My intention today was to write about the second near miss / close call, but my surroundings prompt me to move that to another day. I sit in the view area next to the bridge over Starvation Reservoir. A monument to the Dominguez y Escalante Expedition of 1776 describes the impossible terrain they traveled under the guidance of a Ute Indian from Colorado. Indeed, this is a desolate landscape, yet beautiful in the way someone from the concrete madness of the city would see a place impossibly removed from their life as beautiful. I originally identified this as a promising spot to set up the telescope, being far enough out of town to escape the worst of the immediate light pollution and open enough to allow a full view of the sky.
The sun just sank below the horizon, and the storm that blew through earlier evaporated into distant spears of color. When the storm was raging, I told RJ, one of my customers, that the clouds had spoiled the stars for the evening, but it is surprisingly clear now. I will likely pick this back up later at the hotel.
It’s now a little over an hour later, and I have never seen a swarm of mosquitos like the one that attacked me tonight. Things were going so well at first. I was setting up the telescope and chatting with Erica on FaceTime when the last light faded, and I was eaten alive. I learned tonight that those nasty little things love ankles and arms. There are at least twenty bites I can count, and likely more. I stopped at a gas station to see if they had any cortisone, but no luck. I’ll suffer through the itching tonight and assess tomorrow. I have an early morning, so I’ll sign off.
I have limited time today so I will do this on the computer. At lunch with my boss today, he mentioned his son would take his family to Havasupai in a few weeks. This made me think of near misses and false alarms, two of which come to mind.
One was in Havasupai in 2006. This was during a period of significant instability in my life. I wasn’t doing well in college (I would drop out that semester), and only worked a few hours a week as a webmaster for a small art gallery. An acquaintance from an old-school photography class I was in had a friend drop out of her trip to Havasupai last minute and asked if I was interested in going. Never one to turn down an adventure, I was thrilled.
While Havasupai itself was outstanding and worth experiencing, the trip was awkward. About ten college students were in the group, all friends from high school and a decade younger than me. I’ve never enjoyed large groups, but to be in close quarters for a week with a bunch of spoiled rich kids was lots of fun. I made attempts at making connections, but the age and socio-economic gaps were too large, so I made the best of it and went along for the ride. Looking back, they probably saw me as the creepy guy with a camera.
The hike down to Havasupai is long, hot, and brutal. We planned to drive straight down from SLC to beat the heat and hike in the dark. This brought us to Vegas around dusk, so, of course, we had to stop and ‘cruise the strip.’ The details are as you might imagine. Several cars had to change drivers, and we witnessed a fight between two prostitutes that was broken up by the police. The anguished cries from one of them, clutching her hair, became the theme for the day “…my weave, my weave!” All of it made me sad and ashamed to be human.
The hike down the canyon in the cool, starlit darkness was incredible. We got to camp in the late morning and slept until the early afternoon. As we milled around and set up camp, an enthusiastic guy who was there being filmed by the Discovery Channel, came by and offered to take our group to see Havasu Falls, which he said was the most fantastic sight. He was right. It is beautiful and amazing in every way. All of us trapsed over every inch of the falls, jumping off, swimming, and having a great time. What we didn’t know is that a Japanese tourist had been murdered in that same spot a few days earlier.
In the following days, when we heard about what happened, everyone was understandably shocked but didn’t seem too concerned, polluted as they were by the invincibility of youth. If I wanted to contaminate a crime scene, there would be no better way than to let a bunch of college kids play in it for a few hours. No one seemed to think this was odd when I mentioned it, however. At the end of our trip, as we were packing up our cars, officers from the Bureau of Indian Affairs were there, investigating. I filled them in on the details, and they wrote down my information, but I never heard from them. In the end, someone from the local tribe confessed to the crime. You can read more about it here.
These are some film images from the trip. I tried doing darkroom prints from the black and white roll, but nothing I did looked as good as the default scans from the developer.
