The B. Wilde Column

When I Grow Up - No More Man-Purse

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 15:45:00 +0000

Over the weekend I bumped into the brother of one of The B. Wilde Column readers. This brother said to me, “I was talking with my brother yesterday and somehow your name came up. He said that every time you introduce yourself you always say, ‘I’m Bryan Wilde from Kamas, UT, 84…’ but he couldn’t remember the rest of the zip code.” If one of my readers can’t remember the Kamas, UT zip code, then it’s high-time for a new column.

In case you are like my friend with the memory problem, here goes: I grew up in the land known as The Gateway to the Uintas, none other than Kamas, Utah 84036 (there you go John, and don’t forget it next time). But if you are going to send me a Christmas card, don’t send it to Kamas, Utah 84036. Because I don’t live there anymore, but back in the day, had you put my name on an envelope with only the town and zip code(84036) below it, not only would I have received it but Loreen, the postal worker, may have delivered it to my front door rather than placing it in Box 434.

Nowadays, the darn place has grown so big that you’d be better off sending it by pigeon carrier to my mom’s doorstep. All the transplants into the valley haven’t the foggiest idea who I am, although my name was big back in the day (then again, everyone’s name was big – having only 54 kids in my graduating class).

Anyway, now that we’ve got the zip code thing cleared up, let me tell you about my three and a half year-old daughter. I was putting her to bed tonight and just as I thought she was falling asleep she asks, “Dad, where have the leaves gone on the trees?” To which I reply, “They have fallen off because it is now winter and it’s cold.” She thinks for a minute and then says, “But I like the leaves. I want them back on. Dad, the trees are naked! When will the leaves come back?” I explain to her about spring and warm weather and the leaves growing back on the trees. This seemed to satisfy her because within a few minutes she is completely out.

Tonight I was able to answer a few of her questions about the activities of Mother Nature. But as I watch her sleep, I am reminded that she recently answered a question that has been plaguing me for years. “Dad, you don’t have a purse like mommy, but when you grow up and become a mom you will be able to have a purse.”

Eighteen years of marriage and 5 kids later I discover what I am going to be when I grow up: a mom who can finally carry a purse. Got forty-one years on me – I wonder how many more years it will take until I’m grown up enough to carry one of those fancy leather handbags rather than the man-purse I lug around telling people it’s for my laptop.

My Brush with the Kaysville Police

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 16:45:00 +0000

Last Saturday we had quite an eventful afternoon that was quickly overshadowed with a little small town drama that evening.

The half-dead apple tree in our backyard continues to yield more apples than it is capable of carrying it its branches. One particularly large branch couldn't take the weight any longer and decided to give up the ghost. It landed under the tree and managed to maintain the heavy green fruit on the limbs. The kids helped me deep-six the apples, (one of my grandpa's favorite words) cut the wood into small pieces and use the handy pruners to trim away the small branches. The fate of the over-burdened tree will be our good fortune when we roast chestnuts in the fireplace this winter.

After completing a number of other miscellaneous Saturday to-dos, I announced that I had to get out of the house for the night. So, we boarded into the white Dodge Caravan and made our trek to the Kaysville Theater for a friendly family flick. Playing on the silver screen for $3.00 a seat was the Disney movie, Up.

Finding seven seats together in an already packed theater was no small feat but thanks to a nice couple who offered to move down the row a bit, we were able to securely plant our feet in the liberally-coated soda syrup stained floor (but who's complaining, at $3.00 a seat?).

I had been wanting to see Up since it was released. With great anticipation I watched the movie unfold from a sentimental storyline to a climatic plot that occurred about halfway through the movie. Just as the tension was building and I was completely enthralled in the drama, the sound stopped, but the movie continued to play. "Oh great, technical difficulties. And at the best part," I told myself. There were groans and boos from the audience reflecting the same sentiment. Within about ten seconds of the muted movie, we heard the theater usher make the following announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen. It's the Kaysville Police." I have never had anything like this happen before and a surge of excitement mixed with a little fear jolted throughout my body.

I never in my wildest dreams could have ever imagined what was about to happen next. I was expecting some criminal in the audience to be identified and hauled-off in handcuffs. Or maybe there was some kind of emergency that involved the immediate attention of one my fellow movie-goers. But that's not what happened at all. I sat riveted to my seat while the police officer shined his flashlight across the audience faces and bellowed out "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm looking for the owners of a white Dodge Caravan belonging to a Mr. or Mrs. Wilde. The vehicle is parked in someone's driveway and needs to be moved immediately before we have to tow it."

What a coincidence...we bought that same make, model and color of van a few years back...and incidentally that's the mode of transportation we used to get to the theater, and well...yes, we are Mr. or Mrs. Wilde...so, it looks like it was our van.

I quietly stood-up, climbed past the legs of the couple sitting next to me, and made my way up the aisle following Officer Friendly, with my head down. When we reached the lobby, I said, "Well, this is embarrassing." To which he replied with a big grin and chuckle, "Wouldn't you know it. I would find you in the last of the three movies I interrupted here at the theater." I didn't really say much because he was a nice man who was just responding to an emergency 911 call from someone in desperate need of their driveway. I did mention that where I parked, (I wanted to tell him that my wife had dropped the kids and me off to get in line while she parked the van, but figured throwing her under the bus wasn't going to buy me much--so I owned up to the deed) didn't look at all like someone's driveway, to which he agreed with me.

I knew my wife was probably mortified by yet another public embarrassment caused by her husband. And I will admit that I was embarrassed when I had to follow the officer up the long-inclined-sticky aisle. But after moving the van all I could do was laugh. After all, we all make mistakes (some more than others) and over analyze what others are thinking of us. I just decided that I was going to chalk this up as a great story to tell and reflect on the humor of the situation. Also, I was missing a great movie and needed to get my emotions back into the engaging plot. I had to see what was to become of Mr. Fredricksen, Russell the stowaway Wilderness Explorer, Dug the talking canine, and Kevin the female bird. To do this, I quietly stood in the shadows at the back of the theater and watched the rest of the movie. And I might add that I enjoyed it thoroughly, despite my brush with the law.

My Brush with the Kaysville Police

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 03:50:00 +0000

Say cheese...

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 19:20:00 +0000

All I was trying to do was get her to smile.

Since the time of their birth my wife has established picture milestones for taking our children in for a professional photo shoot. She has done the same thing for our family portraits. It's been a fun way to look at the kids in living color when they were all the same ages. (Despite what my wife tells me, there's no need to compare any of my pictures because I look the same year-after-year.) Our latest family picture was taken about two and a half years ago. In the dead of winter, we drove down Walton's Mountain with all the children and headed to the portrait studio all dressed in black shirts and tan khakis.

If you've ever taken a nine month old child to a photo shoot, you'll know what I mean when I say that you never know what you're going to end up with on the final 8 1/2 x 11 Kodak. Inevitably, the child will smile all the way to the studio, but the minute you get inside, the photographers look at you with extreme doubt when you try to explain that "she smiles all the time at home."

As the backdrop came down and we were strategically position into a loving family group of seven in front of the camera. Big smiles were coming from everyone except our otherwise happy nine month old girl. She looked about as stone faced as a child can get. We tried many things to get her to smile with no success. Sitting on her mother's lap, she kept looking over her shoulder at me. I started to play the "I'm Going to Get You," game in an attempt to get her to crack a grin. I was bearing my teeth and growling at her like I had done a zillion other times--honestly, it worked at home. She loved the game and I always got a good giggle out of her. Now what happened next is one of those moments when the dad has such good playful intentions, but does something that completely ruins the entire scene. As I made a bigger growling sound, I opened my mouth to snap my teeth together in an attempt to ramp-up the drama. Just as I snapped my jaw closed, she put her index finger in my mouth.

The final portrait hanging over the living room fireplace shows no signs of tear-stained cheeks or bloodshot eyes. Thank goodness. But seriously, all I was trying to do was get her to smile.

"MICHAEL JACKSON SPOTTED WITH ELVIS"

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 00:00:00 +0000

A friend recently sent an article to me from the New York Times entitled, Those Aren't Fighting Words, Dear. It's an account of a woman named Laura Munson whose husband informed her he wanted to leave her.

“'I don’t love you anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.'

