A Revisionist's History: French Town Pond

This is French Town pond looking West.

My father, a wise man, realized the importance of building a relationship with his son before teenage dementia set in. To do this, about the time I turned ten, he brought home a couple of five-gallon buckets full of motorcycle parts. Then for a winter, I would stand beside him shivering in the garage as he pieced together the parts to resurrect a late 70’s two-stroke mini-bike.

Dad continued to nurture this hobby and our relationship by establishing a few traditions. Most prominent among those was our own version of March Madness. Every March my dad would take me out of school for a week and we would travel 800 miles south to the Moab and San Rafael Swell regions of Southern Utah. Four or five months later, we would also travel to the Sawtooth Mountains in Central Idaho and ride dirt bikes for another week among lodge-pole pine.

During the warmer seasons, when the mountains around Spokane slipped from the icy grasp of snow and ice, we rode nearly every Saturday afternoon. After working hard all day cleaning, serving, and mowing, we would hook the trailer to the Dart. Then we would load the motorcycles into the back of dad’s white trailer. Once loaded, we would head to either the Nine Mile ORV Park or the Liberty Lake and Mica Peak trails.

Often times on our way out of town, we would stop by the downtown Burger King on 2nd Ave., rummage through the loose change in the ash tray, and buy ourselves a 99 cent Whopper. With that “sandwich” (dad’s affectionate term for hamburgers) in our gullets, we would ride for a few hours and come home by dinner time.

I could and—over the course of time—probably will spend time reliving many more of those afternoons. Today, however, while the storm pounds deafeningly against the glass behind me and the trees two blocks over are shrouded in steely clouds of rain, one particular trip comes to mind in large part because of how much it differed from today.

One summer, rather than making the traditional Sawtooth pilgrimage, my dad decided to meet old friends in Star Valley, Wyoming and ride some of the trails he rode years earlier when single and later in the early years of his marriage. After three days of trail riding in the mountains in Southeast Idaho and a morning spent poking around St. Anthony sand dunes north of Rexburg, Idaho it was time for us to return to Spokane.

After wrapping up at the dunes, Dad and I headed back to Rexburg and then west out of town on Highway 33 until we reached I-15. Dad turned right onto I-15, and we rolled northward through Dubois, Lima, and Dillon. Finally reaching I-90, we merged with west-bound traffic and continued motoring north and west.

The ’73 Dodge Dart, by design, really wasn’t a remarkable car. Our particular Dart had one claim to distinction, its remarkably intact condition. As I have mentioned elsewhere in this conglomeration of myths and accounts “according to Howell,” the black-vinyl roof sported nary a tear and the body was nearly entirely straight with only a slight inconspicuous blemish near the drivers-side door.

Apart from its condition, there were a few unique characteristics about that car that I eventually came to appreciate. We owned the two-door Swinger model, which differed from the four-door Dart in some significant ways. For one, the rear window on that car was concave; it rounded inwards. Plus, for whatever reason, it did not contain the standard defrost wiring embedded in the glass. Instead, Dodge mounted a blower under the rear deck that would defrost the rear window in much the same fashion as defrosters work on windshields.

I’m going far afield now, but the key point I wanted to make was that all the side windows on the Swinger rolled down. And the windows on the doors were frameless, much like those on a different Dodge Rachael would bring to our marriage years later. So, with both the front and rear windows rolled down, the side of the car from the belt-line to the roof become one broad, unbroken vent.

Add to that all the fury of 70 mph winds coming through the gaping vents under the dash, and you suddenly have a swirling vortex of super-agitated air on your hands. Unfortunately, in the sweltering cabin, the air coming out of the vents had very little impact on cabin conditions. The air entering the cabin, entered at the same temperature as the outside air hovering over the shimmering black asphalt. Granted, 70 mile-per-hour winds have all the evaporative punch of a commercial food dryer. But evaporation won’t help if there isn’t any moisture left to evaporate.

That Saturday, like the week leading up to it, was warm and clear with hardly a cloud in sight. And it became quite toasty in our cockpit before we left the dunes. Anaconda, Deer Lodge, Clinton, Missoula—the miles clicked by with the sun in our eyes and the roar of the road in our ears. With the windows down and the vents open, communication was possible only by yelling. So there we sat in sweaty pools of solitude, glumly anticipating another three hours of travel time over the Continental Divide and back down into the Inland Empire.

