Indoor Swimming Pool

My parents were gone at a church function and I'm sure we were supposed to be doing something useful.  We were poor Colorado country kids and I'm not sure any of us had ever been in a swimming pool.  Maybe the older kids had been to the community pool in Pueblo, I'm not sure.  I am sure I had never been in a real swimming pool, but I had received a plastic 50 gallon wading pool for my fourth birthday.  It was shaped like a turtle with the neck being a little slide, and I mean little, maybe 20 inches.  My sister had taped a nickle to it and I remember walking out of the hallway, with my hands modestly in my mouth as my family clapped for the birthday boy.  I had a pool as good as the ones in town.
On this sunny day though, the Ballard kids were talking about what it would be like to be rich.  "I heard rich people have indoor pools so they can swim even in winter. If you have ever experienced a Colorado winter you know that it can get cold, especially if your house is heated by a single wood burning stove in the family room.
Awe the life of luxury, it seamed almost in reach.  But wait, an indoor pool you say?  Is that the true measure of success?  Well then, nothing but the best for the Ballard kids.
So we did what any upstanding  idiots would do, we brought the pool in the house and into the room nearest a spigot.  With a little team work we opened the creaky window and snaked the hose inside to fill up the pool, and of course we sent lookouts to see if Mom and Dad were kicking up dust coming down the road. Time fly's when you are living a life of luxury, and I guess it wasn't until we were all splashed that we realized the floor boards were bending beneath our feet.  Then I think it dawned on us all at once.  The pool was two flimsy too lift and too heavy to boot. The only way to drain those little pools is to dump them.

African Mother Medicine

Annie and I spent 7 weeks in Mozambique after our wedding. We were teaching English among other projects at a small teacher's college near the capital city of Maputo. Our accommodations were austere by most western standards. Sporadic running water, rickety home-made beds with old foam mattresses, difficult public transportation, no phone, etc. Not really austere, but remote. Annie was in the process of shooting a documentary style film about the growth of the LDS church in Mozambique, and as a new husband, I found that a great deal of my time was focused on lugging around camera equipment and running errands.
On one such errand I was running along a dirt road with a camera in my hands that Annie had sent me to fetch. There were eucalyptus trees planted along one side, presumably or shade, and brush on the other. I liked to take my time walking this road because earlier I had found a flat chameleon that had been run over by a tire. I have never really recovered from my boyhood fascination with snakes and lizards, and the discovery of the chameleon filled my with wonder and hope that I might happen across some interesting African wildlife.
On this particular day, I was running. I don't remember why I was running, but I was. On my right, several women were walking along the path with heavy loads balanced on their heads. Fruit, laundry, groceries, balanced with perfect skill as their dusty feet shuffled along in bright flip-flop sandals.
As I ran, the setting sun glared in my eyes, and the insects of the evening began to swarm. I felt them pepper my skin as I ran through clouds of small black gnats. Soon my hair was an ecosystem of insects and I ran my hand through to brush them away. It was bound to happen and it did. One of the little blokes went directly into my right eye. Now, all of you have had a bug in your eye, but this one was different. As my blinking eye mashed the poor fellow into mud and my tears began to flow, I felt one of the most intense stinging sensations I have ever felt. Almost in a panic I rubbed and pushed on they eye. The insect must have had some venom that punished runners, for ten seconds hadn't passed before my eye was so inflamed and blurry that I couldn't see out of it. Of course this slowed my pace. I walked for some distant and was really quite alarmed at how intense the sting was, but I couldn't dislodge the black blur from my eye.
I had no choice, so stopped one of the passing women and said as politely as I could in Portuguese, "Excuse my could you help me please? I know this is odd but I have something in my eye, could you see if you can get it?" She understandingly lowered the basket from her head and approached. This is where it got weird. Without a word she grasped my head quite firmly with one strong hand in back and one on my forehead, one thumb on each eyelid upper and lower. She forced my eye open with the force of a seasoned mother and looked. "Eu acho bichinho." She said assertively, (I think it's a bug). "Yes it is a bichinho," I said, "can you get it out?" Then without any warning, she spat, powerfully, but with pinpoint accuracy. I felt the spray on my face and a wet gob in my eye, and the black blur....gone. Like salivary artillery she had honed in and spat the bug out of my eye! She released me and I could see through the blurry tears her hand on her hips and a satisfied smile. I was stunned. Did that just happen?What could I say? "Obrigado minha senhora" I stammered. (Thank you Miss.) She gave a polite bow and said, "Nao a de que." (It was nothing). I wiped the spit from my eye and trotted on, trying to process what had just happened. Although grateful, I confess I was looking forward to splashing some water on my face, perhaps even with a bit of soap. To my amazement, the stinging sensation immediately dispersed. Once recovered from the shock of the spit wad in my eye, I couldn't help but smile and finally laugh. It was a strangely exciting and not altogether unpleasant dose of African mothers medicine. And as I trotted off into the sunset and through the bugs, I couldn't help but think, "Can't wait to try this one on my kids."

