I thought this could be handled with ease. I was wrong.

I'm not sure how God figured out my secret struggle with patience--maybe he glanced at my instant queue on Netflix, or the extra money I shelled out for priority shipping--But He saw fit to change such a weakness, to make such a fault a way of life, until I embodied it, until it made me strong. And strong it has made me.

"And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them."--Ether, Chapter 12, verse 27

This wasn't the only weakness that God is making strong. I have noticed a daily struggle to keep an air of humility about myself, a struggle to serve others, and to know how it is that I can best help those around me. And a lot of the assistance I can offer is just about sacrifice. Sacrifice time, by waiting an extra half hour for a ride- sacrifice money by quitting my job, etc... Now that I realize it, God will have me sacrifice until there is nothing left to sacrifice, until there is nothing left but the strength of my soul and the will of the Lord. And then there will be calm to this storm. But until then, I must continue to pray and realize that this is where I am, and this is where I am going to stay until I am ready to change.

"He ruleth high in the heavens, for it is his throne, and this earth is his footstool." --1st Nephi, Chapter 17, verse 39

Cranium, Acromion, Patellas, phalanges!

Now this semester at Weber I'm only taking a couple classes, but my main focus is Human Anatomy, a class that is said to be ranked among the hardest at Weber. And as a survivor of the first two tests, I now know why. Kyra (Super hot genius girlfriend) is taking the class with me, and the first day of class left us both desperately worried.

Dr. Brian Chung, a pro-snowboarder gone doctor, is our professor, but he wasn't the one to address us at the beginning of class our first day. A student called our attention, dissipating a fantastic conversation Kyra and I were having about the ethnicity of our professor, (Dr. Chung is Asian, born in raised in Canada...who taught at Yale and is now a professor at WSU in Utah....something to talk about...) when we were turned to look down at this nervous student.

He explained to us how truly difficult the class was, after having failed it 3 times, reducing his credit hours and working hours just to focus on Anatomy. He also informed us that half of our classmates were returning to take the class a second time. Needless to say, we were a tad intimidated.

Now as we go to lecture each week, I've noticed a strange growth in the flexors of my left arm and wrist, the same with Kyra's right arm. After careful consideration of the causes of such a disfiguration, we came to the diagnosis that Dr. Chung's rapid lecturing has left us with hastened writing skills, and thus, enlarged writing muscles. Seriously though, Dr. Chung lectures as if he is constantly trying to break the world record for teaching the entire human body in under two hours. And I wouldn't be surprised if he makes it one day. He breezes through powerpoint slides like Kyra does Otterpops. ;)

I've been particularly frustrated with this class on the sole basis that up until this very semester in college, I have never studied for any class ever. It was until this class that I had to finally buckle down, and form some decent study habits. Lucky guesses and previous factoids were not going to get me a passing grade in this class. Fortunately Kyra is a professional studier and showed me the ropes. It doesn't hurt to have someone to study with at all times...especially when it's time to study nerves and sensory fields....

I have to admit, for some reason I have been blessed with a particular understanding of human anatomy and all things medical. Things just stick. You're going to have to ask Kyra one of these days, because every time we study she notices and it just drives her up the wall. That's one of the main reasons I'm continuing to study medicine, (no, not because it drives Kyra mad) because i'm good at it. And I hope I can stay good at it when medical school comes around. Another reason I want to be a doctor would have to be the outstanding respect and knowledge all doctors hold. Just watch this, all from one class...

Antebrachial

Buccinator

Choroid plexus

Diaphysis

Epiphysis

Fovea

Gomphosis

Haversian canal

Ilium

Jejunum

Krause Bulb

Lucidum

Meissners Corpuscle

Nodes of Ranvier

Ovale foramen

Pectineal line

Quadratus femoris

Rectus Abdominis

Spinosum

Tactile Cells

Umbilicus

Viscera

White blood cell

Xiphoid process

Yeasts

Zygomaticus

All of these words came from only one half of a semester of beginning level anatomy, and that's not even the half of it. I do admit however that I did have to ask Kyra for some assistance. Which is perfectly fine--doctors bring in consultants all the time.

