Sunshine Boy Reprised

In case you thought I was funnin' you.

Sunshine Boy

The above picture is of my son, Matthew, on his 4th birthday. He was always this cheerful and always warmed my heart even when I was very down.

I made it a point not to know the gender of my children until they were born. I was sure that my second child was going to be a girl. I was very shocked when I was wrong. I knew there was a reason, hence the choice for this child's name. I would have probably had no more children.

My wife always left the names up to me. Silly woman.

Matthew is derived from the Hebrew language and it means "Gift of Yahweh". This is certainly the case with this child. He is a great gift.

I was named after my great uncle Ezra Clair. He died at the age of sixteen. I don't know a lot about this great uncle but I have always had warmth in my heart when I think of him. Matthew inherited Ezra's first name as his second. Ezra is a very sacred name.

Matthew has always been my Sunshine Boy. I could show you a hundred photographs where his countenance is the same as shown above. He is wise for his age and outwardly is made of quiet calm. Matthew is a self-made man. He possesses very high emotional intelligence and lives a life of service. Matthew worked hard through adolescent/adult adversity and has great faith.

Matthew is "one of the men next to me".

I want to be like Matthew when I grow up.

Blog Disclaimer

Yeah, I know the disclaimer should come first.

I write this blog mainly for for myself. I may be the only one who understands it. I apologize in advance if I offend anyone. That is not my intention.

The metacognition this blog brings me is invaluable. It also helps me with closure and dealing with my demons.

I also wish to share memories, history and stories of people who matter. Matter to me. Hopefully some of them matter to you.

But if I am Serious and you are Roebuck, who is minding the store...?!?!

Women...

The above is my Dad kissing my first girlfriend, Lin. I was thirteen. She was 6 years older. My brother, Lorin, beat me to the punch and married her first.

Yeah, I know.

The Art of Names

The picture above is of my son Arthur. It is his second birthday and he is making a point with his great grandfather of the same name. Arthur. They are much alike. Gentle giants who can "bring fire" if needed.

Names mean a lot to me. I did not name my sons through accident or popular acceptance. I love and believe in history. I will explain.

If you know me, you won't be surprised my totem is the Bear. I have known this from childhood. I even do my banking at a bank whose symbol is a bear. What animal should be our national symbol? A grizzly bear according to me and Teddy Roosevelt. I won't even bore you with the amount of bears that grace my Sanctuary. Winnie the Pooh is my favorite.

The name Arthur, or Arturo means "the bear". I love the tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. I believe in King Arthur and Camelot. King Arthur was a sheepdog and cared for those who could not protect themselves. He knew that a great king did not make for a great nation but a great people did.

My father once told me the only thing he could really give me was his name. He admonished me to take good care of it. My father was a sheepdog in his own way.

This is the legacy I gave my son, Arthur. And the legacy of bearing the name of his great grandfather, his grandfathers, and his father.

My son, Arthur, is well up to the task. He is a poet, a tactician, a scholar and a sheepdog...among many other things. Arthur thinks and ponders. His home is always filled with souls from many walks of life. Why? Because they feel safe and comfortable under his roof. Hell, I feel safe and comfortable under his roof. And I know why. He watches my "six".

Arthur, the Bear, is one of "the men next to me".

Hoot and Sheepdogs

"When I go home, people'll ask me, "Hey Hoot, why do you do it man? What, you some kinda war junkie?" You know what I"ll say? I won't say a goddamn word. Why? They won't understand. They won't understand why we do it. They won't understand that it's about the men next to you and that's it. That's all it is."

T. A. and the Magic Water Grade

When I was 19 years old, I worked at Buhl Implement over the course of an extended summer. My job was to build plows, hay balers, discs and the like. I worked with an old boy named Ted Johnson. He was 57 years old! But he is another story I will tell later.

I worked for T. A. He was called that reverently and respectfully by all the workers at the "Imp". There were three owner/partners but T. A. was the only one beloved.

I was only "dating" T. A.'s daughter but I was known by the "Imp" workers as the "good" son-in-law because of my relation with T. A. I received automatic approval because T. A. did not surround himself with men of questionable ilk. Yes, there was a "bad" son-in-law.