Around 1:00 p.m. that afternoon, after four or five hours in the “furnace,” our tanned and weathered hides, looking all the world like beef jerky, were crusted with a fine layer salt. Missoula faded behind us and we rapidly closed in on French Town, some five or ten miles west of Missoula. My head bobbed, and dad shifted uncomfortably trying to unstick himself from the vinyl. A deafening howl reverberated around the inside of the Dart as a semi rolled past on the left.

Obviously, that is not me or dad, but the freeway is in the background.
This would have been the very section we swam.

Suddenly, the car slowed and swerved slightly to the right. Dad pulled onto the shoulder and came to a stop. I looked over at him numbly, a question in my eyes. He climbed resolutely out of the car, crossed over to the passenger side of the car, and kept going. My eyes followed him bewildered into the weeds. Then he asked, “Want to go for a swim?” There on the far side of the roadside fence was an idyllic pond crowded with old men fishing and young kids in water wings known as French Town Pond. The pond has been converted into a state park and does “brisk business” on warm summer days.

It didn’t take me long to get out of the car, and clamber over the fence behind him. We pushed through some sage brush, dropped our shoes and shirts right there in the coarse grass on the undeveloped-side of the pond, and waded up to our waists in the cool water. Slowly, luxuriously, we stretched out and began propelling ourselves through the emerald water. Unlike Rachael, I am not a strong swimmer, and I realized midway across that the pond was much wider than my feverish glance from the shore suggested. I crammed down a stab of fear, rolled over onto my back, and back stroked a while.

Pretty soon, we hit the soft sandy soil in the shallows and then, like proto-humans emerging from the slime, steadily rose out of the pond to meet the stares of those park patrons who entered the park through more conventional methods. We hardly knew what to do with ourselves at that point. Out of habit, I used the outhouse. Then we trudged back into the water and made the return trip across the pond. We put our shirts and shoes back own, hopped the fence and climbed dripping into the car.

The first few miles after the swim were a little dicey. Our wet shorts slid back and forth on the vinyl seats and water pooled on the floor mats. But the relief from the heat was wonderful. Unfortunately, it was also short-lived. I don’t remember, but it seems to me that our clothes must have dried even before we made it Lookout Pass. What I love most about that experience was the spontaneity of it. I loved how carefree it felt to swim, just because we needed to cool down. 

A Revisionist's History: Painter Hayes

This morning while driving to seminary, I was thinking about an acquaintance in the ward here that commutes daily all the way to Everett. He told me yesterday that the drive doesn’t take too long in the morning before traffic, but that it can stretch out into two hours in the evening. Fortunately, for Rob Harvey, he and his wife just closed on a home in Lake Stevens, which is where this story begins.

Years ago, while living outside of Seattle during my early teen years, a difficult and pivotal era for many reasons, I met a man named Jim Hayes. Jim became one of my earliest employers painting homes in the Lake Stevens region. As I remembered Jim on my drive this morning, I realized in retrospect that he also figures prominently among the cast of mentors from those formative years.

By the time our paths crossed in 1990–91, Jim must have been in his late 60’s. Even today most of the details surrounding his circumstances remain apocryphal to me, and I prefer it that way. As I remember it, Jim married a younger woman in her late 30’s (not his first wife) and they had two children: an infant and a young boy around the age of five. Jim served in Vietnam, worked in the computer industry, sold cars (Dodge/Mitsubishi), and finally, by the time we met, painted homes.

1970 Dodge Polara

During the summer days when I worked for him, Jim would pick me up in the mornings in his 1970 four-door Dodge Polara. In the early 90’s, this car was anathema to teenage boys. (I can’t honestly say that my feelings for this sorry misuse of Detroit steel have changed much over the last 20 years.) The bench seats and vast expanses of olive green vinyl were foreign and just old enough to be nauseating like the shag carpet, amber glass, and harvest gold finishes in the split-entry homes that typified the Seattle region at the time.

The Polara

For reasons unknown to me—but perhaps related to the reason(s) why he had been married so many times before, Jim spent a good period of that summer living in the Polara. And in that regard, the Polara was a fortunate choice. Between the trunk and the back seat, he probably had at his disposal just shy of 120 cubic feet of rolling storage space. Doubling as a “workplace” and a “residence,” the Polara’s interior became a confusing mess of clothes, food wrappers (think 7-11 hot dogs and big gulps), and painting equipment. For some reason, I remember a tennis racket shuffling around from the backseat to the trunk.