The firework was about the size of a cinderblock. Seeing other details in the darkness was impossible, but I imagine it was called something like “Flaming Balls of Doom.” The street around it was littered with the carcasses of other spent munitions, and this one added to it like a miniature skyline. Families from up and down the street were gathered for the display. It was about thirty minutes in, and the children started wandering in and out of the houses, waving glow sticks like magic wands and chattering like mad monkeys. When the first ariel from the box in the street went off, all attention turned upward. The fireworks thus far had been of varying height, loudness, and brightness. This one dwarfed them all. The explosion filled the sky, sparks raining as the boom reverberated in our chests. As the second one went off, and I felt the ground shake again, the thought racing through my head was something like, “That is very powerful. I hope it stays in the sky.”
Right about then, an ariel exploded at the rooftop level, causing alarm. Immediately afterward, the street erupted in a blinding flash and deafening roar. Fingers of flame reached both sides of the street, filling the air with gunpowder and sparks. Children screamed, and everyone ran for the houses. A teenage girl started crying. The noise faded, and miraculously, no one was injured. There was some nervous laughter from the peanut gallery of dads, assessing the aftermath with relief. One side of the firework was missing and buckled out at the edges. Seeing no harm done, the second one was placed in the street next to its twin and promptly lit. There was no mishap this time, just the thundering boom, shower of light, and sparks, all in celebration of “Pioneer Day.”
We were fortunate, but others this weekend were not. On Saturday morning, a friend told me that hot ashes from their neighbor’s poorly disposed BBQ ignited in the heat and wind, blowing into their house and lighting it on fire. Of course, the neighbors don’t have insurance, so they are left temporarily homeless as the long fight with insurance companies begins.
As much as I like the smell of gunpowder and gasoline, they are forces not to be messed with.
Only a soulless AI would take such an awful picture.
My intention yesterday was to write more, but as is common, it was almost midnight when the house was quiet, and I could do something. I would like to say that this is when I do my writing, practice the piano or violin, compose synthesizer noise in the basement, exercise, or any of the other hobbies that catch my interest at that moment. But sadly, my mental energy is usually only full enough to read a few pages or doom scroll. It was Sunday night, so I made the smart choice and went to bed.
This is the decision every parent faces. Do you stay up and enjoy the time to yourself but suffer the next day, or be responsible and bide your time for a future day when more of your time is your own?
Two Saturdays ago, I was loaded up with enough caffeine after watching the Real Soccer game and the latest Mission Impossible movie that I pulled out my telescope and stayed awake till 3:30 AM, looking at Saturn and Jupiter. I paid for it dearly the next day.
So far, I have been writing these in my journal with my TWSBI Diamond 580 AL Prussian Blue Special Edition and Noodler’s 54th Mass ink. Writing this way is much more satisfying than plunking away on the keyboard, but much slower. I like this because your mind has more time to formulate the next words than when you type. This is a benefit for creative writing, but I can see how it would hinder other kinds. My dilemma now is that I have such a backlog of ideas and experience that I can’t get everything I want to say down. This entry is becoming another whining festival that no one wants to read. Perhaps for upcoming entries, I will attempt to write about one specific thing on my mind.
Hardly a day goes by that I don’t lose myself down the paths of imagination, seeking ways to free the characters in my head. I see them in a neuron cage, trapped inside bits of story and ideas half-formed. Some are old enough to be in the final stages of decomposition, their rotting fumes making vile what was once curious and new. Others are in worlds vast and full of life yet darkened by an author distracted by the vagaries of life. These characters deserve to have their stories told, yet despite my lifelong desire to spin the yarn of words, I have yet to find the discipline to instill my waking hours with the habits necessary to make them real. The reasons for such neglect are myriad and inconsequential when held against the psychic agony experienced by these trapped souls.
This “One Month of Summer” is an effort to jump-start my writing and extract memorable moments from the last few years, giving them a home safe from the ravages of memory.
Unless I have a photo of my own to use, I may use the AI to generate images for this series.
