"Tag...You're It...

Back in the day (1980-ish), on grave yard shift in Twin Falls, it used to get pretty boring. There was usually 3 officers, a sergeant, and Captain Lindell on duty in the wee hours of the morning. The radios stations went off the air at 2 a.m. and if there were any crooks to be caught, that activity was usually completed by 4 a.m. or so.

Kent McDowell, Ron Axtman and I used to play tag in the warehouse district just north of South Park and the "Singing Bridge". The area had great labyrinthian streets and winding alleys. There were also no civilian witnesses to complain about "unusual activity".

We drove Chevy Impala police cars that were deep blue metallic, devoid of any graphics and had minimal light bars on top. They really disappeared in the streets and alleys when we were searching for burglars, the most noble of pursuits, and playing tag.

Our version of tag was a little different. If you were "it", you had to literally tag the police car of the person you were tagging. The trick was to tag the other car without leaving any damage. We got quite adroit at tagging the cars without leaving dents although there were usually residual marks that the supervisors and mechanics could not figure out. Part of the "danger" of playing this brand of tag was not to get caught by the sergeant or other interested parties.

One night, Kent was rocketing down 4th Avenue West with me on his "six" trying to get a tag. Suddenly, Captain Lindell's voice crackled on the police radio, "Whaddya got?" It was clear the good Captain thought we were involved in genuine police work. (We could never see him at night as he never turned on his headlights or running lights and had a brake light cutoff switch on his dark unmarked car.) There was a long pause until Kent came on the air, "Walker's it..." We quickly scattered and waited for the inevitable end of shift when we would face the Captain.

At the end of watch, we entered the station and sheepishly walked by the Captain in the hallway. The Captain growled, "Did you get 'em?" We replied that we quit the game immediately after he spotted us.

Captain Lindell's eyes widened as he growled, "Not on account of me, I hope." A grin barely peeped at the corner of his mouth as he winked and walked out the door to head for home.

The Letter S Stands for Susan and Survivor

Susan is my oldest sister and second oldest sibling. She is 4 years older than I. I have two favorite memories of being with her when she was still in high school.

Susan used to take me to Camel's Back park in Boise and hit tennis balls at me for hours. I tried to be a great tennis practice partner but I doubt if I was able to hit many back. Susan is an excellent athlete and very quick on her feet.

One night she went on a date with a boyfriend. He was driving a Jeep Willys wagon. I hid in the back as they drove away and I announced my presence when we were well away from the house. I don't remember if I went along with them or they took me home. I do remember that Susan was not mad nor did she yell at me. She took it in stride and was a good sport about it. I don't know that I would be as kind.

I don't remember Susan ever being cross with me. She has always been kind and supportive to me. Even when I cut Todd's hair without her permission. I don't think she was happy but she was not outwardly cross with me.

Susan has an extremely creative and symmetrical mind. Her attention to detail in her photography is amazing. Many of the photographs I treasure most were taken by her. I was thrilled when she took the photographs at Matthew's reception because I knew they would be great.

Susan has not had an easy life but she does her best to make lemonade out of lemons. Susan is a survivor and has a depth of courage and resilience I greatly admire.

Susan recently sent me a message of encouragement that was greatly appreciated. The second mile. Thank you.

Happy birthday, Susie, and I love you very much.

Ride It Like You Stole It

This is me on my first "ride". I guess I started pretty young on this human powered wheel thing. Word has it I would ride for hours all over the town while wearing my stylish red floppy hat.

Most times I would get up very early, lose my britches for some reason, and ride about town wearing only a pajama top and my red hat. The neighbors would not worry about a lost child as they said it was clear who my father was because of our physical resemblance.

Upon hearing this, my father joked he would have to start closing the blinds to his bedroom when dressing.

My Mom and Dad always made sure I was not without a bike or a trike. And I would ride Charlotte's chain driven trike when she was at school. It was very cool. It is always more fun to rock a forbidden "ride".

Dig the truck...

Home Alone...with My Grandmother

In the summer of 1973, my parents and most of my siblings piled into my paternal grandparents Volkswagen Bus, along with my paternal grandparents. They all headed to New York City to visit my eldest brother and to explore the United States between Buhl, Idaho and New York City.

I stayed home with my maternal grandmother, Charlotte Paskett Weeks. Some of the departees felt bad for me as I had to stay home to work a job to save money for college. Some were glad to see me in the rear view mirror. I felt no regret.

