Shoemergency

Last December, I called my brother, Mike, in a panic as the most special Air Jordans released without me paying attention. I have a predilection for black Air Jordans and the 23 was the epitome of the Jordan mystique and coolness. I called him and his wife, Julie, immediately went into action. She made phone calls and hit two stores in SLC before she was able to score the coveted kicks.

Everytime I wear those AJs, as recent as last Friday, my heart is warmed by my recollection of the shoemergency and Julie's sensitive and caring actions. Thanks Julie and I promise to never put another rug burn on Mike's forehead again.

What Is In A Name

I am going to pretend Bryce and Kadra's new earth spirit is named after me...

Mothers and Sons

My mom was on the top of the world at age two...or at least on top of the mailbox. A couple of decades ago, I only half-jokingly told my mother I was the "black sheep" of the family. I searingly received a 3 degree "Bunna" look that stopped me in mid-sentence. She was having none of that.

My mother has always had unconditional love for me even when my actions hurt or disappointed her. When I am in trouble, she is there for me. My mother embodies charity and rarely do you hear a discouraging word from her.

It would have been hard to be the oldest in the family, fatherless at age 16 and having a widowed mother who worked outside the home. Can't imagine it.

Last night, at a family gathering, I made a comment about an ethic of my family growing up: You did not complain. My mother remarked that she would have listened...and she did and does listen very well. Nonetheless, it was clearly part of our family ethic that we did not complain.

I remember wanting a pair of "rough-out" cowboy boots and a Levi jacket, when I was in junior high, as that was the style. My mother took me to Sears, on State Street, and bought me both. Being a perfectionist, I was unhappy that the boots did not have stitching on the uppers and the Levi jacket had a red, instead of plaid, lining. I can't remember if I complained out loud. I later realized that the purchase was probably a real sacrifice at the time as I had many siblings also needing food and clothing. I still feel shame at my selfishness. I hope I didn't complain as that is not what Walker children did.

My mother is the closest person to being a saint that I know. Thank you, Mom.

Elemental...

When I was a child, my first real taste of freedom was when I had access to my first bicycle. I left my trusty three wheeler for the balancing act of riding a bike just like my older siblings. I have no doubt I traveled all the streets of each town my family landed in.

It has been proven the bicycle is the most efficient form of travel but the experience transcends this mundane plane. I love riding my trusty road bike down the pavement with no cares except to make the combined man/machine move down the road. Riding a mountain bike is okay but requires more attention to rocks, logs and debris. Not as pure for me.

Being a "tarhead" is the ultimate bike experience. Finishing the century ride with "nothing left in the tank", legs cramping when trying to stand and sprint at the end. The magic of riding a bike is elemental, serene, competitive, pushing limits, feeling the pain of effort, climbing endlessly, wondering how far you can push your straining muscles and mind. Tight pacelines with trusted friends. "Screaming" down a long descent, tires barely keeping contact, knees gripping the top tube, hands and body tucked on the curled bars. Pain is weakness leaving the body.

It hurts so good.

Why Ruin It With Buckshot

My father, Hal Wilson Walker, was a natural "crack" shot with a rifle, handgun or shotgun. He had a trusty Remington 12 gauge semi-auto shotgun.

In the mid 70's, I was sitting on the lowered tailgate of my Dad's Suburban. My lifelong friend, Dan White, sat next to me as we flew down the road to the next pheasant hunting oasis somewhere between Buhl and Castelford in southern Idaho. Fred Sheltrown, city folk turned country gentleman, was in the front with my father. We had been pheasant hunting for most of the day and were marveling about how my Dad never missed a shot. Although we were travelling about 45 to 50 miles an hour, my Dad slowed the car to a stop. He said he had just heard a pheasant in the barrow pit and he backed up to the alleged spot. Fred, Dan and I laughed as there was no way anyone could have heard a pheasant given the circumstances. My father leapt from the car just as the pheasant launched itself across the road left to right. My father's shotgun swung in an easy arc leading the "loud" male bird. Suddenly, the bird's flight was interrupted by a bundle of low slung cable adorning the line of power poles. The pheasant flipped around the cables and fell to the ground lifeless.

My friend Dan turned to me and said, "He doesn't even have to shoot the damn things. They just surrender!"

Mrs. Lubkin

Mrs. Lubkin, prim and proper, lived in the oldest house on Harrison Boulevard in Boise, Idaho. She may have been the oldest person living on Harrison Boulevard. She lived two doors to the north from me. The Hamiltons lived between (another story).

As I was passing from childhood into adolescence, I was often her companion, employee and protector. It was probably my first non-family experience as a "sheepdog". Mrs. Lubkin's home was dark stone with a wrap around green porch and a porch swing. We would often sit quietly on the porch together rarely uttering a word. The garden and yard was a true "secret garden" with hedges full of hidey holes, hanging vines, a low back shed from which to spring on unsuspecting prey in the alley and plenty of alternating shadows and sunlight.

Mrs. Lubkin would send me to the little store on Hill Road (precursor to the current Co-op) to buy a loaf of bread or some tea. She would pull out her small black leather coin purse, count out the exact amount of money needed (she never missed) with an extra nickel for me.

I would rake the leaves out of her perimeter hedge, delighted when she could never catch me doing it, and watch her wonder at her unknown benefactor. I think she knew.

I loved her.