Hopefully the rest of the semester will be as successful as the first half!

Wrestling with Age

The young man had to go back to work. But the young man didn't want to. The young man was scared of the getting beat to death by the old man. That's right. An old, confused man, who he was hired to help, who he was hired to keep from falling and breaking anymore bones. This same old man gently pierced the young man's heart with the fear of untimely death the previous week. He had thought the young man was a robber, and a ensign for promiscuity. The young man isn't. And doesn't want to be again when he goes to work.

So the young man changed. Remembering his appearance the night of the attack, he altered it, in hopes of altering the old man's reaction. In hopes of becoming someone else in the old man's mind for a night. The young man left his face unshaven, grabbed a brimmed beanie, and his favorite leather jacket. He looked different. This was good.

The young man rung the doorbell. The lovely elderly woman answered, and invited him in. There he saw that she had company over. Two elderly couples, friends, stood around the room, as the young man was introduced by the elderly lady as a "wonderful young man who's here to help my old man."

But the young man was focused on one thing, and that was the reaction of the old man sitting in his favorite chair. The old man welcomed him to his home, genially, kindly. The young man rejoiced, then was embarrassed--realizing that he had disguised himself as the very think the old man had supposed himself to be, a hoodlum, a rascal. Quickly taking off his hat and trying to smile away the bad vibe he was sending, the young man shook hands with the elderly friends.

They left, along with the elderly woman. The old man went to bed. The young man relaxed.

*************************************

An hour passed, an hour of enjoyable study. The young man was happy that the old man was asleep, the old man needed his rest. Yet as soon as he thought this, the old man began clamboring down the hall. The young man called out nonchalantly, offering his assistance--but his offer was drowned out by the old man's war cry. "Prepare to die, you theiving good fer nothin! If'n I was a younger man you would have died a faster death, years ago! As soon as I get over there, you're mine!"

The young man sighed...yet he wasn't worried, there was plenty of hall before the old man got to him. He decided to try a new tactic...confidence.

"You're being silly, old man. I'm no thieve. I'm just here to help."

The young man would have continued, but he was interrupted by the old man, who had just hurled himself at the young man. The young man dodged a two-hands-on-the-throat-chokehold by millimeters. The young man was quick. And sad.

He remembered a time when the old people he helped were in fact old people. They looked old, they acted old, and they smelled old.

How is it, that this man can look, and smell old, but act like a middle-aged Monte Cristo? His thirst for revenge seemed to revitalize him to a level of strength only found in life's prime. The young man doesn't understand this.

The night continued in a constant circle round the house, all for justice. Eventually the old man grew weary, and sat in his chair. The young man sat across the room from him. Everytime the old man began to rise, the young man would match his rise, ready to run. They would rise, stare, then the old man would laughed condescendingly and fall back into his chair. This happened several times.

Finally the old man began to doze. And as he began to doze, he said to the young man. "I know you don't think what you're doing is wrong, but I know what I'm doing is right, and one day you'll realize that family is all that you have, and you'll give all you've got around you to keep it. One day, you'll slip up. And I'll be there. And I'll kill you."

The young man pondered over the old man's last words for the night. Then as he thought about it, his perspective shifted. He still feared the old man, but couldn't help to respecting him.

The young man wants to be just like the old man when he grows up.

Protect This House!

January 20th, 2:00 p.m.
A a spry young man rings the doorbell aside the door of his regular client. A lovely elderly woman opens the door and beckons him in, they know each other well. But to the elderly man inside, this younger fellow is a stranger. There he slept, that old man in his lazy boy beside the front window, his glasses tilted.
The young man grinned inwardly as he sent off the elderly woman and took a seat on the couch across the room from the old man. This was going to be an easy day. He took his textbook from his backpack and began to study.
The young man was a "just in case" guy. He was there to assist the old man, when he needed assistance. That was his job. Little did he know it was he that was going to need help.

The old man awoke, his eyes sliding open slowly. He saw the young man, pouring over his books across from him. Squinting, he recognized him. Well, not exactly, he just recognized what his shoes, and his books. In a darkly angered voice, the old man spoke.