7-11 paraphenalia.

Still, Jim was the kind of man that leant credibility to these things. Social strictures and conventions held no power over him. In the eyes of a fourteen-year-old boy, he walked with all the confidence of a man who was kind enough to condescend to the level of boy. I would climb into that car and, while he pointed the helm northward, listen as he regaled me of stories of the glory days.

Is this something people like? 

One of my favorite Hayes stories, “Beer and Bananas” took place one afternoon during his time in Vietnam. Suffering from ravenous hunger, he consumed an elevated number of bananas. After which, he washed it all down with a beer or two or perhaps an equally elevated number of beers. According to Jim, the pain resulting from this indiscretion was indescribable but certainly on par with labor and delivery. Not sure how he knew that.

Really?

Anyway, Troy Williams, another of his lackeys and a friend of mine, found this story very entertaining, alluding to it often in our conversations. At the time, I laughed mostly at the sight of seeing the two of them laugh so hard. But I’m still a little confused as to why that was so funny. It sounds mostly painful.

The Conquest

Jim sold cars for Chrysler during the 1980’s when Dodge really began importing and rebadging Mitsubishis. He first saw the car of his dreams while working at the dealership. On the lot at the time, they had a Chrysler Conquest, which was nothing more than an exact copy of the Mitsubishi Starion. Jim raved about this car. And as my dream-car at the time was the replacement of the Conquest (the “Diamond-Star Trio” Mitsubishi Eclipse/Plymouth Laser/Eagle Talon), I was all ears.  

Another Conquest

I remember working on at least one school night for Jim. That particular evening Troy and I were helping Jim on a job painting a double-wide somewhere around Lake Stevens. As we wrapped up for the evening, Jim asked Troy and I to clean some paint off the linoleum floor in the kitchen using mineral spirits. I remember having an excellent time from that point forward. Somehow everything suddenly struck me as hilarious with a capital “H”. That was my first and last exposure to solvents in confined/unventilated spaces, although you probably couldn’t tell it just by looking at me.

At any rate, I worked for Jim off and on for weeks. I don’t remember most of the places we worked and most of the stories he shared. I do remember, however, that shortly before moving he owed me something approaching $250. That represented a small fortune for a 14-year-old and probably for Hayes as well. We moved to Spokane later that year opening a much brighter phase of my life. But Hayes never paid me.

I shamelessly begged my parents for an advance on that money. They knew Jim better than I, though and never agreed. Of all the lessons he could have taught me, this was one of the most valuable. I remember thinking at the time “I am going to lose this money, and my parents aren’t going to do a thing about it.” Grudgingly, I admitted it they were right. There are no guarantees in life. Nobody owes you anything and the sooner you realize this the less time you’ll spend tying yourself up in knots with hate and frustration.

Clearly, Jim wasn’t a role model. I could see that even from my vantage point in my early teens. And yet, that was something he never aimed to be. Jim shared his unvarnished life with me. Sure, he patiently taught me about painting. More importantly though, he taught me about truth and consequences. And that is why I still feel appreciation for Painter Hayes.

FAD 1: The Second Generation Chevrolet Astro AWD

It was probably 1986 when my dad purchased the first of two 80’s era, down-sized Buick Skylarks. Now don’t hang up or dismiss me—not yet! This is not a post to nominate the Skylark as a Fine Auto of Distinction. Because, it wasn’t—not by a long shot. In fact, it was that car and its sibling that caused me to appreciate the relative reliability of dad’s 1976 VW Karman Ghia, which repeatedly doubled as the family hauler while the shop rebuilt the Buicks.

Perhaps one day I’ll spend some time reminiscing about the Karman Ghia. But for now, I mention the shame it was to own an 80’s era GM vehicle only to emphasize the truly stunning nature of this first nominee. Because in spite of springing from the minds of engineers wearing the badges of the General, this vehicle distinguishes itself from the field so much that I was able to overlook my prejudice against GM vehicles. I would willingly part with my hard earned cash to acquire and maintain one of these bad boys.


So it is with pleasure that I nominate the first of hopefully many “FADs” the 1995–2005 AWD Chevy Astro with “Dutch Doors.” For those of you whose eye for fine vehicles is so clouded that it is not immediately apparent what makes this vehicle so great, allow me to enlighten you. I have two words for you: “style” and “utility”.