"His words came at me like a speeding fist, like a sucker punch, yet somehow in that moment I was able to duck. And once I recovered and composed myself, I managed to say, “I don’t buy it.” Because I didn’t."

It's an excellent article that I encourage you to read (click on the title above and zap! - you'll be there in a flash - of course, you'll have to register first but it's free).

The article got me thinking about the many "sucker punches" we receive on a daily basis and wondering if some of them merit the quick response, "I don't buy it." Here's a few of those speeding fists that I've recently seen:

A billboard on my way to work reads: "We suck fat!" It's clear that the marketing ploy is to convey that you will be much happier in life if you have liposuction on those hips, thighs, and tummy.
-I don't buy it!

To be a "real" man, you need to be as bald as a baby from the waistline up. Come on in and we'll laser that hair off of that monkey-looking torso - then you'll get the babes and be happy.
-I don't buy it!

As long as my wife and kids don't find out, a little porn watching doesn't hurt anybody.
-I don't buy it!

Have you seen Kelly Clarkson on the latest issue of Self? Her body on the front cover doesn't look a thing like her real body seen in photos accompanying the feature story. The editor of the magazine is quoted as having said that they retouched her photo, "only to make her look her best." Some justification.
-I don't buy it!

"Lose 10 pounds in 10 days...hurry, call now!" Like that's going to happen. I can't even find their phone number.
-I don't buy it!

"Video games have no affect on our children." Come on over sometime after my boys have spent a few hours killing each other on the Wii game, Super Smash Brothers Brawl. You can help referee the arguments and defiant attitudes that seem to increase. On the other hand, you may see a few lethargic boys laying around the house complaining that they are too tired to empty the dishwasher or put away their clothes. You'll walk away praising our parenting abilities as you marvel at how the Wilde boys engage in such virtual combat and end up being practically perfect in every way.
-I don't buy it!

"Michael Jackson Spotted with Elvis." Apparently, the two of them were spotted in a diner together in Artesia, New Mexico. You can read it for yourself on Lingamish.com.
-The jury is still out on this one for me - it just seems so possible that part of me wants to buy it.

Got any "sucker punches" that you refuse to buy? Leave me a comment and share them with me.

If Today Was My Last Day

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 06:17:00 +0000

I was making my way down the I-215 freeway that circles around the big city of Salt Lake, 84101 when the song, If Today Was Your Last Day, by Nickelback, began playing on the radio. (If you haven't heard this song, go to You-Tube and check it out.) I love this song because the lyrics contain a message so easily forgotten in the hustle and hurry of daily life. I've thought and pondered the message many times, but it was today when I heard it that I realized what I would do. If today was my last day I'd load my family, friends and loved ones in a caravan of Greyhound buses and take them all to scout camp.

I continue to play the role of scoutmaster for twelve boys in my neighborhood, my son being one of them. Each summer we choose a location and spend a week off in the sticks at an organized scout camp. Last summer was my first week-long camp spent in the Uinta Mountains (Kamas, UT 84036 is, of course, The Gateway to the Uintas) at Camp Tomahawk. This year we chose to attend Camp Aspen Ridge located just outside of Preston, Idaho 83263.

Each morning all the troops who attend the camp participate in a flag raising ceremony and at the close of the day a flag closing ceremony. On the last night of camp, we heard the camp staff announce that the flag was well-worn and in need of retirement. Rather than lowering the flag down the pole and folding it as had been done each night, a horseman (teenage camp staff member) rode up to the pole and quietly waited while the color guard transferred the flag to a portable pole. Once this had been respectfully done, the flag was handed to the horseman who tucked the pole into the stirrup by his cowboy boot and rode off out of sight. Now I had never witnessed the retiring of a tattered US flag, but I knew there was more to it than watching it disappear in the hands of a scout on a horse.

After the ceremony, the troops were excused one at a time to proceed to the Fire Bowl for the camp's closing event. The Fire Bowl sits at the foot of a large cluster of Pine Trees, with rows of wooden bleachers assembled in a semi circle and 2 large fire pits placed twenty feet apart at the head of the circle. In the middle of the Fire Bowl was a large open space where we were favored with scout-style skits (the kind you would only find at scout camps) performed by the teen camp staff members. I must admit, some of those skits were pretty funny and one even received a big ol' guffaw leaping from my mouth.

After the skits were over, silence fell over the Fire Bowl and a recording of, I'm Proud to be an American, by Lee Greenwood began to play. That song always chokes me up a bit, especially at this time of year and it was only intensified as the horseman and the faded flag appeared on a mound of dirt behind the 2 campfires. The flag and horseman sat in quiet reverence until we heard the final lyrics, "God Bless the U.S.A." The Color Guard, wearing crisp-white gloves and matching berets, marched up to the horseman, retrieved the flag and folded it in the customary triangle-fashion. Now this was scout camp, mind you, and there were 300+ scouts in that Fire Bowl. Had there been an empty bleacher where a pin could have been dropped, you would have heard it. Amazing!

One boy in the Color Guard respectfully held the folded flag and another boy invited audience members who were serving or had served in the armed forces for our country to form a line behind the fire pits and face the audience. All who had served or were currently serving as police officers, fire fighters and EMTs were also invited to join this group. About eleven men, who were at the camp as scout leaders or dads, of varying ages took their places. The Color Guard was excused and the boy holding the folded flag, remained standing alone between the fire pits. The sun had dropped below the mountain that lay to the west of us and a beautiful meadow lay quietly in front of us. Complete silence remained as the flag carrying boy walked to the edge of the fire pit on my left, stood for a few seconds with his gaze fixed straight forward, and then bent down and placed the American Flag of our great country into the fire. Immediately, a flute began to whisper the quiet melody of God Bless America while the piece of red, white and blue cloth that symbolizes our freedom, burned in flames.

No matter how many times someone tells you to be grateful for what you have and the land where you live, patriotism, gratitude and emotion can never be forced. Oh, sure I'm patriotic; I love our country, salute the flag and express gratitude for those whose lives have been lost in behalf of my freedom. I assume my patriotism exists much like many other Americans who have been raised in this country without having put my life on the line or witnessed someone close to me do so, for the freedom and rights of being an American Citizen. But the permanent retirement of the American Flag burning in a pit of fire before my eyes struck a swelling of emotion that came from a deep place within myself. There's shedding a tear when something touches you. There's crying at the end of a sad movie. And then there is balling like a baby when a current moment combines with past feelings and experiences and feelings of sincere appreciation, love for others, love of country or love for life itself swells from deep within us.

When the flute concluded the patriotic melody, all staff members stood in the semi-circle of the bowl and quietly sang, My Country 'Tis of Thee. We were excused out of the bowl in single file and walked through the line of servicemen giving us the opportunity to shake their hands and thank them for their service. This too was an emotional experience for me and only intensified the moment and my associated feelings. One of my co-leaders who sat next to me in the Fire Bowl said as we walked back to our camp, "We don't have enough experiences like this anymore in our lives."

If today was my last day, I'd head straight back to scout camp. After watching corny skits in the mountains I'd relive this rare flag retiring experience, but this time I would share it with the most important people in my life.

The Bike, A Bottle of Nail Polish Remover & A Secret Note

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 04:25:00 +0000

I've always liked the first page of M. Scott Peck's book, The Road Less Traveled. In fact, the book has been sitting on my desk for the past week because I pulled it off the shelf to re-read this page. Here's a sample of what it says:

"Life is difficult...Once we truly know that life is difficult - once we truly understand and accept it - then life is no longer difficult. Because once it is accepted, the fact that life is difficult no longer matters."

These words remind me of the power of acceptance - accepting life as it is instead of fighting against how we want it to be.

In the play, Lost In Yonkers, by Neil Simon, the main character, Bella, just wants her mom and nephew to sit down in the living room so that she can share some big news. Her mom won't sit in the right chair and her brother keeps getting up and looking out the window. Finally in great frustration Bella blurts out, "This is not how I had it pictured."

Sometimes life just isn't how we have it pictured. Okay, a lot of the time it's not the way we anticipated or "had it pictured." But sometimes, rather than accepting that life is difficult and moving on, we decide that a certain scene of our lives just has to go our way.