For two whole weeks, I had my grandmother to myself. I would read meters, for Idaho Power, all day and we spent most evenings together. We talked of her childhood, her experiences in Grouse Creek and Declo, and of her marriage shortened by the death of her husband. It was the first I heard of the circumstances surrounding my grandfather's death. I also understood why my grandmother never learned to drive a car.

My grandmother cooked grand meals for us as her energy only needed to be expended for two. We talked, laughed and cried together. I would never have traded that two weeks for anything. Our talks were rather unusual as my grandmother was usually quite reserved.

My grandmother always called her loved ones "My Dear" but it was as though she only said it to me.

I miss her greatly.

The Boyz

My father often joked (I think he was joking...?!) that a marriage was like a funeral...You lose a good man either way.

Actually, when asked if he was married, he always answered, "Very".

Generational Parallels

My family moved to Hazelton, Idaho around 1970. My Dad was the District Manager for the Idaho Power Company there. I was hired as the Maintenance Engineer. Okay...janitor.

Shortly after moving there, my father was going over the accounts. He found one owner of a large farm hadn't paid his power bill in a few years. Further investigation found that the owner had intimidated the past managers and employees to the point they just let the matter lay. That was not my father's way.

Since my father's employees were afraid of this man, my father drove out to the large farm and turned off the power himself. I happened to be in the Idaho Power office when the aforementioned owner arrived in regards to his power shutoff.

The man strode past the front counter and entered my father's office using unkind and less than gentle language. My father quietly told him that there would be no power to his farm until the past due was paid in full.

The farm owner made the mistake off taking a swing at my father with a right hook. My father blocked the blow with his left shoulder and followed with a short right jab to the man's jaw. The farm owner found himself on his backside looking up, I am sure, seeing stars and my father standing over him.

The farm owner paid his bill and was never in arrears again as long as my father was District Manager.

My father once told me he never disciplined his children with his hands because he was afraid he would hurt them. I think his concern was valid.

I mourn the passing of Captain Lindell and Hal Walker's generation. Simple and direct. You may not always have agreed with my father but you always knew "where he stood".

Yeah, I know...

Ike's Jacket

Back in 1979, I was just clearing briefing and getting ready to head out of the station to began my graveyard shift. I stopped to chat with Captain Roy Lindell and a couple of other cops. Captain Lindell always worked graveyard shift as Assistant Chief.

A mid 20ish man came into the lobby and interjected into our conversation. It was clear from his demeanor and odor that he had been drinking alcoholic beverages. The man told us his wife was at "The Alley", a local bar, and would not come home. He demanded we go and fetch her.

I explained clearly and slowly this activity was out of our jurisdiction and that he should probably leave. The man began to get more abusive and began to "get up in my face". I glanced over to Captain Lindell and noted that he had reached up and had grasped the lapels of his Ike jacket with both hands. I had learned, from past experience, the posture was one Captain Lindell took when dealing with "the public". His fingers were still, however, so I knew that action on the Captain's part was not imminent.

The man escalated his behavior and I had to palm heel strike him in the chest to get him out of my officer safety space. I again glanced over at Captain Lindell and noted that he had begun to move his fingers as if "drumming" them on his chest. From my past experience, I knew might want to get out of the way.

Finally, the drunk man looked at Captain Lindell and took a wide looping swing with his fist and arm at the Captain's head. Captain Lindell easily stepped inside the swing, and quick as lightning his fist came from his chest. The large fist struck the man on the point of his chin and came back to rest grasping the same Ike jacket lapel. I had to blink and wonder if I really saw the motion it was so fast and compact.

The man flew backwards and I caught him before he hit the ground too hard. The penny loafers he was wearing on his feet flew across the room as if they were smart enough to run although their owner was not.

Captain Lindell growled a direction to take "the mook" out on the front lawn of the station until he regained consciousness. I checked on the guy about fifteen minutes later and he was gone.

So to recap: Hands motionless on lapels - get ready, fingers moving - get set, then get the heck out of the way. Police work was so simple in those days.

Sigh....

Perfection

I am almost perfect some of the time.

Colonel Tennes (USMC Ret.)

Back in 2002, I began working Crowd Management Service (C.M.S.) at the Idaho Center in Nampa. It was a good way to earn extra money and see many events, concerts and games I would not have seen otherwise. All C.M.S. were off duty cops.

The head of security was Colonel Monte Tennes (USMC Ret.). Full Bird Colonel. The Colonel held us to very high standards but we knew he always "had our six".

The first year I was assigned to work security at Idaho Stampede Basketball games when the team was still part of the Continental Basketball Association and played their games at the Idaho Center.