"Pack up and go home, get out of my house. Leave my shoes here."

The young man jumped at the sound of his client's voice, then eased back into his relaxed estate.

"These are my shoes, sir. And I'm afraid I can't leave," the young man loudly stated (to ensure his message got to the hard-of-hearing senior) as he continued to read his text.

"This is my house. I control who goes and who stays. Now go." The old man pronounced tersely, his eyes burning with anger.

The young man looked up. He was used to his client forgetting who he is, or what he does. But something was different this time. Usually, when the elderly man did not recognize him, he would respond in anger, or frustration, or even sorrow. But never such hatred as he did now. The young man could feel it from across the room.

"This is your house, sir. I understand. But I apologize, I cannot leave you here alone."

The old man's shoulder's slumped a little, and he muttered, "At least come help me up."

Eager to help and ease the tension, the young man jumped up and walked over to the old man. And as he helped him up, he asked a sincere question.

"So where you going sir?" As he handed the old man his walker.

"I'm a going (lifts walker into the air) to kill this robber in my house!" The old man shouted, bringing down the walker onto the young man's shoulder's. Hard.

The young man jumped back, stunned, never before imagining this old man had such strength. Slowly, the old man brought the walker down, and began to advance on the young man.

"I'm not a robber, I'm here to help you!" The young man exclaimed, walking away from the old man--who was slowly, but ever, ever so surely--chasing the young man down. Periodically slaming his walker down to make emphasis.

"You've robbed my house. SLAM! You've stolen my wife from me. SLAM! And yet. SLAM! You stay here. SLAM! To rub it in my old face and make a mockery of me. SLAM! SLAM!"

The old man took a couple steps quicker than usual, and raised his walker for another strike at the nervous boy, who jumped out of the way quickly and darted into the kitchen. The old man laughed and mocked him saying, "What, you afraid of an old shell like me? Coward." As he began to beat the young man's backpack into oblivion with his walker.

The young man knew not what to do. It was his charge, his sole job to protect this man from the injuries of old age, and to assist him. He told this to the old man.
The old man responded, "You're the one that needs help and protection. It is my job to PROTECT THIS HOUSE! And you are threatening that very thing. Get OUT!"

Not sure how to handle the situation, the young man decided to wait it out in the kitchen. Until he heard the old man open the front door and scream "HELLLLP! Call the PoLICE!"

Wanting to avoid explaining his fear of this old man to the authorities, the young man jumped out from the kitchen and pointed at the old man, saying sternly, "Drop the walker."

The old man growled and made his way towards the young man, slowly. Sure of his speedy advantage over him, the young man sighed and turned around, mumbling "here we go aga--" but he stopped, listening. In the next split second he noticed the lack of noise coming from what should be the walker dragging on the carpet, and as he turned to see what the old man was doing, he realized it was too late.

Whoever had told the young man working that this old man couldn't walk without his walker, was wrong. Whoever told this young man that this old man is a high risk for falling injuries, was wrong. This is all the young man could think of as the old man sprinted across the room, brandishing his walker and pinning him to the kitchen table.

Gasping for breath, the young man asked why. Why this was happening.

"You had my daughters. You had them right there in that room. And I'm going to kill you." Emphasizing his point by slamming his walker into the young man's diaphragm.

"I --heimlich-- I don't even l-like girls." It was an embarrassing effort to absolve himself of the accusations, but an air-tight alibi.

The old man paused, looking the young man up and down, then muttered "Bull."

The young man had a cell phone in his pocket. It rang. Struggling, he answered.

"Oh hi Miss. No I'm fine. Here, you're husband would like to talk to you."

Using one hand to hold the walker off his chest and the other to hand the phone to his attacker, the young man stated desparately, "It's for you, you're wife."

The old man dropped the walker and took the phone. And began to talk.
"I love you most in the whole wide world. Come home please. And Also my dear, I found a robber here, but don't worry, I'll have him dead by the hour's end. What? He is? Well I'll be darned. Good bye dear."

The old man turned to the young man.

"Why didn't you tell me you work for me?"

Shave and a Haircut....12 Bucks.