Lately, I've been observing what people do to get what they most want when life isn't going as they had planned. I have categorized my observations into 3 buckets: Ask for Forgiveness Later, Intimidation and Violence. These categories can best be illustrated by sharing 3 stories from the life of my good friend Jill Kocherhans.

Ask for Forgiveness Later: One evening when Jill was 11 years old, she was using an opened bottle of fingernail polish remover on the beautifully varnished oak coffee table that was displayed in the home of her parents. Before leaving on a date with his wife, Jill's dad said, "Sweetie, that fingernail polish remover is going to spill all over and ruin our table. Don't you think you should do your nails in a different place." To which Jill replied, "No it's not. I'll be super careful." Her father and mother left on a date and Jill continued removing that old coat of nail polish that was the same exact color as Donny Osmond's purple socks. After finishing the left hand ring finger, the stars and planets aligned against Jill and somehow that bottle of nail polish remover landed on the table in a horizontal position, removing the varnish down to the bare oak where it had spilled. The next morning, she saddled up to the confession booth with her father and asked for his forgiveness.

Intimidation: One day when Jill was in the fifth grade she was riding home from school on her purple (yes, same color as the socks) Schwinn one-speeder when she spotted JoLisa Farfernoggin. Oh how Jill hated JoLisa Farfernoggin and her annoying little pigtails. Jill's best friend, Loretta, started being friends with JoLisa. Each time Jill would ask if she could play with them, JoLisa always told her no. Something within Jill snapped that day on the bike and the force with which her legs were turning the pedals ignited. With increasing speed, Jill yelled out, "JoLisa Farfernoggin, you better move." JoLisa replied, "I'm not moving." Jill repeated her intimidating taunt and JoLisa remained stubborn in her position on the street. The bike drew closer and JoLisa became ever more determined to stand her ground. I will spare my younger readers the disturbing details and just make mention that Mrs. Farfernoggin sure spent a lot of time in the laundry room scrubbing those tire marks out of JoLisa's blue gingham dress.

Violence: When Jill was in the fourth grade sitting in a school assembly, she passed a secret note to her friend Becky Sue. To Jill's horror, Martha Mae intercepted the note and refused to give it back. After multiple attempts, Jill could not get Martha Mae to surrender the note. Jill knew that she couldn't accept that sometimes in life your secret note gets stolen. In a fury of desperation, Jill grabbed Martha Mae's hand and bit it as hard as she could. This cost Jill a great deal as she had some explaining to do out in the hall with her teacher, but it was worth it because she got what she wanted - the secret note.

I guess Burger King got it right years ago - sometimes you just have to have things your way. Another way of looking at the wisdom of M. Scott Peck is to accept that sometimes we just can't accept that life is difficult. I thank my friend Jill for teaching me this new and slightly-bent interpretation of acceptance.

Grandpa Dwayne's Top 10 Sayings

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 20:43:00 +0000

The other night I had a dream about my Grandpa Dwayne. I don’t know how to interpret the dream because all it consisted of was him calling me on my cell phone and asking if I would pick him up some hot mustard sauce. And then he said, “You better tack on some ham and cheese to go with it.” I then went shopping at a pharmacy to get the goods only to be told by the pharmacist that Aunt Deb had phoned and asked him to inform me that a bottle of hot mustard had been found in the cellar so I wondered if my grandpa still needed the ham and cheese and what if he didn’t go out to the cellar? Should I still get the hot mustard? And that was it.

These are meaningful issues when you’re asleep, less so when you’re awake, but I’ve been thinking about how language defines us even when it makes no sense. I hadn’t been thinking about my grandfather before my dream, but when I checked the calendar I realized his passing was about this same time, three years ago.

I thought about what he was saying in the dream, and then I thought about what he said when he was alive, the odd, and random expressions that were always rolling off of his tongue.

Prior to taking a shower he would announce, "Its time to go jump in the Smith & Moorehouse."

When he couldn't recall something he would say, “ I just go to the Snake River and that’s as far as I can go.”

The day we went for firewood and his truck muffler was ripped off by some dead branches, rather than being angry about it he said, "You see son, you've got to always plan for trouble."

When you would tell him goodbye he would reply, "Okay, I'll see you in the funny papers."

If you asked him where he was going he would say, "South of Peoa on a load of turnips.”

Anytime he was asked how long something would take, his standard response was, “Oh, about a-week-a-ten-days.”

While sitting on a lawn chair in his garage watching people drive by, he would say inquisitively, "Now …where do you think she's going? That's the third time she's driven by here today."

While playing the card game Pit and always getting beat, he would yell out, "Why do I always end up with the damn bear!"

When leaving the house he would say, "Take your time going, and hurry back."

And his favorite and only recited poem:

One bright day, in the middle of the night
Two dead men came out to fight
Back to back, they faced each other
Drew their swords and shot each other
A deaf policeman heard the noise
And came to kill the two dead boys
If you don’t believe my story’s true
Ask the blind man, he saw it too

I think many of these sayings came from my grandpa's dad, my great grandfather, and I catch myself now using them with my kids, the fourth generation of Wilde’s. And I wonder will they say any of these things to their kids years from now when they’re grown and married and have families of their own, maybe after I’m gone? Will I live in their dreams when my son says as his daughter leaves for her first date, “take your time going, and hurry back.”

Once Upon A Time...

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Fri, 29 May 2009 20:05:00 +0000

Once upon a time in a far away land, there lived a lovely princess. She had jet-black hair, rosy-red lips and lily-white skin - thus the name, Snow White. She had a Wicked Stepmother (aka, WSM) who was intensely jealous of Snow White's beauty. The WSM called the woodsman to kill Snow White, but he warned Snow White to run - and run she did in her five and three-quarters pumps. She met up with 7 dwarfs who instantly became surrogate males in her life because she had no father - or at least he was never mentioned in the Disney version.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful girl name Cinderella, who was dear and fair and sweet and oh so very kind to not just people, but fowls and rodents. With not a trace of detail, Cinderella's mother was gone. Dead? We know not, but one thing we do know is that her father took on a new wife and she became known as the WSM. And then out of necessity to the story, her father died and Cinderella became a slave girl to this Witch-of-a-Stepmother and her two homely daughters.

Once upon a time in a kingdom not too distant (but further away than LaVerkin, Utah 84745), a King and Queen had a beautiful baby girl and named her, Aurora. Maleficent, an evil witch (but not the WSM in this tale), strolls onto the scene, makes a scene of herself for not having been invited to a feast thrown by the King to celebrate the birth of lovely Auroa, and casts some ridiculous spell on Aurora that she would prick her finger on a spinning wheel on her sixteenth birthday and die - and since spinning wheels were a common household item in the Kingdom - the likelihood of this happening was ginormous, leaving the King and Queen with no alternative than to have 3 fairies raise their daughter for the next sixteen years in a hidden cottage in the forest, not that Auroa couldn't be hidden just on her sixteenth birthday, but all caution of parental bonding and attachment issues (that came from the palace social workers), was thrown to the wind and 3 old fairy ladies raised the girl in secrecy assuming she would have no identity issues or wonder about her family of origin. All in all, the important part for this post: she grew up without parents.

Once upon a time in a far distant sea, there lived a mermaid princess known as Ariel. She was raised by her father, the King and nannied by a crab. Where is the Queen you ask? Missing, without a trace. Ursula is the Wicked Sea Witch (aka, WSW) who talks of having lived in the castle and we are left to wonder if she was once the Queen, married to King Triton and therefore, that would make her, - Oh! - Ariel's mother! But wondering is all we can do because it is essential that Ariel's mother's whereabouts remain a mystery in order to make it a TRUE and impressionable fairy tale.

Once upon a time, in the land of Farmington, UT 84025, there lived a little 3 year old girl who was certain she was a princess. For her recent birthday she was showered with a Snow White princess dress, plastic jewelery and four different pairs of five and three-quarters princess pumps. Around the castle she roamed, flitting and fluttering about, as princesses do. One bright sunny day, while her biological and involved father was at work, the princess went out on her back patio to play. Her biological mother, who, like the father, is playing an active part in the princess's life, heard the princess singing at the top of her lungs a pretty little tune while twirling around on the cement in her new princess attire. Her mother quietly opened the back door that lead to the patio to listen and she was struck by the lyrics that were being repeated by her daughter. And these were the words:

My mom is dead
My mom is dead
And my dad is dead too
I am a princess and my mom is dead

Oh, my mom is dead
My mom is dead
And my dad is dead too
I am a princess and my mom is dead

Oh, the the influence of Disney fairy tales on the life of a modern day princess. What is to become of her? Better yet, what is to become of her parents? It appears that she will only be a TRUE princess if, "[Her] mom is dead; [Her] mom is dead; And [her] dad is dead too."