T. A. entrusted me to be the truck driver/tractor hauler. I drove a huge old International truck with a tilt bed and I hauled gigantic tractors to and from the field. The truck was a bob tail with an added tag axle to hold the extra weight. Unfortunately, the same forethought was not added when increasing the brake power. It was scary, exciting and heady to have such a responsibility. T. A. would come find me, in the Yard, and hand me a scribbled note on where to pick up the next monster tractor.

One fateful morning, I was dispatched to Bell Rapids, a huge farming tract west of Hagerman at the top of a long grade. Magic Water Grade. On my way back, tractor loaded and chained, I inched my way down Magic Water grade waiting for the brakes to fade as usual. After I had passed all the emergency turnoffs for runaway trucks, the brakes disappeared and I attempted to use my usual oft-used strategy of jamming the transmission into a lower gear....Missed...Oh Oh, runaway truck with a huge tractor aboard.

Being a snot-nosed 19 year old kid, I faced my mortality for the first time. Amazingly, I was calm and notified myself that I was dead for sure. I calmly guided the truck down the winding grade hoping there would not be a traveling automobile passing at the T intersection at the bottom. Thank the Lord, there was no traffic and I crossed the road unimpeded. The collision would have been terrible.

The trunk went down a deep embankment and headed for the canal. Suddenly the truck was slowed and came to a stop with the front wheels of the trunk just barely dropping over the lip of the canal. I sat there in the drivers seat for a while amazed I had survived the rapid descent. I had resigned to death. I climbed out of the truck and saw that the folded ramp/tailgate of the tilt bed had dug a furrow down the embankment stopping the truck. The heavy 2 inch steel plate had been bent back perceptibly. I dropped to my knees and shook from every limb as I saw the huge tractor had shrugged it's bonds and was nestled against the "headache rack"separating the tilt bed from the cab of the truck I had occupied. Somehow, momentum had not propelled it through the back of my head. (This is not even close to the first time my guardian Angel had been working overtime. Those are other many stories.)

After regaining my composure and ability to perambulate, I did so to a nearby farmhouse and called T. A. As usual, he was very calm and matter of fact, when I told him of my truck wreck. This was no surprise as T. A. was never rattled, never lost his calm and never pontificated. My mind's eye watched him amble over to his International Scout, while having several short conversations with the other "Imp"folks on the way, never thinking to mention his purpose or destination.

T. A. arrived at my wreck and looked over the situation. He backed the tractor off the tilt bed, hooked it up to the truck, and pulled the truck out. T. A. then put the tractor back on the truck and we cinched the chains down. He then strode to his Scout and said he would meet me in town. I stared at him shocked and amazed he still entrusted me with the precious truck and cargo. I limped the truck back into Buhl slowly as the ?crash? had sheared the rear axle bolts of the truck making the trip a little bumpy.

For the next 33 years of T. A.s life, he entrusted me with his precious ones. I married his only daughter and fathered his only 3 grandchildren. T. A. never treated me any differently than he did on that day. Calm, tolerant, wise and respectful. T. A. invested greatly in my education and helped to guide my journey through experience and knowledge towards gaining some wisdom. His example was a guiding light for me in so many ways I cannot begin to list them all. T. A. was quiet class and intelligence.

Ted Arthur Ahlm died on Sunday, Father's Day, April 21st, 2009. I love him and miss him greatly. His lessons and examples live on in me, my wife, and my sons. I think of him daily. I will end this writing with the admonition he often left with me upon parting.

"Endeavor to persevere...!"

All Right

Wouldn't it be great

if just for one moment

everything was all right...

The Tail of Pop's Squirrel

Pop Martin lived across the street from us on Harrison Blvd. in Boise in the 1960s. (Ironically his grandson and namesake currently lives across the street from me.) He was a very successful trial lawyer before he retired. Pop treated the members of my family in very different and varying ways.

Pop did not like my brother Justin and treated him poorly. I always felt bad about that although Pop was ambivalent about me. I feel Pop almost went out of this way to demean and, at least, minimize Justin. I mostly thought Pop was mean.

Pop had a squirrel that he had trained to come into his front door, sit on the arm of his chair, and let Pop feed him peanuts. This squirrel was very important to Pop. It was a large squirrel with a luxurious tail.