In terms of style, the Chevy Astro, sports a snub-nosed grill and upright cab. The straight lines, softened edges, and slightly rounded nose, convey a rugged beauty not far removed from that of a battleship complete with homing, surface-to-air missiles. It’s tough.


And if that weren’t tough enough, as a direct, lineal descendant of the A-Team’s original swagger wagon, the Astro boasts the same genetic makeup that made its ancestor tough enough for the likes of Mr. T.

The second generation Astro motates using the 4.3L Vortec V6, an engine based on the venerable Chevy small-block 350 V8. Admittedly, driving the Astro, as I have on occasion, it becomes apparent that you will clinch no land-speed records safely ensconced behind its tiller. However, the old push-rod mill clearly has the moxy necessary to tow and haul just about anything this side of industrial-grade windmill components.


This brute strength and the body-on-frame construction, make this van an ideal alternative to everyone’s perennial favorite, the Suburban. Where else, other than perhaps in the hallowed appointments of the Suburban, can you load a passel of kids, your stunningly beautiful wife, camping gear, bikes, and food for a small army and still have torque enough to tow a ski boat over Snoqualmie Pass? Nevermind you can enjoy that experience from the privileged vantage point of a truck, thereby allowing you to see over all your unfortunate fellows caged in their Accords, Camry’s and other passenger appliances.

You may ask: “If that truly is the ideal, why not jump straight to the Suburban?” Well, I can think of a few reasons. Apart from the not insignificant disparity in cost ($7,000 versus the $15,000 you’d pay for a similarly worn and equipped Suburban), the Astro offers very comparable mileage, safety scores, and storage capacity. But the short front end, renders it less difficult to navigate (extending the battleship metaphor) in garages, parking lots, and drive-thru’s.

And then, let’s not forget the “Dutch doors.” These babies represent a three-way engineering marvel. And . . . they look cool. In terms of mechanics, the glass portion of the door, pivots upwards and the bottom of the door open in the center and pivot outwards. Like so:


Pretty neat, huh?


The advantage to these having the upper portion rotate upwards is that you lose the pillars in the center of the door that would otherwise block your view out the back window. Plus, you gain the ability to access “stuff” in the rear cargo area of the van without having to open both doors—much like you see on some sport utility vehicles. That may be one of my favorite features of this van.

But don’t take my word for it. Ask anyone who has owned an Astro, especially those in construction or a service industry that would really put the Astro through its paces. These folks relate experiences of reaching well over 200k in an Astro without problems. And, probably the most telling endorsement of the Astro, these same people continue to seek out the vans even though the General has long since ended their production runs.

I first got turned on to one of these bad boys last year when our regular vanpool van was in the shop. King County lent us a base Astro as a loaner. For a while, I thought my interest in the van would wane. The more time goes by, the more I think about the Astro as a potential candidate to replace my current daily driver when the Nissan finally gives in, hopefully no time soon. Unrivaled reliability, AWD, truck height with truck height visibility, towing capacity, skads of interior space, easy access to the cargo space, a robust mill, and a clean set of exterior lines, what’s not to like?

Introducing: Fine Autos of Distinction ("FAD")

When I was about 12 years old, I realized that I had a budding interest in automobiles. About that time, I saved some of my paper route money and purchased my first magazine subscription to Car & Driver. For years, I subscribed to the magazine, and it became for me what sports were for other boys my age. I had my favorite brands and models. Every shoot-out or “comparo” took on the significance of key games between teams. Always patriotic, I spent a lot of time routing for American brands. Sadly, the late 80’s and early 90’s were not good times to pin one’s hopes on American automobile manufacturing. That was the age of the Chevrolet Corsica, the unforgiveable second generation of the Buick Roadmaster, and the Ford Tempo.

Anyway, now many years later, I flatter myself that this world is populated with unimaginative masses, crowds who base their tastes on the newest, hottest trend. For these, we have Civics, Camrys, Cobalts and all the rest of the appliances people call cars. To some extent, this same complaint would apply to those who blindly lust after the supercars of this world. These one-trick ponies definitely have a place in this world, but their limited application ought to relegate these automobiles to a place somewhere short of the top.

Having vented my spleen, I freely acknowledge in myself a somewhat unorthodox but very much cohesive sense of “taste” in automobiles. Some of you, like Rachael and my “fellow travelers” on the vanpool will consider this so-called “taste” formidably taste-less. Still, if you review this list with an open mind, I believe you will find there are reasons for my selections. So it is with pleasure that I begin a new column on my blog highlighting some of my favorite cars and my reasons for their induction in my list of Fine Autos of Distinction.