Go figure.

In the "Back-then-Days"

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Thu, 21 May 2009 17:40:00 +0000

While driving one of my sons home from a friend's house, he started telling me about the year-end testing he is anticipating in school. He was relieved that a big change had been made in how he would take the tests this year compared to prior years. As he told me about the change, I had a feeling of amazement for the many technological advances I've seen in my day. But this advancement has to be one of the biggest and quite frankly, I'm surprised it has taken this long to evolve. The change you ask? --NO MORE BUBBLE SHEETS.

That's right. No more booklets that must be returned to the teacher in pristine condition and no more #2 pencils. Amazing! Instead the test will be administered on the computer.

My son will forever have this technological emergence in his mind and will tell his children and grandchildren, "I remember when our wrists had to be soaked in ice every night during test week because they ached so bad from filling in all those bubbles. And I remember one year I sprained my wrist and had to sit out the entire baseball season because of that old crank on the #2 pencil sharpener."

A few days later I had another one of those, "in the back then days" (as my 6 year old son refers to the old fashioned days of my childhood) when my mom delivered an old rotary baby-blue telephone that used to sit on my grandma's nightstand in her bedroom while I was growing up. I had inquired about the phone and through the generosity of my grandma, the phone is now mine. I placed the phone on my bed away from the sticky hands of my 3 year-old daughter and her bottomless toy box until I could decide where I wanted to put it.

A little while later, I walked into the bedroom and found my 9 year-old son holding the receiver in his left hand while trying to figure out how the rotary dial was used to place a call. I was certain he knew it was a telephone but that circular dial thingy was completely baffling to him. The twisted springy cord was also a novelty - probably because he's not used to seeing the receiver tethered to the base of a phone. He looked at me and said with a big puzzled grin, "Dad, this phone is cool. But I can't figure out how you would call somebody on it. Does this circle with holes in it have to be turned to the end every time you dial a number?" The phone does not have caller ID, touch tone keys or cordless features. It was clear to me from the expression on his face that he had positively stumbled upon a machine, "from the back-then-days."

I was around ten when my grandparents got their first microwave. We quickly discovered how that little rectangular appliance could plump a hot dog and blow-up an egg in a matter of minutes. A year or two later, we got our first VCR - man was that thing ginormous! We had to leave the town of Kamas, Utah 84036 and venture to Park City, 84060 to find the nearest video rental store. All the movies they had were printed in 2 columns on a single sheet of paper. Talk about being deprived.

Personal computers eventually became a necessary household appliance. The first year of our marriage we pounded the keys of an electronic Brother typewriter. My wife woke me around 2:00 a.m. one night to inform me that the typewriter had run out of ribbon ink. We got in the car and drove to the nearest 24 hour store to buy a new ink cartridge so that she could finish the paper that was due that afternoon. We eventually saved our money (I wanted to finance, but the wisdom of my wife prevailed - good husband) and purchased our first PC while we were in college. Today PCs govern, operate and process the majority of what we experience in a day. My children know no other way of life.

Gone are the days of boiling hotdogs, buying penny candy from Hoyt's store in downtown Kamas, Utah 84036, "dialing" your best friend, and gone are the days of the ol' bubble sheets. Another item to add to the list of the "back-then-days."

Some of my email subscribers did not receive my column last week. If you missed it, scroll down and you'll find, Lessons from the Raingutter Regatta.

Lessons from the Raingutter Regatta

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Thu, 14 May 2009 16:45:00 +0000

It's Raingutter Regatta building time at our home this week. This is an event that Cub Scouts participate in similar to a Pinewood Derby. The difference is that you are racing a boat you and your son assemble and race in a raingutter filled with water.

On Sunday we had the parts laid out on the table: boat, mast, keel and rudder. My 3 year-old daughter took great interest in the keel probably because it is a shiny silver triangle that looks like a flat house that's been cut in half, with a sharp pointy tip that can be used to do some damage.

While my son and I were reading the instructions (yes, I do read the instructions having learned the hard way 3 years ago), I happened to look up and saw my 3 year-old with keel in hand, using all her might to get the pointy tip to stick into our solid maple kitchen table.

Now a little disclaimer so that you don't call the Division of Child and Family Services: my daughter possess super-charged emotions that are easily triggered. With some of our kids we have to use a sledge hammer to get a point across, but this little one only requires a soft rubber mallet. When I saw her trying to insert the keel into the table like she was putting a nose on Mr. Potato Head, I confess - I reacted, rather than responded. I said something like, "Oh! We don't put that into the table. It will make a hole that we will never be able to fix." Well, my knee-jerk reaction, combined with my tone and choice of words, injured her little heart and the tears came pouring.

I quickly went to her, took her in my arms, told her I was sorry and tried to explain in a softer way why I was telling her (failing to ask her) why she couldn't gouge the table with her new-found woodworking instrument. After a few minutes I felt I had consoled her, glued her back together and the incident was resolved.

A couple of hours later, she and I were sitting in our van, waiting for the crowd to take their places for a little jaunt to grandma and grandpa's and the following conversation took place:

Thoughtful-Daughter: "Daddy, do you love me?"

About-to-be-Blindsided-Father: "Of course I love you sweetie."

Injured-Daughter: "But you yelled at me today."

Clueless Dad: "I'm sorry I yelled at you. Sometimes daddy get's a little angry, but that doesn't mean I don't love you. I will always love you sweetie, even if I get mad sometimes."

After sitting in silence for about 2 minutes she responds:

Going-In-For-the-Kill-Daughter: "Yelling is not kisses, daddy."

Raingutter Regatta Kit: $3.99
Daughter Teaching Father a Lesson About Relationships: Priceless

Flash Mobbing

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Thu, 07 May 2009 20:10:00 +0000

Flash Mobbing. Have you heard of it? Better yet, have you seen it?

I could hook you up with a Wikipedia link that would define Flash Mobbing, but you just gotta experience it for yourself. It's not like Flash Dancing, so banish that preconception from your mind. And it has nothing to do with gangstas. Give thought to a few questions as you watch it:

1.) What if life really could be this spontaneous? (maybe it can)

2.) What buried passions are triggered as you watch these people?

3.) Do the things we value most in life really take this much practice?

4.) Does it matter that you never really liked Julie Andrews?

Here goes...

Flash Mobbing was started by a guy named "Bill" as an email con to get people to spontaneously show up at a designated place and “do basically nothing at all.” The first Flash Mob was in New York City and was halted by police. But after the second attempt was a success, the craze took off across America, eventually spreading internationally, with this recent occurrence at the Antwerp Central Station in Belgium .

In the midst of the poor economy, ongoing war and flu threats, unacquainted people are getting together, working on a common goal, giving their personal time, instantaneously showing up at a designed location and -ta-da- Flash Mobbing!

Not a bad idea, eh?

You Can Dress Your Kids Up, But You Can’t Control What They Say

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Fri, 01 May 2009 14:35:00 +0000

Recently our eleven year old son was invited to be part of a photo shoot for an upcoming front cover of The Friend magazine published by the LDS church. He was not selected for any special reason other than the photographer remembered him among a number of kids at a pre-photo shoot as, “the boy with the cut lip.” Don’t try telling him flesh wounds to the face don’t bring paybacks.

On the front cover, our son and four other children will be shown with President Thomas S. Monson, President and Prophet of the LDS church. For a Mormon, meeting the Prophet is akin to meeting the Pope if you are Catholic. Oh sure, the Prophet can be seen in the monthly church magazines and twice a year on television during the broadcast of General Conference, but to actually meet him is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Our son was excited to have this opportunity, as was my wife who was “required” to go with him to the shoot.