One day, Pop's squirrel showed up totally missing it's tail. It was rather hilarious watching the squirrel try to negotiate trees and telephone lines having lost it's main means of balancing. There were many theories about how the squirrel lost the tail but no eye witnesses or solid evidence. We moved to another town with having the mystery of the tail solved.

Justin stayed with me for a while shortly before his untimely death. We were talking one day and somehow the subject of the squirrel came up. We conjectured about the cause of the lost tail. Justin said absolutely nothing but a mischievous and greatly amused look came on his face. His demeanor left me no doubt that Justin was at the root of the squirrel tail demise. In my minds eye, I see Justin cornering the squirrel on Pop's front porch and chopping it's tail off with a shovel.

If you knew Justin, you could imagine the surprise I felt at learning of the deed. It was so unlike the Justin we unknowingly put on a pedestal. How unfair that was to Justin. I am sorry.

Good for you, little brother and Happy Earth Birthday.

Runnin' Down a Dream

I once asked my Dad why he could always catch me on foot, when I was trying to evade consequences of bad behavior, though I was younger and faster.

He told me, "Mad is always faster than scared".

He was right.

Psychological Front

About thirty years ago, I was working graveyard on an autumn night. We had a full crew that night: one sergeant, three officers and Captain Lindell.

I was driving down Kimberly Road, at 3 a.m., when I observed a 20 year old white male walking down the sidewalk with his dog. He looked at me and then looked quickly way. His manner exuded "if I don't look at the cop, then he can't see me". I stopped and did a Terry Stop on him. I patted him down and found his army coat was full of food and items marked with the "Circle K" branding. I asked to see his receipt for the stuff but he said he lost it. I got him to voluntarily get in my car and we drove to the Circle K to have the clerk verify he had bought the items. His dog jumped in the back seat. I could see his rapid eye movement and body language during our drive and knew he was going to run as soon a s the car stopped.

The Circle K was on the corner of Locust and Kimberly Road. Directly next to it was the Pioneer Bar and directly behind it was the Pioneer Trailer Park where my paternal grandfather once lived. I knew the area well.

As the police car pulled to a stop, my passenger threw the door open and bolted. I was ready for him and was hot on his heels as he ran into the trailer park. I chased him for about 100 yards into the labyrinth of the trailer park. Studies have found that the runner will usually make two right turns and then try to hide. This guy made it through the two right turns but then I was on him.

We both went to the ground on the harsh gravel driveway of the trailer park and the fight was on. It was nasty, dirty ground fighting with no rules or holds barred. We fought hard and furious to a standstill until all I could do was lay on top of the perp, with my full weight, to try to maintain control. All I could hear was our combined labored breathing and my heart pounding in my ears.

The last radio traffic I had sent was that I was en route to the Circle K. The only tools I had on my belt was a revolver, three speed loaders and a pair of handcuffs. No portable radios back in those days. I was spent and was despairing about how to get this guy into custody.

It seemed like forever but suddenly I floated off the ground as if gravity had taken a vacation. I landed softly on my feet and saw Captain Lindell "take control" of my bad guy. Captain Lindell "cuffed and stuffed" the prisoner in his unmarked police car and then turned to see how I was doing. My uniform was ruined and the backs of my hands were hamburger from my efforts to gain control of the crook's hands which were usually under his body next to the gravel. I discovered my holster had been pulled clear around to the front of my body clearly demonstrating how hard the suspect had tried to get my gun to kill me. Thanks to Mr. Hoyt for his excellent break-front holster.

I remarked to Captain Lindell how he could always find me when I was in trouble and about his amazing ability to care for his men. Captain Roy Lindell just winked at me and growled, "It's just a psychological front". It wasn't the first or last time I heard him use that phrase to deflect praise or thanks that made him a little uncomfortable.

I stumbled to my car and followed Captain Lindell's directive to get cleaned up. He took my attempted killer to jail. Turns out he was an escapee from the Idaho State Penitentiary where he was serving a sentence for manslaughter. Go figure.

Captain Lindell..."No one is better than you". (Another one of his lines I will have to tell you about.)