In a few weeks my daughter will turn four. She informed us that everyone needs to wear a princess dress to the party where there will be unicorns, balloons of every color, and treats. She doesn’t say there will be tantrums when cousins play with her toys, but that is a given. Hardly a day went by this year without a reference of some kind to her birthday. I am amazed by her persistence, how she grows, and the responsibility we have as parents to raise her.
We looked into daycare for one day during the pregnancy. The only place we visited was a few miles from our house. The cost wasn’t cheap, but it was reasonable and a convenient transfer point for both of us. The reception desk sat vacant, strewn with papers, with no signs to orient us. It smelled like unwashed toys and the floor was that rubbery linoleum substance imprinted to look like marble but looks tacky and echoes every sound. We stood in the doorway, seeing children playing with toys behind a window, but no adults in sight.
A little girl, about the same age as my daughter is now, ran up to my wife and asked, “Are you my mommy?” It took me a second to realize what she’d said. I melted. She didn’t spend enough time with her mother to even know what she looked like. I don’t remember what we did next, only that we drove away heart-broken and determined to make any sacrifice for our daughter.
This tower fell over seconds after taking the picture
Now I wonder what kind of care that little girl is getting. Does her father come home every evening after work, pretend not to see her hiding under her table, then shovel mouthfuls of food into his mouth so he can play? Do they go up to her toy room and sit on the floor, surrounded by fire-stations, castles, parks, camping spots, hair salons, and restaurants, each staffed by a host of creatures big and small with separate voices and histories, acting out intricate scenarios? Do they sit on the back porch swing eating Popsicles, chatting and watching kids’ videos until the sun sets? Can her stubborn fits be countered by anthropomorphizing whatever she doesn’t want to do? Oh no, please don’t flush the toilet! We want to sit here and stink forever. Hey, what are you doing? Why do you have a toothbrush? Put that away! We want to stay on your teeth and make them rot! Does that little girl have a “secret hiding place” in the kitchen island cupboard where she keeps a fuzzy yellow blanket, pillow, and snacks to sit quietly when she needs a break? Does she have meltdowns because parade candy isn’t a breakfast food?
These days of childhood purity will not last, but the joys and challenges will always be there. My daughter is fortunate to have a mother that can stay home to guide her development in the way only a mother can. Does she receive more attention than most children in a state where 3-5 kids in a family is the norm? Yes. Is she at three years old, already more articulate than I was when I graduated High School? Yes. Will she face social pressures growing up an only child in a home separated from the monolithic religious majority? Yes. Would I rather have her face those troubles than be shaped by the fungal thoughts of that patriarchal gerontocracy? Absolutely.
After seeing the concerned hope in the eyes of that girl in the day care, and knowing how many human monsters lurk in society, I wish every child could have the happiness and security we give to our daughter. No child deserves to be raised by strangers, left hungry in the cold, or snatched from the sidewalk, never to be seen again.
Children are our future and I shudder at the catastrophes we are setting up for them. Our sewage is theirs to clean up, but are we equipping them with the tools for that job? Our society spends more money killing our children than we do feeding or teaching them. What will it take to fix this? Can you extinguish a star with a squirt gun? Maybe not, but you can at least use that water to keep your family alive for as long as it lasts.
A storm of desperation burned through my mind like a tornado of ice. My thoughts, usually steady, swirled in a vortex focused on one thing: caffeine. Guided as if on its own, my pickup drove up the University Avenue hill and passed the Mall. I turned left on State Street, pulling a sharp right into the Chevron parking lot and stopping beside a gas pump, the nozzle obscured by an “out of order” sign.
The door chimed as I walked inside. I was met with a loud “Greetings!” from the attendant.
Nodding with a mumble, I walked to the back wall and opened the cooler doors. Trembling, a 32 oz. bottle of Mountain Dew appeared in my hands. I put it on the counter and fished my wallet from my jacket pocket. The attendant picked it up, and scanning it said, ”I prefer vowels with my beverages.”