My wife dug his tie out of the bottom of his closet, pressed his white shirt, matted down his flapping cowlicks and accompanied him to the Beehive House in downtown Salt Lake City. While the photographer prepped the photo room, the children waited patiently. After about an hour, everything was in order and President Monson arrived. As you can imagine, his presence filled the room and the children stood in disbelief that they were actually in the same room with him.

Our son is observant, highly attuned to his surroundings, with an extremely witty sense of humor. He is calm, polite and knows how to adjust his behavior appropriately to any given situation. I had no worries about him knowing how to conduct and handle himself around the Prophet. In fact, the thought to be concerned never crossed my mind.

Before I continue, let me explain where and by whom I learned the truth of what happened at that photo shoot. When my son came home from getting his mug shot, I asked him to tell me all about his experience, of which he gave me an eleven year old response of, “It was cool.” My wife also told me about their trip downtown and what a special experience it was for her. But it wasn’t until two days later, that I found myself sitting on the baseball bleachers in Farmington, Utah 84025 watching my son play his first game of the season. I was sitting next to a good friend who leaned over to me and said, “Hey, I heard what your son said when he and my daughter met the prophet the other day.” He could tell I had no idea what he was talking about and gloated while excitedly relayed the following to me.

After the photos were taken, President Monson invited the moms to join their children. As the moms were moving into the room, he said to the kids, “Moms are so special and I’ll bet you all have great dads.” Now most of the kids were likely a little overcome with the experience and reserved in their response. But not my son. In response to the question about having a great dad, my son took the occasion to blurt out, “Yeah, most of the time.” He wasn’t going to put-on-the-dog for the prophet and shy away from being himself. The occasion presented itself and he took the opportunity to just tell it like it is. I am a good dad, most of the time.

Since learning of my son’s comment, I have played up a little drama in jest and given him a hard time about dissing his dad in front of the prophet. But truth is, I like that he can be himself and not feel like he has to put on a false self for others. Some may feel like children should put on their best selves at all times, to be respectful and appropriate. But being someone other than your true self isn’t respectful or appropriate. It’s actually a little on the dishonest or disingenuous side.

This son of mine is a keeper and, like my other children, continues to teach me some very important lessons about life. When others are real with me, it’s actually a gift and an invitation to relax and just be who I am at the moment. I’m going to try and have more of those moments with myself and others.
But as a parent it is my right, according to The Parent Manual, to get the last word. So, to my son I say… thanks!

The Barbie-Turns-50 Birthday Bash

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 21:42:00 +0000

If you didn’t get invited to the biggest birthday bash of the year, you truly missed out. Last week I attended the Barbie-Turns-50 party in El Segundo, California at the Mattel company headquarters. If you didn’t attend because you’re boycotting Mattel over safety hazards posed by several of their high profile products, well you missed out. Barbie is truly one of the most misunderstood characters I know. For this reason, and in an attempt to give Barbie a little positive PR, I would like to share an email I received from her after the big bash last week.

Dear Bryan,

Oh my gosh! Like, that was the funnest birthday party ever. Thank you so much for coming last week. Can you believe I’m now 50? Me either. I mean look at me! My friends say I never age, and to that I say, “Like, oh stop.”

I’m sorry about breaking down. When you asked me how I was doing I just couldn’t pull myself together. I just fled to my closet and spent an hour trying on gowns. Clothes calm me. Once I put on my Island Princess Rosella party dress, I felt so much better. Although it really hurt my feelings that nobody noticed that I was gone, or that I had changed. I mean it was a totally different outfit. Did you know I’m down to a size 1 now?

And speaking of clothes, people just don’t understand how hard my life can be at times. It’s tricky to look as good as I do. My body may be cute, but it’s rigid. No matter how much I protest, my designers refuse to put in a few pleats and elastics. I’m constantly ripping a seam or putting my arm through a lace cuff. Thank goodness all of my birthday gifts were clothes? But seriously, why does everyone insist on giving me clothes? Do they think I’m only into my appearance? Like, that’s so shallow.

Bryan, the truth is, I broke down at the party because I’m not doing well at all. I’ve been hiding it, but like so many good therapists, you draw me out. I tried once again for admission into the Mattel Clinic for Eating Disorders but was turned down. They said, “We regret to inform you that we don’t accept plastic,” and I only have credit cards. What am I to do?

There are so many people who want to be me. It’s exhausting! They just have no idea how hard it really is. For 50 years I’ve wanted to get married. I know, there’s Ken. He is such a dough-head (that means he doesn’t have much upstairs, if you know what I mean). We so don’t have anything in common except our perma-smiles 24/7. Talk about a narcissist. That guy is so wrapped up in himself. And let me just tell you he’d be nothing without me. Who is going to buy their little girl a Ken Doll without me? No one!, that’s who. And surely, no one is going to buy a little boy a Ken Doll. I tell you Ken hasn’t proposed in 50 years and it leaves a girl to wonder.

GI Joe had his 15 minutes, but I ask you, where is he now? Exactly. He is so dreamy though. I would totally date him for sure. He works for Hasbro and my contract with Mattel strictly forbids such inter-corporate relationships. Heartless cold corporate lawyers have ruined my chances for happiness. Such a sad lonely existence I must endure.

And there are those ruthless parents who blame me for their little girls having body image issues. Well, I have body issues of my own. Just for once, I’d like to be who I want to be and not what’s prescribed by The National Enquirer or Inside Edition. I’ve been saying for years that television is nothing more than the devil’s paintbrush to your mind. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live a life in plastic? I have to stay out of the sun and away from ovens over 157 degrees. But oh my heck, I did get to see the band 98 Degrees in concert a few years ago. That Nick Lachey is so hot. We went out a few times before he hooked-up with Jessica-I-Forgot-My-Lyrics-AGAIN-Simpson. But he dumped me because he thinks I’m too “superficial.” What does that mean anyway? Couldn’t he just speak plain English. Like really.

Did you see my performance in Toy Story II - in Al’s Toy Barn scene? For my one shot on the silver screen, I wanted to show the world that I really have something to offer. I was reduced to an over-programmed tour guide bimbo showing other toys around the store. It was my one big chance to change the world and make a difference.

I’ve taken on some writing projects to fill my empty days. No one even knows that it was me who wrote much of the movie Miss Congeniality. Here’s one of my favs I wrote:

Host: “Miss Rhode Island, please describe your idea of a perfect date.”

Miss Rhode Island:” That's a tough one. I would have to say April 25th. Because it's not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket.”

I mean that was brilliant because I just love April 25th. And the producers didn’t even give me credit for the thoughtful, warm and caring response she gave.

Oh well, I feel much better now that I’ve given you a full and complete brain-dump. There’s just simply nothing left to share. Oh wait, there is. I am so offended; look at this e-mail someone sent.

"Ten blondes and one brunette were clinging precariously to a wildly swinging rope hanging from a crumbling outcropping on
Mount Everest.

"They all decided that one of them should let go or else the
rope would break and everyone would plunge to their deaths.

"For an agonizing few moments no one volunteered. Finally the
brunette gave a truly touching speech saying she would
sacrifice herself to save the lives of the others.

"And...the blondes applauded."

Fer rude!

Thanks again for coming to my party. Let’s get together soon for decaf Lattés.

Barbie

P.S. Have you seen my new commercial? It’s one of my best!

The Ketchup Kid

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 20:16:00 +0000

I have been a ketchup connoisseur for as long as I can remember. I have memories of sitting in a booth at the old Jordanelle Cafe (which is now underwater due to the creation of the Jordanelle Reservoir between Kamas, UT 84036 and Heber, UT 84032) eating grilled cheese sandwiches and dipping them in a huge puddle of ketchup. Mmmmmm, mmmm. Sounds like I have my dinner planned for the evening.

There was one time in my life that ketchup got me in trouble. In fact, I'm not even sure what came over me, but the red stain on my character and reputation continue to this day. I realized while talking with my mom the other day that I never told her this story. I was sure that a teacher or the principal would call her and rat me out, but it never happened. So, this column is dedicated to my mom as I disclose to her something she was better off not knowing about her perfect, angelic son. Of course, my disclosure runs the risk of moving me out of the "Favorite Child" position, but I'm not too worried since she didn't have any other kids to vie for the special spot.