A Revisionist's History: Into The Wild

Years ago my father introduced me to Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, a book that has since gained a lot of notoriety from an author I have since come to distrust. In the book, Krakauer recounts the demise of one Chris McClandess, a self-described “supertramp,” who jettisons gainful employment, family, and the conveniences of modern life to embrace the life of a recluse. As far as books go, Into the Wild was a good read insofar as the subject matter kept me completed riveted.

I remain undecided as to whether McClandess is deserving of our sympathies or not. And yet, on those days I can see past his hubris, I can relate to that romantic and insatiable lust for the wild, lonely places of this world. Having sampled the life of the recluse, I have found it delicious when taken in small doses. And on occasion, I have “struck out for the territories” myself without companionship. The most recent trip that comes to mind took place between my second and third years of law school.

JD candidates spend much of their first two academic years gearing up for summer clerkships where they test their legal mettle and actually learn something practical. During our second summer, one of the most memorable of our married life, I worked two different clerkships: one in Portland and the second in Spokane. At the time, we were living in Orem, Utah in what was very generously referred to as a townhome. (I loved that old building. And if we’d had a garage, I might have stayed.)

Anyway, because we didn’t want to run the risk of losing the apartment to other tenants, we decided to pay our rent for the summer, and then live with family in Portland and Spokane to avoid paying double rent. The problem was that we couldn’t afford to just pack up and head out of town. With two kids in tow and a full summer staring us in the face, we would need “provisions.” And not even the well-appointed cabin of our Ford Taurus, roomy as it was, could accommodate the vast store of diapers, chewy toys, bouncy seats, and water wings the summer would require.

Fortunately, due to the munificence of my father, we also owned a 1982 Isuzu P’UP of the diesel variety. To be fair, the P’UP deserves a post all its own. But anyone familiar with diesel P’UP’s knows two salient—at least for this post—points about the truck. First, even the DLX model only has capacity for two small-ish adults. Second, the P’UP tops out at about 50 mph.

In short, common sense clearly augered against undertaking a 2,000-mile-trip with the P’UP. Not only was it too small to be the only vehicle we used, but the mechanical integrity of the P’UP was questionable at best. The P’UP crested 230,000 miles earlier that year, and this after at least a year or two where the odometer didn’t work. Still, being the spontaneous, carefree sorts that we are, we decided to throw caution to the wind and take both vehicles.


Miraculously, with a little help, the P’UP went the distance. And—in the spirit of Neil Young’s Pontiac hearse— it is probably still gracing highways somewhere in the Intermountain West. Sadly, the number of P’UP’s I spot tooling along our byways diminishes every year. But I digress.

So, all asides aside, one of the most beloved adventures I’ve ever been privileged to make, I made in this truck. After a long, beautiful, and warm summer, I climbed into that truck on a Friday night after work, hung my arm on the window sill and, with a nod to Supertramp, Chris McClandess, waved good-bye to Rachael, the kids, and my parents. The P’UP coasted and rattled down Spokane’s cascading South Hill until reaching Interstate 90 and then headed east into the wilds of Northern Idaho.

By this point in the summer, the P’UP and I had grown older and wiser together. Earlier in the summer—perhaps in retribution for the forced march to Portland—the P’UP began oozing antifreeze on my slacks during the daily drive to the office. Upon closer inspection it became clear the heater core had shuffled off to that great, big “bone yard” in the sky leaving me with smelly pants and a green mess on the floor mats. So, to triage the situation, I took a length of hose and connected the antifreeze lines in and out of the core thereby bypassing the core altogether.

Knowing that the Utah winters would require a little heat, if for no other reason than to ensure that the windows didn’t fog over, knowing also that no self-respecting mechanic would spend time replacing a heater core in a vehicle so completely spent like the P’UP, I knew I either had to replace that core myself or abandon the P’UP to Russians out at Pick and Save out in the Spokane Valley.



So, once in Spokane with my father’s garage and tools, I spent a week of evenings ripping out the dash and replacing the heater core with a cannibalized core from an Isuzu Trooper. Now that I had committed myself and the truck to this final 800-mile leg of our summer odyssey, I experienced some anxiety—to put it mildly. This solo venture represented the true “acid test” of my handiwork. One way or the other, we’d see how well I’d done over the next two days.