He looked at me with intense eyes, expecting a reply. What was he talking about? Not wanting to engage in conversation, I nodded in agreement. ” Yea, me too,” I said. He frowned slightly as he swiped my card. Either this answer was unsatisfactory, or he didn’t like me and my drink. Scribbling my name on the receipt, I wished him a good day and walked out into the chilly afternoon.
Three weeks later, I pulled into the Chevron and stopped in front of the same inoperable gas pump. I opened the door, and a mid-twenty something clerk behind the counter looked at me, smiling, “Greetings!” I recognized him as the same guy I’d met the last time I was here. He stood behind the counter, leaning against the cigarette display with his hands behind his back. As I walked to the cooler and grabbed my drink, I sensed a different energy from him than one usually gets from a gas station attendant. Most of the time you get a thinly veiled mask of irritation at the colossal bother you are imposing on them by buying candy and soda from their store. Ben, as his name tag said, stood motionless like a monk in meditation, smiling with a confidence that comes only from someone with mastery over themselves and their environment.
“Just this,” I said, setting the cold bottle on a plastic mat advertising free points rewards.
“Mountain Dew?” Ben said. “What happened to the other letters?” He scanned the bottle, but instead of setting it back down on the counter, he looked at it and frowned. “How do thou pronounce this?” he asked, pointing to the letters ‘mtn’ on the label.
“Mmmtn,” I said, drawing out the ‘m’ as if expecting something delicious. He laughed and I smiled.
“Yea, I prefer vowels with my beverages.” I said.
A glint of joy appeared in Ben’s eyes. “That’s what I was going to say, you bastard.” He grinned with a look of instant camaraderie. “They spell it out in Canada,” he continued. “They use the same green background and crystal pillar design, but they actually spell out the word mountain.”
“Yea, I don’t understand why it’s different here,” I said. “It’s much more satisfying to read when there aren’t any missing letters.”
I swiped my card and two receipts spit out of the register. Ben nodded his head. “Absolutely!” Grinning like a schoolboy, he handed over both slips of paper, one dangling underneath the other.
“Pen?” I say, looking around the counter.
“Oh, I guess you should sign one of these.” Ben reached behind the counter and grabs a pen from atop a clipboard.
I sign my name and hand over the receipt. “Thanks.”
Ben grins as if he’s just found a long-lost friend. “Bye.”
The door chimed as I walked into the afternoon sun.
A view of the balcony where our airplanes were thrown
The McEntire kids stood on the second floor balcony of the Salt Lake City & County building waiting for the Annual Day After Thanksgiving Paper Airplane Throwing Contest to start. An unknowing observer might assume we were in large Gothic church, but they would never guess it was a government office building. My parents like to tell the story of driving past it when I was little and my squeaky voice calling out, “That’s where Jesus works!” If Jesus was on duty that day he would witness a great victory. My airplane design was perfected through countless practice runs from our back deck resulting in an unbeatable masterpiece of paper aviation.
Memory, the silent shadow who steers our mind like an unreliable coachman, has robbed me of most of the details of that day, but I remember the echoing tile floors as we walked in and the ancient folding table with a scarred wooden top and rickety metal legs. I picked a pristine sheet from the stack on the table and folded my masterpiece. The finished creation was a crisp and creased beauty with a silhouette like a jet on Top Gun. Dana, my bothersome younger sister came up to me and asked if I would make her plane since she didn’t know how. I agreed, taking pride in how well I could make them. But being a selfish teenager, I didn’t want her to beat me so I folded it sloppily so it would fly like a turtle.