BB Gun Fight

Brandon and I had made an exquisite raccoon trap out of plywood. It used a mousetrap as a trigger and slammed tight when anything crawled after the enticing tuna fish we had laid as bait. One day while checking our trap, we encountered a squalid gang of notorious neighborhood bad guys poking around our trap. They armed with BB guns and we with slingshots. Two of us, four of them. They were a villainous group. Lazy, outspoken, obnoxious bullies who we had little contact with because they were two streets over and not immediate neighbors. But, we knew them well enough to know they were foes not friends. I don't recall exactly how it got started, but I guess it was something like this. "Hey, get away from our trap." "Oh, its a trap is it?" The conversation escalated. "You guys stay away or I'll shoot you with my wrist rocket." When one of the boys gave our trap a little kick, it was like the shot heard around the world. I took aim and let a rock fly which pelted the pudgy 10 year old in the fleshy part of his lower back and I watched him squirm at the sting. They returned fire with a volley of BBs from their pump up guns that sent Brandon and I ducking for cover as twigs snapped around us. Brandon and I split up onto opposite sides of the canyon above our enemies and lobbed pebbles in from above, a good military move. After a few minutes of this relentless barage the bullies scurried down the trail in retreat. Brandon and I though it was a final retreat, but we were wrong and we made a crucial mistake. We chased our enemy.
100 or so yards down the trail, the enemy launched a counter attack and caught us by surprise. One gunner on my flank and the other dead ahead near the creek. I was pinned down. I was shocked to see them pumping their guns with 10 pumps for maximum velocity. I was taking heavy fire and the BBs were hitting the rocks I was hiding behind with enough force to shatter dusty fragments in my face. This was serious. I tried to return fire but couldn't find any rocks small enough for my slingshot among the boulders. Just then I felt a terrible sting in my side. There was blood soaking up the fruit of the lomb cotton T-shirt on my left side under the armpit. The gunner on my flank had moved into a clear shooting position and was now making contact. The sting of the BB felt like a wasps sting, but was dulled by the adrenaline rushing through my skinny body.
There was only one thing to do. Brandon had been captured and was being held at gunpoint. I waited for the pudgy one near the creek to fire and begin to reload. Like a lion seeking out the weak or elderly among the heard I fixed my eyes on the fat one who was now frantically pumping up his gun for another shot. I charged with the speed of a tiger, my 14 inch waist and bony arms in a blur of ferocity. Tackling him into the cold water and pinning him down, he squirmed and fought as I wrested the gun from his hands. He started to bawl and the shooting stopped. Everyone saw the blood on my side and began to fear their mothers intuition. "Your the ones that started this hell." he blubbered. We had a short argument about who started it, and then meandered off as if The Lord of the Flys had a different ending. I still have a scar in my side.

Nincompoop and the Green Muck

Tom and Jerry came on immediately after Sesame Street, so occasionally when Mother was busy and Sesame Street was over, I got the chance to watch violence on TV for a few minutes. Mother would come into the room, annoyed at herself for letting time get away from her and switch the 8" black and white TV off using a little dirty knob at the base.