I know why most of the richest men in the world are bald... It's because they get to save all the money they would have spent on haircuts, inevitably becoming millionaires. Professional haircuts are expensive!

My hair was getting rediculously long, and I knew I needed to get a good cut, so I decided to go to Mike's Barbershop on mainstreet in Kaysville. Usually my mom cuts my hair, but since I moved out, I lost that little luxury. Rarely have I been to a legitimate extablishment and paid money for someone to remove hair from my head, and more rare still, have I walked away satisfied. It's the communication problem, that's what it is. No barber, stylist, or dog groomer I've come into contact knows what I mean when I say "short on the sides, a little longer on top." To them that phrase could mean a million different things, none of which share my meaning.

So, rather than submit my meager request, watch it get lost in translation, and sit there glumly while they sheared me like a lamb, I decided I would do a little research first. Having had a successful visit to the barber the day before, I thought my Dad would be a considerable resource.

"Pops, what should I ask for, at the barber?" I questioned.

"Well what kind of haircut do you want?" He asked. I thought this was quite obvious, seeing as I have sported the 'short spiky' look for about three years at least by now.

"I want this, three weeks ago," I stated, pointing at my scalp.

"Did you ask Mom?"

"Yeah, she told me to ask for the Mom-cut." I grumbled, as my Mom giggled in the background.

"Ah, well, just ask for a medium-taper, that's what I got yesterday," My dad advised, pausing so I could observe his style.

I looked his head over once or twice. Not bad, short on the sides, a little longer on top, okay. I tried to imagine my dad with spiked hair. Didn't work. But I decided to trust him and go for the medium taper.

I was confident now. Because now, I had knowledge, and knowledge is power. I knew the lingo, I got the slang. I could communicate what I wanted. No matter how bad things got--medium taper.

I walked into the barbershop, to see a smiling Mike giving a happy little kid a trim while his parents looked on smiling, proud of how good their son could sit. There was no music playing in the barbershop, it seemed desperately bare, empty. The walls were plastered with framed paintings, all with price tags and signed by a local artist. Five waiting chairs lined the wall. You're classic barbershop.

The kid finished, thanks and money interchanged, and they left. As soon as the shop door closed behind them, the Barber's smile vanished. As he vaccuumed excess hair off the chair he grumbled about how he "has no idea what 'just a little trim' means," and, in his opinion, they paid him to "cut the hair the kid grew while sitting in the chair." I liked this guy.

I sat in his chair, rehearsing the words "medium taper" in my mind, ready for the moment. Mike asked what he could do for me. "Ahem, a medium taper, please." (I sounded like I knew what a medium taper was, I was proud of myself. As soon as I said that he turned to grab his clippers and muttered "what the..." under his breath. Oh no.

"Are you sure, kid? That cut's not even from my generation," he said. I was doomed. My one shot at a good cut was gone. A couple seconds later I accepted my fate, and decided I would rather look like a committed fool than a wishy-washy one. "Yep, that's what I want."

So off he went, reluctantly, shaving away. I winced on the inside a lot. After he finished he spun my chair around so I could see what I looked like. I wanted to laugh, and wanted to cry. I asked him what he thought, and, to put it gently for me, he said "not unlike the young Eddie Munster."

"Well, could you make the sides a little shorter, and leave it a little longer on the top?" I asked meekly, firing my last proverbial escape pod.

"Sure thing," Mike said, as he spun me around and hacked away at my hair. As he hacked, we talked, about school mostly. Turns out this barber had a degree in physics. Crazy, eh?

A couple more minutes passed and he spun me around again. It looked perfect.

I couldn't understand it, he made me look how I did, three weeks ago. It was like magic. As he took a razorblade and started to shave my sideburns and neck, he struck up a rather odd conversation. While slowly pressing the cold razor to my face, he paused and asked "Have you ever seen the movie Sweeney Todd, by chance?" I chuckled nervously and said "haha the one about the crazy killer barber?"

"That's the one, a good show," he laughed darkly as he tilted my head to shave the back of my neck. "This is the part of the haircut where my clients become my best friends, haha...." he laughed again. He had a great sense of humor.