I checked the mirrors before merging with east-bound traffic on I-90. The bed fairly bulged with freight. Wedged and strapped into the bed with a web of nylon rope were two bikes, three suitcases, a variety of child toys and an immaculately maintained 1950’s-era Maytag washer and dryer set we purchased for Tyson and Leah (Rachael’s brother and sister-in-law). On the seat next to me were another couple of boxes, a sleeping bag, water bottle, and some food. I couldn’t even see out of the passenger-side door window. Even in spite of the load, I don’t believe the springs compressed even a millimeter. Granted, the P’UP was struggling to do 55 that night, but it struggled to do 55 every night.


So we there we were, the P’UP and I, intermittently burbling and wheezing along I-90 East as it carved its way through the Northern Rocky Mountains. The freeway left just enough elbow room in those narrow canyons for the ghosts of former mining towns. Earlier that Friday, with my trip in mind, Dad had gone to the library and checked out a copy of the book Killing Pablo, a fantastic account of how the CIA helped take down Drug Lord Pablo Escobar. Now as the cool canyon air flowed through the open cab, the cassette deck droned out the tale of debauchery and extravagance. Behind me, the sun cast a bronze glow on the canyon walls high above.

I drove like this through twilight and into the inky black of night. Finally, a little before midnight, I pulled off the freeway into a campground just west of Missoula, Montana. The campground was completely dark. Not a soul stirred, at least, not until my headlights and the clatter of the P’UP’s diesel engine erupted like a thunder clap. I trolled through the sites, grimacing at the racket, and pulled into the first available site. Grabbing my sleeping bag from the passenger seat, I unfurled it just outside the P’UP’s driver-side door, and climbed inside.

The air was comfortable and I was fast asleep in seconds. At some point in the night I started from my dreamless sleep. A deafening horn shattered the silence of the camp and a bright light illuminated the P’UP completely blinding me at the same time. Even through the fog of sleep, I had enough presence to realize that a freight train was barreling down on me. I leapt out of my bag not knowing which direction to run. Then, when only a few hundred feet away, the train veered off to the South following the bend of the rails. My heart shook in my ribs. Those engineers must have had a good laugh at my expense. It took me a little longer to fall asleep the second time.

At 6:00 a.m. the next morning, I crawled out of my sleeping bag, stumbled over to the pit toilet, washed my face and hands in the spigot, paid my fee and motored the 10 to 15 miles into Missoula where I gassed up and continued pushing south. Having made the drive from Spokane to Provo many times, I knew it could be done in twelve hours flat without speeding.

Those were the days when Montana posted speed limits on the Interstate but only enforced what they deemed to be a “Reasonable and Prudent” speed during daylight hours. If you exceeded a Reasonable and Prudent velocity during the day, you might win a $5.00 ticket. Of course, all of this was moot. The P’UP wouldn’t reach the 75 mph posted speed limit even if I wanted. As such, the 12-hour trip stretched out to full 15-hour trip. Sadly, Killing Pablo only carried me to Dillon, Montana. From that point forward, I listened to a book about two teenage boys who flew a plane they built, with their father’s help, from Massachusetts to California on their own. I don’t remember the title. But it was engaging enough to keep me awake through the long, hot hours I spent in that tin cab.


Finally, around 8:00 p.m., I pulled off the freeway and onto University Parkway in Orem, Utah. The P’UP rumbled up the hill by the freeway and swayed into the gravel lot behind our “townhome.” The Euckers were there and in a few minutes we had the washer and dryer unloaded and installed in Tyson and Leah’s apartment.

Rachael and I still consider that summer one of the most idyllic of our marriage. We traveled, made a little bit of money, and enjoyed the relaxed summer schedule---all of which represented a dramatic departure from our law school routine. And of course, there was the promise of the future hanging tantalizingly before our eyes in waking and in sleep. Only one short year of law school separated us from stability and routine, or so we hoped.

All those factors certainly contributed to making this an unrivaled summer. But perhaps because I am, at heart, a “Solitary Man” who revels in isolation on occasion, I believe that one of the two or three crowning experiences of that summer was that long trip home. There was something romantic, utilitarian, practical, independent, and a little crazy about strapping our belongings into that ultimate of under-powered and over-worked tractors of a pickup. The P’UP made no pretenses at luxury or recreation like the leather-appointed, automatic, four-wheel-drive monstrosities we see on the roads today. It simply got the job done and all that after 230,000 miles.