When I was in the fifth grade, our class had done something that deserved a party. I haven't the slightest idea what it was but we were allowed to bring a can of soda pop for the special occasion. This was a big deal to us because it was unheard of that we were allowed to have anything in the building other than water or milk. After careful consideration I selected Fanta Red Cream Soda. As we brought our cans of pop into the classroom that morning, our teacher, Mr. Minchie (a wonderful man, he was) informed us that we were to take our soda cans to the lunch room and place them in a refrigerator to be chilled for the party later that afternoon. My friend and I slowly walked together to the cafeteria, he with his Shasta Root Beer and me with my Fanta. We were the last ones to place our bevies in the chilled box.

I recall the lunch room was dark with a little light coming in through the kitchen windows. You see back in my time, in Kamas, UT 84036 at the South Summit Elementary, our lunch was made at the high school and then brought over in an old beat-up milk truck by the lunch ladies, dressed in white with hairnets entrapping their coiffed do’s. They’d come speeding across the playground across the hopscotch squares, around the monkey bars, all while rockin’ to the beat of Glen Campbell's, Like A Rhinestone Cowboy. I'm tellin' ya - these ladies were hip.

I'm not sure why, but we called that truck, "The Patty Wagon" although as far as any of us knew none of the lunch ladies was named Patty. The truck was like a UPS van without the brown paint, the nice tires and a man in uniform and it had racks in the rear to hold the steaming hot food.

As we walked across the gym/school assembly/cafeteria combo floor and into the kitchen my friend and I spotted a huge stainless-steel industrial-sized refrigerator with three doors. I opened the first door and found it to be almost empty except for a dozen or so cans of pop sitting on the floor of the monster refrigerator. Off in the corner just a foot or so down, I spotted one of the most glorious sites I might find in a school cafeteria: seven bottles of ketchup in those soft bottles that you squeeze from the bottom and the precious nectar shoots out of the top all over French fries and scrambled eggs and steak and hamburgers and Sloppy Joes and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Like I said, I haven't the foggiest idea what came over me that day, but I turned to my friend and said, "Let's grab these bottles of ketchup and have some fun." My impulse was not contagious. I'm the only one who grabbed the ketchup and I'm the only one who squirted those bottles all over the inside of that three-door chilled appliance. I think I grabbed two bottles, one for each hand, and then proceeded to squirt the sides, bottom and ceiling being extra careful not to get any of the red sauce on the chilled soda cans. I really did a number on that shiny stainless steel and was quite proud of myself. Ketchup was everywhere. I couldn't believe that my friend chose to be a spectator of this exhilarating and liberating moment. He truly missed out. The only regret I had at that moment was that I had wasted perfectly good ketchup. But I had found a new use for it that I hadn't thought of before, cafeteria graffiti paint.

My friend and I went back to our classroom, feeling guilty as sin, while acting as if we were innocently waiting for the bell to ring so that we could go to our next class and hear Jill Christenson give her 113th book report. Why so many? Because Jill was determined to get that huge Hershey's candy bar that Mr. Minchey promised to give to those students who gave a book report every single week. I tried to keep up. I really did. But back in those days I didn't like to read as much as Jill. (I think I could take her on today though, having read every word of those vampire books)

My exhilarating moment was short lived. No sooner did the first bell of the morning ring and Mr. Walker, our school principal, stood in front of the class with that "someone's going to pay" scowl that he gave. I knew the minute I saw him that I was doomed. His speech was a version that every school child has heard at some point, a request to confess. It went something like this:

"Class, someone has gone into the cafeteria and squirted ketchup all over the refrigerator. Since you are the only class who has had access to the cafeteria this morning we know that someone in here did it. Now I expect whoever it is to come forward so that we can get to the bottom of this."

I was scared to death. I never got in trouble in elementary school, unless you count the Citizenship marks my teachers gave me on my report card, each and every term ,checking the box, "Talks Unnecessarily." Other than that, I had a clean record. I was in deep water and my anxiety was so high that a confession was the only thing that was going to calm my nerves. Principal Walker no sooner ended his threatening little speech and I, sitting on the front row just a few feet from this angry bald man in a black and white tweed jacket, slowly raised my hand. The fifth grade class at the South Summit Elementary school let out a gasp of disbelief. At the time I felt humiliated by that gasp, but now I think it was a compliment an indication that this was so far out of character for me that they couldn't believe it.

Mr. Walker looked at me with his wrinkled-up forehead, that showed all the way to the back of his neck, and said, "Young man, you get yourself into the lunchroom and clean up every ounce of ketchup that you squirted. Red faced and completely embarrassed I followed those shiny-size-nine Rockports across the tile of that multi-purpose floor and into the dimness of the cafeteria where the lights were still off and the stainless steel did not seem to shine as bright as it had fifteen minutes previously.

"Now, you get some napkins and clean up your mess," he commanded me. I found some napkins, but they were those little dinky-thin kind like the ones that sat on the table at the Jordanelle Cafe in those rectangular silver dispensers. He at least could have offered me a rag of some kind, but I think he intentionally wanted this job to take a while in order for the sting and the lesson to set in. To this day, I remember him standing, arms crossed over his chest, watching as I cleaned and tried to control that feeling you get when you're completely terrified and feel like you are about to involuntarily go to the bathroom at any moment even though you don't need to. Okay, maybe I'm the only one who felt that as a kid, but I'm telling you, it is horrible. After I finished he escorted me back to my classroom where I could marinate in my embarrassment amongst my classmates for the rest of the day.

For the remainder of the year, the other fifth grade teacher, Mr. Park, called me "The Ketchup Kid" every time he saw me. I really hated that because he just wouldn't let it die. Over the years many of my classmates would remind me of my little delinquent episode and inevitably say, "I still can't believe you did that." I wanted to bury the memory of that day and never have anyone call attention to it again. But, as with most things in life, time passes, you gain some perspective and you get into your 40's and don't care if your mom finds out about some of those things that she was better off not knowing of back in the day.

You might think that this incident would have triggered an aversion to ketchup. But I still love the stuff even to this day. Many ask me if I have a preferred brand. I always respond, "No preference as long as there's enough of it."

So, mom, there it is - my little confession. It's funny how we grow up keeping things from our parents in fear of their wrath and then we reach the day when it no longer matters. The strange thing is that after we air our dirty laundry to our parents, we turn right around and attempt to hide those little misdeeds from our children. There's always somebody we conceal our secrets from in the family. Makes me wonder: Will it ever end?

Happy Birthday to The B. Wilde Column!

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 22:00:00 +0000

A great big birthday wish goes out to The B. Wilde Column! This month marks a full year of posting on my site. If the Kamas Valley Lion's Birthday calendar was still in existence, you would find The B. Wilde Column listed on February 11, 2008. That was the date I launched my site and first column titled, "A Little More Humor, A Little More Being Real." Thanks to my Great Grandma Rhea, I was able to start off by disclosing a little secret that she didn't know she had. You see, Grandma got sauced at her granddaughter's wedding and didn't know it. Referring to the spiked punch she was drinking she stated, "That punch was the best I've ever tasted."

The B. Wilde Column began as one of those "someday I want to write" statements. I had been telling my wife for a few years that "someday" I wanted to write. I love reading columnist Ann Cannon on Mondays in the Deseret News. She always makes me laugh. I enjoy how she writes about the ups and downs of life and is totally straightforward and most of all, real.

One day I was thinking I would like to try my hand at some short pieces. A book felt too overwhelming for me back then and still does today. That's another "someday" project. I sat down at the keyboard and hammered out my first two columns. On our way to St. George in the Fall of 2007 I handed my wife the two columns and explained my idea to her about having an internet column. She thought it was like, so cool (what else is she going to say? I'm her husband after all) and encouraged me to move forward. We went through a bunch of editing and finally felt like I had something worth sharing.

I created a website, gathered a few email addresses from family and friends, who I knew would at least humor me, and sent out my first column. And the rest is history. I have posted 30 columns including this one, acquired approximately 117 email subscribers, picked up a few who follow me through Facebook and a few more who have RSS feeds from my column. I have made friends with some of the most amazing bloggers all over the globe. The most views I've had in one day is 60 and I now get at least 3 or more visitors coming to my site each day in between my posts. What matters most to those "important people" who watch your site is how many comments you get. So, thank you for the time you have taken to write comments. I greatly appreciate it.