After an introduction and announcement of some kind, the mob of children from around the valley lined up along the balcony. Below us was a park with tall trees, picnic tables and a parking lot where I saw our station wagon. I didn’t want my plane to get stuck in one of the trees so I rehearsed in my mind all the practice throws from our back deck that resulted in a long, smooth flight. Everyone counted to three and let their airplanes fly. Never has there been a worse throw in the history of paper airplane throwing than mine from the balcony that day. In my excitement for the perfect flight my jerky arms threw the airplane almost straight at the ground. I was going to be sick. Beside me came shrieks of joy as Dana watched hers sail through the air and into the parking lot. My only memories past that point are fleeting images of the glittering trophy she brought home. For years that trophy mocked me for my failed attempt at sibling sabotage. It was cosmic justice for using an act of kindness for greedy ends. Years later when the sting had long worn off, Dana gave me the trophy during one of the three times she ever cleaned her room. “It’s really yours,” she’d said. At the time I thought this was a very kind thing to do, and I appreciated the gesture.
This replica has graced the top of my bookshelf at work for nearly 5 years
Although I didn’t win the contest myself, knowing that I made the winning plane was an accomplishment I carried with pride for decades afterwords. Fast forward to a few years ago on a Summer evening in my parents back yard. The whole family was there; kids running wild, burgers in our bellies and cold sodas in hand. We laughed and told stories of the fun we had growing up. Confessions arose and episodes of juvenile deception came out. I don’t remember what any of them were now, but some were funny, some my mom didn’t want to hear, but one I remember very clearly. It dealt a crushing blow to my ego and annihilated a sense of accomplishment I’d carried with me for 25 years. Dana told us that during the paper airplane throwing contest she cheated and moved her plane farther out than where it landed before the judges could see. Her confession got many laughs and even now I smile at the audacity of that 13 year old girl. But that didn’t change the fact that one of my early life accomplishments was based on a lie.
Pondering this opens a metaphysical rabbit hole that scholars and zealots have and will debate for as long as the sun shines and humans draw breath. Luckily this revelation didn’t crack the foundations of my sense of self or force a new paradigm of reality onto my psyche. It’s just a funny ending to an already amusing memory of sibling rivalries and childhood joys.
Life and death have been on my mind lately. The reality of these unavoidable phenomenon is different from them in abstract. I have been enthralled by the aesthetic cultural trappings of death ever since I was a child: skulls, graveyards, black everything, heavy metal, the list goes on. All of that is an entry for another day, but those things are not death and life is not their opposite. Creating a life is a huge responsibility that is impossible to truly comprehend until it happens to you. Children change from being grubby, screaming monsters to living breathing people whose comfort and happiness are your responsibility. Many people treat that responsibility with selfish contempt and fill the world with unpleasant and broken souls as a result. But for those who choose the path of parenthood, the reward is long lasting. It’s a new path for me, so my journey is just beginning.
Death touched me recently when Dan Sloan, a good friend, died of brain cancer. Everyone knew it could happen, but people beat cancer all the time so we all hoped for the best. A few weeks before he died we had lunch at Sicilia, our favorite sub shop in downtown Salt Lake that makes the best Parmesan chicken sub you will ever eat. We laughed about old times and caught up on friends from our days at the University of Utah. His latest round of chemo was not successful and he was much thinner than the last time I saw him. He was still his jovial self, though, and it was good to see him laugh.
Dan in front on a trip to Canyonlands
I found out he died while waiting for Pho takeout. On a whim I ventured onto Facebook for my yearly glance into the goings on of that strange world and saw that he passed several days previously. It was a complete shock and I cried on Erica’s shoulder when I got home. Even now writing about it a year or two later makes me choke up. I can only describe the feeling as an empty pocket in your heart where memories of their presence once slept. But time is the great healer and pleasant memories stick in your mind while the others fall away.
No one should choose the moment of their passage to the beyond. This brings to mind my cousin, Lewis, who tragically took his life as he transitioned from high school to college. My memories of him are scant since his family lived in Alaska and then the Midwest for as long as I can remember. I do have a vivid memory from a summer afternoon in my grandparent’s wooded back yard in Bellevue, Washington. We charged our fleet of big wheels down the steep hill and into the dry grass beyond the red rope swing. Lewis was always very physical, and we wrestled on the grass and filled the giant steel drum on the lawn with water. We all splashed in “cousin soup” as my family calls it.