On one occasion Tom had sent Jerry into a sneezing fit by sprinkling pepper on his head. I wondered, "did pepper really make one sneeze?" And, "By what mechanism is this accomplished?" So, being the young curios man that I was, I lifted myself onto the counter and picked up a crystal pepper shaker with a dented aluminum lid. With my feet firmly on the ground, I sprinkled a little on my head. Nothing. I sprinkled a little more. Nothing. Then, I tipped my head back until it was upside down and really shook the pepper up my nostrils. I waited, nothing, and then like a hot coal my nose and sinuses began to burn. I gagged, I sneezed, I coughed, I sneezed some more. I began to cry, but this only made it worse as my nose began to be stuffy. I sneezed and sneezed. Great green gobs of pepper muck. The green turned to red as my nose began to bleed.

Later on my Mother called me a name that I didn't know at the time but knew better thereafter. Nincompoop.

Last Stop on the Idaho Express

The Wyoming sky stretched over us in true bigsky style. Sometimes you look at a blue sky and know that its a warm blue sky, sometimes you know it's a cold blue sky. This one was cold, cold and empty like I imagine space would be for an astronaut. It wasn't particularly cold, for being 13000 feet above see level, but still nippy. We had just summited the Grand Teton in Wyoming. The ice in the Stetnar Collier was cold and hard and had made for a very direct and uneventful climb. Now coming down by a different route, my climbing buddies and I lazily picked our way through the rocks scree, the most difficult part or our day behind us.
To my right, was a wall of granite where the peak plunged toward heaven, to my left was a glacier, affectionately called the Idaho express, because if one fell on this glacier, ones body would be found in the neighboring state of Idaho.
I put my ice axe away to free my hands for easier climbing down. Now and again the route required a short scramble down a 6 or 8 foot cliff, followed by more boulders and scree. The sun had been shinning now for several hours and the snow was getting softer. I found that I could save my weary body by jumping off the small cliffs onto the now soft snow for a jarring, but bellowed landing. Lazy daydreams of burgers in town began to creep in.
The Idaho express now squeezed it's way into our path of decent and I admired the view into the flat potato country thousands of feet below. I took another jump onto soft snow, then another. I hadn't yet noticed the danger about to engulf me. Above, the peak blocked the sun, and cast a shadow over the glacier. I jumped again, but this time, the snow was not soft and I felt my ankles bend painfully under the weight of my pack. Solid ice, and steep. The shadow of the peak over this particular part of the glacier made it so it nearly ever melted. My feet went out from under my like they were greased and gravity pulled my instantly down the Idaho express. My axe, the only thing capable of stopping such a fall, was tucked neatly in my pack. Gaining speed my toes dug into what they could. I actually could see through the blurry froth of powdered ice my friends disappearing above. I dug in my finger tips with all my force and felt one or two finger nails separate from the tips. The noise of my bodies attempts to slow the fall deafened my ears, like stone grating against ice. I let out something half scream and half groan. At the same moment when I realized that I was doomed, suddenly something slammed jarringly nto my legs. I felt pain rush up through my shins, making me dizzy. I tuned to see what had saved me. I had by some luck or some intervention, managed to slam into the only outcropping of rocks on the glacier. Last stop on the Idaho express. Wet cold blood covered my knees and legs and I could feel it soaking my socks, and although I was very sore, and my fingertips mangled, I was alive with no broken bones.