Just like the philosophical question, "If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it, does it make a sound?" Without you as a reader my writings wouldn't exist. Not that I wouldn't enjoy having created them or leaving them for my family to read, but I simply wouldn't write. And to think that based on the final English score I got on my ACT test taken in high school, I was required to take English 99 when I went to The Weber State College (now University). For those of you who don't know, all college classes begin with at least three digits. In high school I could have easily been voted, "The Most Unlikely to Write A Complete Sentence." I'm sure Glendon Jewkes, my eleventh and twelfth grade English teacher, would think that my wife writes the column for me each week and publishes it under my name. Well, Mr. Jewkes, believe it or not- It ain't she writin' them columns - I was the one doin' it.

It has been motivating and rewarding to connect and reconnect with so many of you through the column. May we have another great year as I do my best to create a few pieces that we can share together. And in the end hopefully we will once again say, "A fun time was had by all."

Stay tuned for next week’s column as I write about the nectar of life: KETCHUP

My Trip to the Philippines – And a Fun Time Was Had by All

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 23:18:00 +0000

Last week my employer sent me to the Philippines to visit our newly-opened office. This was the first time this Kamas, Utah 84036, boy has stepped off American soil and ventured into strange territory. Growing up, my travel itinerary consisted of occasional trips to the big wonderful state of Wyoming and the parched land of Nevada. Not exactly what you would call exotic, unless you’re from New England. In my adults years I’ve ventured much farther beyond the Kamas borders, all the way to the back hills of Ashland, Kentucky and Mickey Gilley’s Bar in Texas, but never before out of the country.

My journey began when I boarded a plane in Salt Lake City headed for Los Angeles. After an hour of sitting on the plane at the gate, we were asked to disembark or to use the airline term “deplane”, although I have never heard the term detrain, or decar, or deboat - due to “mechanical” problems, we were instructed to board a different plane and an hour and half later, we were flying the friendly skies. I had a connecting flight to catch in L.A. I ran like the wind (I’m tempted to say, “like O.J. Simpson,” but such baggage – so, I won’t) from Terminal 3 to Terminal 2 and dashed through Security (if that is possible) and eventually arrived at the gate. There was just one problem: no plane. I had missed the Tokyo-bound flight by a measly 10 minutes.

Good news: Northwest Airlines booked me on a flight later that day. Bad news: my flight didn’t leave for 9 hours. Good news: I was flying business class and had access to the Northwest Business Class Lounge. Bad news: despite the sign that read, “No Pets Allowed,” some lady brought her yapping dog into the lounge to liven up the atmosphere and calm my traveling nerves. So thoughtful of her, wasn’t it?

The nine hours lapsed and just as I was to board my rerouted flight, I was informed that Northwest made an error in the way they booked my ticket and I was actually flying, “Standby.” Good news: I got on the plane. Bad news: this plane had mechanical problems too.

After an hour and a half of sitting on the tarmac, the mechanical crew decided that it was no longer safe for us to remain on the 747 while they greased the chain, filled the windshield wiper fluid, checked for incoming geese, and whatever else it is they do when there’s a mechanical problem. We disembarked, I mean deplaned, and buses arrived to transport us back to the airport where we debussed.

Good news: we were told that we would be resting in a nice lounge with snacks and bevies while we continued to wait. Bad news: the bus drivers dropped us off in Arrivals, rather than Departures. Problem you ask? BIG PROBLEM!

You see, the passengers on the 747 plane were 98% Filipinos. When we showed-up in “Arrivals” appearing to be foreigners, Homeland Security freaked out, and I do mean freaked. In droves they came descending on the threatening scene in a matter of minutes.

Good news: at least our airports are safe. Bad news: Homeland Security thought we were mistakenly flown into the L.A. airport from a foreign land. This was evident in the manner in which they yelled at people to stop talking, quarantined us into a cramped area in the airport and only allowed us to go to the bathroom three at a time. After unsuccessful attempts to get the officers to first seek to understand our little predicament, an outspoken woman finally got through to one of them and explained our plight.

Good news: we were bused to a departure gate. This restored peace back to the Homeland Security Staff and they were once again at ease to patrol the airport on their two-wheeled motorized scooters. Bad news: 6 hours after we were supposed to depart, and at 3:00 a.m., we boarded the repaired plane bound for the Philippines.

Once I survived these little mechanical hiccups, the rest of my trip was smooth sailing. My business was conducted, our fine staff gave me a tour around the city and I tried a variety of foods that had never before hit my pallet. With the exception of chicken feet, one of their finest delicacies, despite any potential offense, I simply had to decline. That’s where I had to put a line in the sand with my claw – so to speak.

For those who travel a great deal, my little excursion is likely akin to something like going for gasoline at Dutch’s Service Station in Oakley, Utah 84055 (Grandpa Wilde used to pull into the station and holler, “Filler up, Dutch!” And that’s all it took to get a full tank of gas). But my experience would have been front-page news in the Summit County Bee back in the 70’s. It probably would have been listed ahead of the exciting reports from the Sisters-three, Cynth, Algie and Grace, in the Goings-on section of The Bee. You could count on a regular posting from these sisters detailing their trip all the way down to Salt Lake City for a bite of Egg Fu Yong and Sweet and Sour Pork at the booming Chinese restaurant, Fong Lings, in Sugarhouse, just below the Kamas K-Mart (OKA – your Parley’s Way K-Mart on Foothill).

My trip would have totally upstaged Cynth, Algie and Grace. That little section in The Bee no longer exists. But if it did, I would borrow the final words those sisters used to sum up my trip - “And a fun time was had by all!”

Girls Are Born to Shop

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 05:14:00 +0000

Allow me to illustrate with three little vignettes from the life of my almost-three-year-old daughter and my friend Nickole:

In December, mom says to daughter: “Is Santa going to bring you something for Christmas?”

“Yes,” daughter replies.

“Is he going to bring you a dolly?”

“Uh-huh!”

“What else is he going to bring you?”

“More credit cards,” she says confidently.

She loves the weekends and doesn’t like me going to work. Recently, before leaving one morning she said, “What are we doing today daddy?”

“I’m sorry, Sweetie but I have to go to work today. But I will be home at dinnertime,” I reply.

“No daddy. I want you stay home with me today.”

“What do you want to do if I stay home?”

“Go shopping. Run errands, like mommy. At Smith’s to see the princess birthday cake.”

“What do you want to buy?”

“Guggle-gum. Pink guggle-gum! You take me to Smith’s to buy guggle-gum?”

Recently, my friend Nickole wrote on her Facebook page: “Nickole is really hoping that her favorite shoes help make this a better day.”

To which I responded: “Girl, you can't rely on shoes to make your day. You need to get yourself over to The Costco and do some people watching. That will cheer you up.”

Nickole: “But I am a girl. Sometimes shoes can make everything better. And I LOVE people watching at Costco.”

And then I shared, “My 3 year old daughter got in our closet last night and came out wearing a pair of my wife's shoes. She said, "Yeah, these shoes used to be mine, but now they are moms. I got bigger." You're right. It's all about shoes and it starts WAY early on.” She calls them her “pretty shoes.”

Nickole then wrote: “It has to start early. It's one fantastic legacy that we mothers can leave our daughters. One of my oldest daughter's first words was shoes. Her dad simply hung his head in defeat.”

The greatest of all is when my daughter approaches me, asks to be picked up and says, “I love you daddy.” At that moment, she has me and I would give her my credit cards, get her all the guggle-gum she wants and fly her to the ends of the world for those “pretty shoes” she has to own.

And then I read something like this spoken by Jessie Randall, a Brooklyn, New York based designer and founder of Loeffler Randall shoe store, “Shoes make women feel so beautiful that they're willing to pay anything. You can't put a price on something that makes you feel that special."

And I wonder…does “anything” mean that I’m being snowed?

Cleaner #5: The Answer to All Your Problems

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 00:30:00 +0000

Eleven years ago I completed a Masters of Social Work degree and left my ten-year corporate job to work as a mental health therapist. In order to be licensed in the State of Utah, I had to work under a Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) for four-thousand hours and pass 2 exams. Once these requirements were met – Ta Da - I was an official LCSW myself.