He cleaned me off and gave me the charge. As I paid him, he looked at my hair and said "So it was just a regular hair cut you wanted, not that taper-garbage-whatever you said."

"Yeah, truth be told that's what my dad told me to get," I confessed.

"Haha, I know kid, I know. Have a good day."

The Anger Hike

One of the stranger traditions my family partakes in on Thanksgiving day is a hike, around noon. It's just up on the Vita course, near the shooting range and animal shelter, but a hike nonetheless.

As we all piled out of the truck, groaning and moaning about the hike we were about to go on, my dad stopped us and quieted us all down, saying, "Kay guys, Mom's been stressin out about this whole Thanksgiving dinner thing, and the last thing she needs today are you guys fighting and calling each other names, so just get it out here. You've got the whole hike to get all your insults and urges to fight out."

After hearing this, Chandler excitedly began his insulting tirade. He began rather creatively, starting off with insults regarding physical appearance and flaws, then moving on to intellectual aptitude and emotional endurance. For instance, knowing that I struggle with math, Chandler held up his hand like he was answering a phone, then said "oh, he's right here." Then turning to me, Chandler said "Tanner it's your math tutor, she said to remember to practice your flashcards or you'll never make it through the timestables."

Most of the time his insults were so good that no one could hurt him because they'd be laughing too hard. And in this family, if the insult was good enough, you didn't get beat up.

Not all of his insults were good enough, though.

Noah decided to keep it basic. He's never much of a gambler when it comes to his physical well-being, so it was his stragety to rattle off basic insults like "Idiot Head" or "Doofus," and just stay out of reach. Unfortunaly for Noah, most of the time his odds at skipping a well deserved punch were as good as Chandler's. No one was hurt too bad...





Now Hayden has a very simple philosophy, when it comes to confrontation. You live by the sword, you die by the sword. Cursed with the shortest fuse in the family, Hayden would remain in a retaliatory state, until he grew tired of thinking up witty stuff to say. Then he'd skip right to the dead arms and the snow balls.

Now, after the first couple minutes I was sure that someone would be in tears and ready to go home, after all, you tell a group of brothers to "get all your fightin and insultin out" and something bad is bound to happen.

But I was wrong, we made it a lot longer than expected, as soon as everyone ran out of insults and began throwing snow. However, there were some close calls, and if Noah hadn't dodged a screamingly fast cannonball of snow aimed at his face, we would have had to take a trip downtown to get his glasses fixed too. I tell ya, that snow ball was close enough to kiss his cheek. So lucky.

Even my dad decided to join in on the snowball war and, despite the lack of snow, we duked it out rather well. After staking out territories and claiming bases, of course.

It was going splendidly, everyone was having fun and enjoying themselves, which meant something was bound to go wrong right then. You see, I was wearing old, torn up jeans, and as soon as I dropped onto my haunches to dodge the first snowball, the hole next to my back pocket tore open with a loud cry of anguish, that Chandler heard from twenty feet away. Needless to say, those pants didn't survive the night... The best part was walking back down the mountain in those tattered jeans. Very Chilly.

All in all everyone was happy and having fun by the end of it. Even though Chandler's combat boots from Smith and Edwards gave him big blisters, and Noah still kept rattling off insults throughout the entire experience, once we got home, not a one negative word came between one another.

Which leaves me with one big question. Does this guy really know what he's doing? Does he know it's going to work before he tries crazy stuff like an Anger Hike? Well whether he does or not, it worked. Thus, he's a genius.

photo shoot

Needless to say, I received input on my request for more models! A couple sisters came to me and asked if I could take pictures of them, and here's the result.

This is my favorite one of Angie, the leaves look pretty cool all around her feet.

Now granted, I'm still practicing, so these pictures aren't as good as they could be, but that's no fault of those in the pictures. And if anyone wants their picture taken, I'd love more practice!

I really like this one of Alyssa, the lighting seems just right.

I like this one as well, the stairwells do a lovely job of framing both of them.

We got the sun just right in this one!

And I'm a big fan of this half shot.

(801) 549-8512 -- Text me if you want your picture taken!

There are strange things done, in the midnight sun...