Not even a year later, we passed that truck on to the next owner. And like the passing of the P’UP, we have also passed that phase of life on to the next generation of hopeful and reckless students. We have lost that capacity to adopt a nearly nomadic existence. Like landed gentry, today we find ourselves beset with a home, beautiful children and a mountain of possessions. Gone are the freewheeling days, where we could, with wild abandon, launch ourselves into the void relying on a broken-down pickup and the Grace of the Almighty. Maybe that’s not entirely a bad thing.

Today: My Secret Addiction

In spite of a Christian upbringing and the example of good parents, I have these proclivities, these tendencies. It’s no use denying it. On occasion I succumb to a weakness that would shame my parents. If the people with whom I work knew my dark secret, conditions in the office would become intolerable, and for good reason.

Yes, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I love country music. No, I don’t mean “like” or “appreciate,” it’s full on passion, ardor, and devotion. Kind of makes you cringe, no? But it’s true. It began, as do many similarly serious sins, with curiosity.

One Saturday afternoon in September, Dad and I were motoring up Rockwood in the Dart. The dirt bikes were bouncing in the trailer behind the car after spending a couple of hours at the Nine Mile off-road vehicle park. Restless for entertainment, like most teenage boys, I searched fruitlessly for some good music on the radio. Again and again, my hand rotated the dial on the FM adaptor we had installed under the dash. Then, suddenly without warning, the clear, long whine of a slide guitar broke the static. I hesitated—almost imperceptibly—but long enough. Dad grimaced.

Not missing his reaction, I laughed a little nervously, “Lousy music, huh?” I resumed the search and eventually caught the end of “Sweet Home Alabama.” I don’t believe that Dad ever suspected anything, not then and perhaps not even now. But in my heart, I knew that was not the last time I would listen to the slide guitar.

Sometime, perhaps returning from Little Caesar’s one night after work when all I had for company would be the cold, vinyl-clad interior of the Dart, then, furtively . . . surreptitiously, I could tune the radio to local country station and “Boot Scoot Boogie” until my ears bled. Yes, some things are better left in the dark.

Looking back, it’s clear that my transgression was compounded by choice of friends. Many of them lived in suitably agrarian regions where listening to Country music was more than acceptable—indeed for some of them it was an expectation. It forms part of rural America’s social contract. These same “friends” introduced me to the country one-step swing, aerials and all.


In High School, my exposure was limited to Alan Jackson, Garth Brooks and Mary Chapin Carpenter. I knew at most five country songs. That is, until I met Rachael, who took me in the back door of Country Music: Bluegrass. She had an Alison Krauss CD. I still remember listening to the tracks on that album, over and over again, as Rachael slept in the passenger seat and I drove through the moon-drenched Arizona desert in December.

Country music is no more a monolithic genre than is Rock or even Alternative any more. There are movements and sub-genres enough to puzzle the best anthologist. Some of the music is very commercial, almost corporate. The performing artist is simply a front for other song writers, a brand and an vehicle for merchandising t-shirts and lunch boxes. I lump folks like Taylor Swift, Tim McGraw, Shania Twain and the Dixie Chicks in this category. Whether these folks believe what they sing anymore than I believe Alice Cooper ever was a "nice guy" is highly suspect.

On the other hand, from my vantage point as an outsider to the country music scene, there is a second, more organic group. This group consists of artists with more of an acoustic, earthy sound. They write their own music and perform in different types of venues. I’m thinking of groups like Alison Krauss, the Be Good Tanyas, and the Wailin’ Jennys. For me, it's easier to appreciate these artists for the flavor of their music, for their artistry, and for their conviction.

And somehow despite the differences, there is something about both groups that draws me in. And it's not just the slide guitar. After all, in the age of Alt Country, groups like the Gin Blossoms, Neil Young, and even Matthew Sweet use the slide guitar. No, I think what appeals to me about some types of country music (for the record, I will NEVER understand Honky Tonk), is that there is something uniquely American in country music among both the corporate and organic groups.

If you reach beyond the twang, and set aside the fiddle and the slide guitar, you’ll arrive at the lyrics. Lyrics have always been my sticking point with all music. I simply can’t ignore what a song is telling me. And while the misogynistic, self-destructive lyrics we associate with heavy, industrial metal and gangster rap can be found in just about any music genre (including country), it seems to me that country artists are more apt to praise the idyllic in rural America than other genres.