Summer gatherings like this one are the only memories I have of Lewis. I never saw the pain he must have been in at the end, but I like to think would have gotten on well. After the funeral, his fencing gear and Lord of the Rings chess set were passed on to me. I sometimes imagine us matching knights on the game board after a workout of swords and canvas.
Lewis is on the bottom left with me next to him in blue.
But enough morose armchair philosophy. Being responsible for a new life makes me appreciate my family and prompts me to not take them for granted. When the time comes when those we love move on, we can still enjoy their company in the halls of our memory.
The catalyst for this entry was a couple standing in front of me on Saturday night at Mo Betta’s Hawaiian BBQ. It was hard to tell at first if they were on a date or just friends. Since the line was very long they provided ideal fodder for a mental exercise where I imagine a backwards extrapolation of the social connections between two strangers. After observing them for a while I was reasonably certain they both swung in the same direction.
The girl had pixie cut and wore a long black and maroon pea coat with an intricate paisley pattern and crisp collar. The high fashion vibe she gave off was spoiled by a barcode price tag peeling off the side of her jacket. The guy was dressed like a typical hipster millennial; skinny jeans, canvas high tops, fashionably ratty hoodie and the trendy haircut where the sides and back of the head are shaved short but the top is left as a mop.
I stared blankly around so they wouldn’t notice me listening to their conversation. At first, I thought the guy was talking lovingly about a roommate or maybe his dog. Only after he pulled out his phone did I realize he was talking about an exotic African spider. “It would only cost a hundred dollars,” he said, “It is the perfect choice for someone afraid of spiders.” I would shit my pants if I saw that thing in the wild. Even seeing it on the screen made me nervous.
My wife often makes fun of me for occasionally jumping out of bed in the middle of the night beating at the blankets and shouting “Spider!”. It’s always a dream, but it takes about a minute before reality catches up with my fevered brain. Sometimes they are crawling on my pillow, others they dangle above my face about to drop in my mouth. I don’t have these dreams often, but when I do at least a year is removed from my life each time.
About 5 years ago my family did a Spring canoe trip down the San Rafael river. That year we had a big group with my mom, siblings, cousins, 11-year-old niece and numerous dogs. We were floating along a particularly calm stretch of water and decided to take a quick rest in the shade of a tall Tamarisk. The next thing I heard was Erica screaming “SPIDER!!!” I looked back at the bottom of the canoe where a dark-brown spider with a body the size of my fist was charging at me with impossible speed on spindly pipe cleaner legs. In that moment, 34 years of arachnaphobic terror blossomed in my mind in a crawling explosion. I remember bravely stabbing at the demon several times with my oar, but the next few moments are completely blank. I remember swimming in the river, the canoe floating away and the dog paddling towards the bank, but nothing before that. My family now refers to this incident as the “swearing spider” because I let loose a stream of profanity that shocked everyone and scarred my little niece for life.
This intense phobia comes from the years growing up in my parent’s basement where every morning I would go into the bathroom to find a thousand arachnid webs spun while I slept. I would spray them with every chemical I could find and relished the sight of their little bodies writhing on the ground and curl up in a soup of hairspray and bathroom cleaner. In the shower I was blind as a bat and not infrequently a spider would dangle from the ceiling and I wouldn’t see it until it was right in front of my face. Trapped naked in the shower by a giant spider. Sounds like a John Candy movie.
The only exception to this unwavering fear of the 8-legged beasts was in 2009 when we moved into this townhouse. The basement was unfinished, and one window was completely covered by a majestic black widow’s web. Shelob (what else would I have named her) dangled for days in the window, her black carapace shining like a black marble. We had swarms of locusts pouring out of the desert that year, so I caught the largest one I could find and promptly tossed it into the web. She spun it into a cocoon and over the following week I watched her grow fat and almost double in size as she drained the locust to a desiccated husk. I came home from work one day and found that Erica killed and disposed of the creature. I’m not sure how she managed it, because killing a god is impossible.