Fate often deals a cruel hand, and Lady Luck always folds first. But most always the rule remains, that the house always wins. At work today, I was talking to my alzheimer's buddy, (we'll just start calling him Bud) and he was talking back...and forgot what he was saying, in mid sentence. Alzheimer's is a terrible, yet curious disease, for after a while he heard the name "Mcgee" on the television--and this is what he said--

The Cremation of Sam McGee

by Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.



Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.




And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

--As you can see, in a normal book this poem is several pages long, and he recited it, word for word, without blinking. I searched his bookcase while he was reciting it the second time, and found a huge book of poems by Robert Service. I opened it, and started reading lines and titles from some of the poems in there, and he recited over half of them along with me. It was astonishing. As I walked into the kitchen to grab him a glass of water, I asked him "When did you memorize all these poems?"
He hollered back at me, "Oh when I was twelve or so."
I walked back into the room with his water and said "Wow! That's incredible!"
He looked at me, squinted, and said "What's your name again?"
Like I said before, Alzheimer's is a cruel, yet curious disease.

Prettier than a penny in 1929

The other day at work I was chillin' with my Alzheimer's buddy at his house. I work with a home-health agency, so I work out of people's homes. It's great, and while I was at my buddy's house he decided to flip on the tv. So we sat, and we watched, for quite a while. We were halfway through our second episode of Grey's Anatomy (I flip through the channels until he sees an actor that he thinks he used to be best friends with, this time it was that blonde girl from Grey's Anatomy) when he shot out of his chair, grabbed his walker, and bolted right towards me. Now, I use the term "bolted" loosely, but when you work with old people all the time, the slowest of things seem to really speed up. I jumped up with a "what's up?" and walked toward him, to help him to his destination. I mean, this happens a lot with older people, especially with alzheimer's/dementia. They'll do really random things for really random reasons.
As I approached him, I put my hands on the front of his walker to keep it from sliding, and my elderly friend growled at me. Growled. At me. I wasn't sure how to feel, I mean, just moments ago we had shared tender comments about his grandchildren,

(His first grandDaughter, Katherine Heigl)

And now we had reverted to monosyllabic expressions of anger and hatred. After asking him what was wrong, he started listing every curse word he could think of, until I let go of the walker. As soon as I let go however, he ceased, and continued to shuffle forward. Not learning my lesson the first time, I gently grabbed ahold of the walker again. Rather than cuss at me again, he just let go of the walker, and turned around to try and make a run for it.



(His second grandDaughter, Sandra Oh)

I tossed the walker aside and hurried up behind him, placing my hand on his arm to help him stabilize, when he hollered and fell onto the couch we were walking past. Now, by this time, I was rather frazzled, what with him trying to run away and shouting and all that. But as he sat on the couch and looked up at me, he raised an eyebrow and said, "what have you got yourself all worked up about? Mrs. given you trouble?"

"No...You just startled me, that's all."

He looked offended. "Well I just wanted to sit by yah," He huffed, and resumed watching Grey's Anatomy, while I sat next to him, still processing the turn of events. A minute or two went by and we both seemed to calm down...until a kissing scene with one of his grandkids popped up.
"What are you doing boy, lookin at my granddaughter like that? Change the Channel!"
"Sorry sir."
Click
" Woah!! Change it back, would you part an old man from his prosperity?"
"Sorry Sir."
He took of his glasses and polished them, looking back at Katherine Heigl.
"Well isn't she just prettier than a penny in 1929? Wouldn't mind callin' on her on a warm evening."

"But Sir, isn't that your GrandDaughter?"
"Nah, we're just good friends, met her at school."

You have to love Wednesdays :)

Practice makes Perfect

So, I like taking pictures. A lot. And I've found that the more pictures I take, the better looking the pictures seem to get. Crazy, huh? So I was wondering what would happen if I really tried hard to be good at this photography stuff, and that's where I'm at now. Here are some of the potraits I've done before.


This is Chandler, my little brother. He wants to be a marine when he grows up, he just can't wait. We were lucky enough to find an old army jeep in our neighbor's backyard, and as you can see he brought his helmet and dog tags.