The uniform of the day was a blue blazer, with tie, and grey slacks. I was only assigned several games and could not see buying a blazer and slacks when I had a perfectly good grey suit and blue suit. I wore my suits to my assignments with nary a word from the Colonel.

The next year, I was assigned 7 or 8 games. I went to Macy's and purchased a blue blazer and grey slacks and wore them to the first game. As I took my post, next to the Colonel, he eyed me from head to toe. He then boomed, "You look extremely sharp Sergeant Walker."

It may sound like a small thing but it wasn't to me.

Laugh and Cry

I worked on a hay crew, in Montello, Nevada prior to my junior year in high school. During my sojourn in hay country, my family moved to Buhl, Idaho. I managed to find them after my summer job was over.

When I walked into first period English class the first daty of school, I was rocked back on my heels by a beautiful blonde sitting in the second seat of the middle row. I was in love.

The first time I brought that blonde home, she was immediately surrounded and inspected by my younger siblings. She must have passed muster as she was allowed to the dinner table.

The Sunday evening dinners at our home in Buhl were famous and crowded. There were always several guests and the missionaries were often present. A perfect audience for my father's wit, jokes and stories.

Popcorn with lemon juice. Homemade french fries.

The aforementioned blonde would laugh so hard she would start crying. Watching her only made us laugh and cry that much harder.

It didn't matter how many times I had heard my Dad's jokes or stories, I never tired of hearing them and laughed or cried just as hard each time.

I miss the big Sunday dinners with my father story telling and my mother alternating between giving him the "whammy" and correcting the dates.

I miss my Dad.

Courageous

Andrew Rosel is my third born son. He is a very special,intuitive and highly sensitive person.

The root meaning of his name is "courageous". It fits. Andrew fearlessly searches for meaning in his autistic world. He is a highly sensitive person who also struggles with loud noises and disruptive surroundings but he persists in his own personal development. He battles through the challenges and looks for the truth in things and in relationships.

Andrew was also named after his paternal grandfather and my oldest brother.

I admire Andrew's directness and lack of guile. He is relentlessly forgiving and looks for the best in others.

Andrew loves technology and has no problem exploring all aspects of high and low tech devices and applications. At the same time, he does not like network television and mind numbing video games. He loves most things European and Canadian. He wants to travel and live in Vancouver.

Above all, Andrew loves his family. All of it. The times he loves the most is when he is with cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles at family gatherings, activities and dinners.

I wish I was a lot more like Andrew.

Seek Sanctuary

Sanctuary can be a place, an activity, or both. It can be the gym, or a daily walk, a group, a close friend’s kitchen table, or whatever restores and protects the leader. But, it has to be daily. Once a week is not enough.

The above picture shows one of my son's first sanctuaries. Andrew is pretty "tuned".

Gardeners and Clods

For as long as I can remember, my family had a huge garden as I was growing up. Everything we ate was out of the garden, wild game from the field, or home made in my mother's kitchen. I don't think I ate a piece of store bought bread until I was well in my teen's. (Why is it called "canning" when the food is put into jars...?)

When we lived in Boise, in the late 60's, our garden was shared with the Robert's family. It was waaaaay out in the country by Ustick and Maple Grove. We spent most summer Saturday mornings there while weeding the garden. Unfortunately, it was also a child's paradise for play.

A freshly tilled garden made for clods. These "rocks" were fairly soft but accurate. I had perfected my art until I could loft them high in the air when the "target" was not looking. The clod would strike Justin when he surreptitiously checked to see if I had a clod ready to propel. I would be looking at him innocently while weeding away.

One day it was especially hard to stay on task and we children would stray from weeding the garden to the wonderful places to venture on the property. My father worked for most of the day trying to keep us, especially me, on task doing the work in the garden. He finally was successful in getting me in the garden but I was not happy to not be playing with the other children. I weeded for a time and then look over to see my Dad lying down between two rows of plants. I immediately verbally upbraided him for lying down on the job while the rest of us were working.

My father turned his head to me to reveal the malevolent look I was altogether too familiar with. Unknown to me, my Dad's back had "gone out" on him and he was unable to use his lower body. This problem did not deter my father as he jammed the business end of the shovel into the soft earth and began to pull himself bodily up using his powerful arms, hand over hand, on the shovel handle. He was doing whatever it took to come for me even though his legs were gone. At that point, I could see my life ending quite young and I took flight.

At a safe and hidden distance, I waited until my father's temper receded and I scampered back to the garden. There was no garden better weeded in Idaho and the contiguous States that particular day.

There are mulitple definitions for "clod".