The Rooster

The chicken coupe in our backyard was at least a 10' by 12' enclosure. Framed with old two by fours and covered in one inch chicken wire, it was always full of yellow hay, red hens, and.....a rooster.
The rooster routinely chased me from my favorite play areas around the barn. It was a helpless feeling to find myself playing quietly near a fence or behind the shed, and have his cocky legs strut around the corner, looking for a fight.
Instinctualy I was afraid of the rooster, but my experience with him left me even more terrified. Several times he had strutted around apparently uninterested in me, only to take me by surprise when he turned my way and increased his pace in an all out rooster charge, flapping his wings and occasionally catching me with a spur. To a four year old, there is nothing quite so intimidating as a charging rooster.
One quiet afternoon I was near the hen house. Maybe mom had sent me after eggs, but I can't really remember. Earlier I had been admiring my ears in the mirror and felt very proud that they were not large cumbersome ears, but small dignified ears. The kind of ears of a serious and important person. I couldn't help but notice that the chicken wire holes were nearly the same size as said ears, and for some reason, I had the urge to see if my ear would fit through the hole.
I scrunched up my ear and felt with my fingers, felt for the hole, and..pop. It fit. With my curiosity satisfied, I pulled away gently, only to find that a small barb of wire had caught the tender skin on the back of my ear. That's when I saw it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the cocky legs of the rooster, purposely pacing towards me. Before I could free my captured ear, the rooster was on me pecking and spurring me like a cowardly bully picking on a defenseless child. It was a blur of feathers, noise, and pain. Noise both from the merciless clucking, but also from my screams.
Somehow free from the wire, I ran into the house.

Sometime later, my Father, somehow sensing my defeat helped my kill and cook that rooster. I watched Dad cut the heads off several chickens with a quick strike of the axe against the stump of an old cottonwood tree. When it was the roosters turn, Dad held him still and gave me the axe. Sadly, I was too weak as a four year old to swing the axe. I managed to lift it clumsily ten or so inches above the beasts' neck, but didn't have the strength to swing it and managed only to allow gravity to pull the axe down. It didn't cut at all, and rather bounced off the neck of the now pitiful creature. I struggled to lift the axe twice more to strike the neck before Dad had mercy on him and cut off his head with one swing. Even in death it seamed the still flapping body flapped my way as if to make one final charge.

Driving down a dirt road under the blue Colorado sky, I looked out the window of our station wagon over the wood side paneling and watched the weeds roll by. Mother had made a sharp turn and I knew the sound of wheels sliding in gravel meant we had arrived. A 1960's flatbed truck sat in a dusty swirl kicked up by the wagon. "This way," Mom said as she lead me by the hand toward the dark shade of a tin barn.
A man in overalls greeted us. "You here for chicks or ducklings?" "We're here for some chick," Mom said as if to remind me of our purpose. I peered into an big metal trough with hundreds of little black chicks contrasted against yellow hay. Each one had a distinct white mark on it's head, and little scaly feet balanced perfectly below. The peeping and chirping intensified every time I reached my hand into touch the downy feathers and the chick swirled away like rippling water at my reach.
I named each of the ten, according to the shape of the white mark on their heads. Checkers, Arrow, Fleck, and another Johny, after my older brother's friend. It was a constant battle to keep them fed with pill bugs I'd collected from dirty boards on our feral two-acre lot. The helpless bugs plunked into the tin cage one by one before being snatched up by a greedy chick. The occasional earth worm became incited a rugby match among my growing brood. But day by day, they grew larger and my love and fascination with them grew deeper. Like children going through an ugly phase, so did my little chicks begin to loose their soft down and sprout prickly feathers. How dirty, how scaly, how greedy and mean. And yet, like a father I tended them, scolded them, fed them and cleaned them. Life became sacred.
Months passed. When the chicks were too large for their trough my Mother moved them to a pen on the sunny side of the barn. Their feathers had grown now and their bantam wings began to flap both in combat and rest. They learned to scratch the ground for seeds and ants, always to return to the cage for shade and safety. They needed me less, and as a four-year old, I felt my children pull away into their own lives, taking care of their own needs.
On a clear morning in the Colorado, when the early morning light makes it appear that mist still lingers, although there is none, I looked out the back window and saw the dark shapes in the dust near the chicken coop. I tightly velcroed my sneakers, and whisked along with my curious eyes fixed on the mysterious shape. As a neared, more shapes appeared in the short dry grass.
Blood, entrails, feathers, crushed bodies like a battlefield. My stomach tightened and I felt like running. The smell of death and blood make my saliva thicken and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I swallowed. The metallic smell of blood filled my nostrils and distilled on my palate. Feathers, death, cold eyes, coyote tracks, stillness except for the swirling of downy feathers in the breeze. All ten lay lifeless. My first experience with death.