This is Noah, my littler brother, and boy let me tell you, this kid is a card shark. Never before have I seen such a young kid take an enormous liking to card games, especially poker. It's gets annoying sometimes, how good he is at it too.



This one is of Kyra and I. I saw another couple do this in a picture somewhere on the internet, and thought it was a great, and very unique look. It was also very fun, seeing as it took a couple shots to get it right. ;)



This is one of Kyra, one that I like. I'm a big fan of how the fence is used to put a frame around her, it's nice. And I have quite a lot of pictures of this girl, but there's a problem. I've run out of people to take pictures of.



I never caught this man's name, but I do know that he works on the Frontrunner train down towards the Salt Lake City end. His mustache is beautiful, to say the least. You don't see many of those nowadays, so I couldn't resist taking a picture. But my problem still stands. I need models if I'm resorting to this kind stranger on the train. You people out there, I know you want your picture taken.



So hit me up on Facebook, or text me at 801-549-8512 and let me know if you want your picture taken!

object of misplacement, scaredy cat?

You know, it's a funny feeling, when you know you've forgotten something but you just can't put your finger on what exactly it is. As a BYU parole officer I can't afford to forget. Number one rule. You forget, you die. So see if you can help me out with this little problem, before I get into some trouble and need my own parole officer.

This is where I am right now, in BellMoon cafe, where I've lost whatever it is I've lost, see anything out of place? Ignore the college flair and neo-retro format of the cabinets. Let's check around...

This is half of the family room and the hall. It's sideways because that's the angle of my neck as I crook it to see half of the family room and the hall. (If I must see it like this, so must you) Still looks like it's not missing anything, except for any decoration or personality. Put out a missing persons report on the sad soul who died of boredom when they saw this wall. Let's keep it movin...

This intertwined explosion of color represents JEM, because that's about what they looked like from my seat. All mixed and blurred and...yeah...They were on the couch, in the living room. That's all I have to say about that.

Find the missing piece? No? Lemme give you a hint. It's a girl. and She's hot. and she's not here.. She's taken off with all of my investments...

If you see this foxy lady, send her on over. There is no reward, 'cause I'm broke. Keep on looking though, she's out there somewhere...

BYU....Bell's and emerY's Universe...

As you well know, Kyra Marie and Emery Johanneson (sorry Em, don't know your middle name, or if you have one...) Have offed to college, and the big and bad BYU. Why choose such a university, you ask? Personally I believe it was to help these two mischevious girls straighten
themselves out, but let's see how that's going... ;)


To keep themselves out of trouble, Kyra and Emery joined the colorguard, to have fun participating in wholesome dancing for the whole family to enjoy.




Here the girls are, playing a cute little game they learned at BYU called "Flaunting their stuff," where they whisper cute little secrets to each other, and then strike entrancing poses.


This is Jem. (The combination of Jake and Emery). Jake was Emery's parole officer before she checked in at BYU, after which a beautiful friendship blossomed. Ages 18, Kyra and Emery live happily together at Wyview housing, with a great roommate by the name of Kourtnee. (I hope I spelled that right, sorry Kourtnee if I didn't!) There will be plenty more pictures and stories in the future, not to worry...