These artists sing songs about family, about mothers and fathers, songs about growing up in small towns and making friends, songs about sacrifice and God. And in spite of the fact that behind the veneer of performance it’s all contrived anyway, I value the message for the sake of the message. Anyway, I guess I'm saying that, I like country music because it celebrates what my country once represented.

Sure, there's some truth to that. But to conclude that "I like the genre because of the lyrics" is a little too formulaic, a little too one-dimensional. Let's not forget Christian Rock (including its LDS variants) nauseates me. No, I think the real reason I am not longer afraid to listen to country music is because it reminds me of a very pretty girl who took a chance on me ten years ago. Poor thing. She never guessed she be stuck with a love-sick, romantic.

A Revisionist's History: Mission Trips on the Altiplano

Over the years a tradition seems to have sprung up among parents of missionaries. These parents often travel to the country or state in which their missionary served when the mission ends. Prior to returning to the United States, they tour the mission with their son or daughter. Once the parents have forked over the Georges to pilgrimage all the way to the field of service, it then becomes the privilege of the missionary to shepherd her wide-eyed parents through the areas in which she served.

Anyway, I’m not really as negative as all that. I believe most parents really do want to see the mission their children knew. Fortunately, most kids are more than willing to accommodate them.


I remember once, during my mission getting off a bus on a high windswept plateau in the Guatemalan Highlands. The setting sun slid slowly off the Western horizon without bothering to color the sky. At 10,000 to 12,000 feet, the wind has a tendency to picar the nose and cheeks—even in Central America. The scene was undeniably beautiful in an incomprehensibly lonely sort of way. I contemplated the thousands of miles that separated me from my home, shivered, and tried to burrow more deeply into my wool army-surplus jacket.

I don’t remember exactly why I was there or where I was going, but I will never forget what happened next. Just at that moment, at the end of the day and at what might have been mistaken for the end of the world, isolated and alone as we were there in the twilight, a 1996 Ford Taurus (a frightening car in and of itself, as far as looks are concerned) approached from the south, slowed, and turned off this isolated stretch of the Panamerican Highway onto the dirt road headed to San Bartolo.


A dozen questions crossed my mind in that instant, where did that car come from? Had someone driven it down from the States? I had NEVER seen a Ford Taurus in Guatemala. To this day, I’m not certain how that Ford got there. I’m not aware of single Ford dealer in the entire country.

The typical Chapín had little use for a full-size sedan of any make. And for good reason, the roads in Guatemala—if they may be termed such—would shred a Taurus in less time than it would take a new missionary to consider contracting dengue rather than spending two years in this raw, third-world country. Simply put, most American vehicles simply weren’t up to the rigors of Guatemalan life.

Anyway, there we stood lamely staring west, as this Taurus pulled up and stopped. One of the windows lowered and we found ourselves staring into faces of two very ordinary, middle-aged North Americans: American Gothic in a Ford Taurus rambling through the Guatemalan hinterland.

A recently-released “sister missionary” jumped out of the back and greeted one of the other missionaries in the group. Evidently, they had served in a different zone together. I gathered that she had convinced her parents to leave what I was guessing was a modest home in Utah and retrace her Guatemalan adventure. Glancing back into the front seat, I wondered how badly they really wanted to experience la pura vida. They seemed a little nervous, but eager enough.

Honestly, I was shocked and more than a little worried (and not just for the car). What they couldn’t have known, what I barely understood myself at the time, was that the hills that stretched off in every direction from our windswept intersection harbored more than its share of skeletons in the none-too-distant past.

They wouldn’t travel too much farther down the road on which we currently stood before they’d enter a wide expanse of rugged, remote hills devoid of pavement, electricity and in many locations, running water. The people of those hills not only didn’t speak English, they didn’t speak Spanish.

This people had been the primary target of government violence, kidnapping, mass murder, and no-doubt much worse during a 20-year civil war that had “ended” only two months previous. In fact, the village in which they planned to overnight had been the stage for some very serious mob violence and lynchings not even a month in the past.

No, these clear-faced Americans knew nothing about that. But then, the hand of God often shelters the good, naïve, and even—on occasion—the reckless alike. I had certainly been the receiving end of that principle.

The concept of the mission trip must have been fairly entrenched by the time I wrapped up my two-year stint in Guatemala because dad sua sponte broached the issue in a letter I received a few months before coming home. At the time, he offered me the choice of a mountain bike or a mission trip. For someone who was ready to leave Guate far behind, this seemed like a great deal. I took the bike and counted myself lucky.