Anchors, Bridges and Forest Fires

Life hurts.
This unbending social addendum we are all subject to after high school life takes its heavy toll, and every so slowly. Like an monstrous slime on your skin, this slow process of aging into indifference begins on your exterior, slowly sinking in. People you knew, people who once wouldn't think twice about sharing a milkshake or swapping movies with, suddenly look upon you and...see....nothing. Are you hideously disfigured? Can you no longer be recognized? I myself have fallen victim to this horrendous mishap, and have tried every rational deduction.
"They have obviously made a mistake, they mistook me for someone else."
This isn't the case my friends, the sad fact is that it's quite the opposite. In all actuality, for most people it's a pre-emptive strike on an awkward situation. They mistook you for you, and rather than waste precious time constructing a basic and infantile and uninterested cordiality, they just stare straight through you, praying that you do not notice that they have just discarded you, tossed you out with the stray gaggle of passing thoughts that stay no longer than an instant in the thinking brain. And people think this is okay, that this is normal.
It is incredible how many bridges between personalities are in only need of minor repair before they become fully functional. But not many people ever discover this, because as soon as you graduate high school they send you sailing down your own bridged river, handing you a torch and saying "congratulations, good luck at college."
And you hold that torch high,that torch of individuality, of determination, of free agency, you show it off to all those who can see--sailing, and burning those bridges you pass underneath. Sailing, and burning, and sailing, and burning; until you reach college, the vast ocean of tertiary learning. Only then, as you begin to float out to sea, with no other land in sight, do you look back and hesitate, questioning yourself. But what do you see? Burnt wood and charcoal, following the drift of your boat...
Yet indifference gives little a little consolation in reward for your bold move. When navigation has quit you, and you can no longer scratch your head in wonder for fear of losing your hair, fate tosses you an anchor.
Most anchors are completely unforseen people from a life past, almost as if the fates fancy this juvenile humor. Perhaps these anchors are an old friend from high school that wasn't necessarily considered a friend, but lucky you, because this old pal is now the only pal you've got at Big old College. And as you step back and look at the situation, you speak to yourself, stating in amused confusion "I would never have been best buds with this person, but I can't remember why I wasn't..."
Their are select anchors that few pack onto their boats, and they keep them close and cared for at all times, for they are driven by the whip of infatuation to do so. These anchors are precious, golden anchors, and after a time, it is not infatuation that forces the sailor to maintain this type of anchor, rather his own adoring love for the machinery. Sadly as it may seem, these special "anchors," lovers past and present, who have enjoyed in the experience of stumbling through love's first forest of trial and joy together are often the weakest of anchors, and can snap as easily as a rude curse slips off the tongue. Gold is a soft metal.
For love is tender, and so very much like a forest. And for those of you who truly have loved and tried running through an actual forest when holding their lover's hand can agree. There are many trials, almost every tree's sole purpose is separating you from your loved one. As toddlers in love, most high schoolers do nothing, save weave between trees, gripping hands tight, spouting strategems for reuniting in case a particularly rough branch severs their grasp.
This is what the torch is for.
Once you've crossed this new ocean and left you're burnt bridges behind and reached a new land, you set to action. As your anchors lowers into the water for you, securing your stay, you walk up to the new and wooded and, and with a--great heave--hurl your torch into its midst. For this is what you will choose eventually, this is what you'll set your mind at, you'll be determined to do this. Because once you burn down every crooked tree in your path, there will be nothing there to part your hand from her's.
Love heals.

Pictures of the week

I got a new camera just recently, as a graduation present--and I must say, it is amazing. As every young teen acts when receiving a gift, I immediately put it to use and shot some pictures...this first one was taken where I stood when I first pulled out my camera.









I love this one, a little photoshop magic....and suddenly walking into an old house became a lot more interesting.





I started out on this road, which was super hard to find in the middle of suburban K-town, but it was a great one to begin with.

I like this one especially. Macro Rocks!






Apparantly this one was humerous. But I wasn't too thrilled about it





Then I picked up this pretty lady. What a beautiful girl! This picture is amazing. She rocks all my socks, and she's great with a camera as well. Would you look at that dazzling smile?












Two is much, much better than one. :)

Rainy Sundays

Sundays are the best, rainy Sundays are even better. Here in Kaysville, they only come once in a blue moon; so we make the best of them.
Usually we start off with a good tramp-jumping. Hayden and I are usually wearing bath robes and we're all most definitely in our pajamas, it's just more fun that way.

Down in the sport court with all the workout equipment and carpeted walls, crazy ideas bounce off each other as much as the kids on the trampoline.

Thus, spiderman is born.
You ever try to touch your toes...while defying gravity?






After the trampoline we take a couple board games to cool down, starting with the classic--Apples to Apples. After we've laughed ourselves to death over the green and red cards, we usually try a go at monopoly, but this night we shot for Scrabble.


It's a pretty rough game.



After the board games, we usually crash in someone's room, throw in a disney movie, and doze off till morning. And that's why I love Rainy Sundays.