My new place of employment was an adolescent treatment center, an out-patient lock-down facility where the average length of stay is 8-10 months. In one of our first meetings, my clinical supervisor, a man who had worked for fifteen years as a therapist, said to me, "Bryan, there are some days when I watch the fry-cook at McDonald's and envy his life."

"What do you mean?," I asked.

"There is a shadow to doing this kind of work that you will come to recognize and also feel within yourself. One day you will understand what this means," he said.

After living in the minds of mentally-ill teenagers for forty-plus hours a week, working on their issues and probing into the deep crevices of their minds, I gained an understanding of that dark and ominous shadow. When someone gets themselves into mud and you step in to help them clean it off you inevitably get dirty in the process. This is referred to as counter transference. But enough foreboding from my life as a therapist - let's talk about a couple of stories from the treatment center that continue to provide me with some good laughs and occasional insight when needed. I like to think it's humor that brings us together once a week in my column. (At least some of you think I'm funny. Okay, maybe just my mom and Aunt Deb, but I'll take what I can get.)

About once a month one of the resident teens would attempt to circumvent the nearly-foolproof system by going AWOL. Nearly all of them were out-of-staters, locked in a treatment center surrounded by cow pastures on the western-side of Syracuse, Utah. When it comes to escape, cow pastures present limited options. As many of us in life sadly learn in one way or another you can only hide behind a Polled Hereford or squirrel-up in a hay barn for so long.

One brave boy tried to break out of the joint by throwing a fire extinguisher at the prison-secure window, only to watch it shatter, then stare dejectedly as it remained completely intact.

We also had girls who always had to be checked as they left the cafeteria, lest one of them make another attempt to slit her wrists with the plastic cutlery and enjoy a few hours of respite and distraction at the local Emergency Room.

I recall the day three girls in broad daylight ran from the place without their shoes. After approaching the five-way stop a half-mile up the street, they argued over the correct way to escape from Alcatraz. Unable to reach consensus, they each chose a different road and went their separate ways. A few hours later, after receiving individualized limo rides (compliments of Syracuse City Policy Department) back to the facility, they enjoyed a few days of solitary confinement in their own personal Timeout Room at the treatment center.

One of my favorite attempts was the boy who probably held the record for being away on foot for the longest amount of time. Having made his escape in the early afternoon, the chilly night came and still the staff had not located him. With a coat, pair of gloves and a pair of boots, he might have been able to endure the weather sitting on top of the Speed Street Indoor Raceway billboard sign along Interstate 15. But as happens to so many of us who fail to prepare, eventually old man winter got to him. He climbed down from the sign, walked to a payphone and called his grandmother to disclose his location. One call led to another and he was picked-up by the treatment center staff. Like the three girls, the special suite had been prepared in anticipation of his return. He too became well acquainted with the infamous Timeout Room.

And then there was the sixteen girl unit known as, The Copper Team (each unit named after a color). The units developed their own distinct cultures with beliefs and behaviors that persisted despite ongoing admissions and discharges. The Copper Team was notorious for getting placed on "Team Focus," for naughty behaviors. If theft was reported among the girls, they were placed together in their group room to sit in silence. Sometimes this technique of staring at each other in total silence hour-after-hour, would cause someone to break and admit that they were guilty. While they sat together, each girl would be called out one at a time to go through her entire possessions with a staff member searching for the missing item.

The item that repeatedly came up missing was Cleaner #5 used to perform daily cleaning assignments.. The team belief was that Cleaner #5 was toxic and that by ingesting it they would become violently ill. The staff would call an ambulance and they would be rushed to the ER. These desperate attempts were made all in an effort to get out of the treatment center, if only for a few hours. Sadly for them, Cleaner #5 was non-toxic. In truth, all Cleaner #5 did was cause stomach upset and diarrhea. Despite a large disproving amount of first hand testimony, Cleaner #5 remained the hottest thieving item in Syracuse, Utah.

Isn't life a little bit like drinking Cleaner #5? We make crazy attempts to avoid or run away from our problems all in an effort to escape our present discomfort. Often our attempts create a secondary pain that becomes more problematic than the issue itself.

The next time you're feeling anxious or depressed, ask yourself what you're trying to avoid. If you can identify it, rather than avoiding, try confronting it head-on. It's not easy, but sometimes it actually works. Sometimes the only way out is through. That's about as far as I better go or else you'll have to lie down on my couch and then the meter starts running.

But if you really want to embrace your avoidance tactics and remain addicted to a poor mental state, give me a buzz. I can get you a gallon of Cleaner #5 real cheap. I can also point you in the direction of a few billboards near I-15 that are easy to climb, the Les Schwab Tires sign is particularly therapeutic. I can be a great enabler. But once you're up there, faced with the consequences of drinking #5, looking for a bathroom, don't expect me to come to your rescue. I've returned to the corporate life and don’t practice much these days. You better hope your grandma's cell phone is on because she will likely be your greatest lifeline.

Motivated to Keep Our New Year's Resolutions

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 00:30:00 +0000

Yesterday I went out to lunch with my friend Kent. He gave me the choice between a greasy burger joint down the road, where they call your number out over a load intercom system when your order is ready, or the fancy Costco Food Court. I chose Costco.

We were sitting at an elaborate white table with red attached seats and I was telling him something, of which I can't remember but I'm sure was of great importance, and I observed that his eyes kept looking over my shoulder - which is a bit uncharacteristic of him because he's usually a very attentive listener. While I was in mid-sentence and wondering why he wasn't listening to my ever engaging dialogue, he mumbled, "I'm pretty certain that woman coming into the store is a guy in drag." And he said it in that way people do when they are unconsciously speaking their thoughts, unaware of what is coming out and that others are listening.

[Note to self: The next time your friend Kent says something interestingly shocking, utilize your best inconspicuous gaze rather than spinning around in your seat staring at the person in question with a face of great astonishment. Also, avoid lame attempts to overcompensate by acting exceptionally interested in the tread on the tires in the display just to the left of the possible man in drag.]

As I turned around my eyes caught hold of a "woman" advancing toward the food court that resembled Dorothy played by Dustin Hoffman in the movie "Tootsie," although in a less fashionable version. The features were rather pronounced and masculine despite the successful attempt to mask the eyes and 1/3 of her face with the monstrous glasses and flowing red locks. Upon discontinuing my not-so-casual gaze, okay my not-so-casual STARE, I agreed with Kent that it indeed looked like a man in drag.

We continued to observe as "she" ordered and eventually arrived at the fountain bevi dispenser with cup and monster hotdog in hand (did you know that the Costco hotdog has over 600 calories in it, not including that mountain of ketchup I heap upon it that makes it the delicacy that it is - because as I always say, "food is just an excuse to eat ketchup?").

But the more we observed, Kent's curiosity peaked and he couldn't take it anymore; he had to confirm his suspicions and rule out that little bit of doubt that he might be wrong. Neither of us spoke anything about finding a way to confirm our suspicions, so I wasn't expecting what Kent did next.

"Do you need a refill on your drink?" he asked in such a nonchalant manner that I honestly thought nothing of his intentions as he casually advanced toward the Diet Coke spout. I followed him because, after all, I really did need to top off my 3/4 Diet Coke, 1/4 Real Live Coke (as my grandma calls it - no NutraSweet for this gal) mix that tends to dominate my liquid consumption these days.

Approaching the hydration station, I watched Kent stand on the left side of this woman. While getting his refill he watched as an excessive amount of Coke foam bubbled at the top of her cup. I heard him ask, "It always foams, doesn't it?"

"It sure does," she said in a whisper voice laced with the soft scratch of sandpaper. Now I may be a little slow, and you likely saw the whole thing coming, but it was at that moment that I had to do all I could to maintain my composure because I realized that Kent had planned the entire exchange with this woman all in an attempt to make a final decision on the "drag" question by getting her to speak and assess the tone of her voice.

Sure enough, as we walked back to our table, Kent boastfully confirmed, "Yes, she is for sure a man in drag." For the remainder of our time in the Costco Food Court, she sat a few tables away from us and with a straight-line view, I watched as she changed the large tinted shades, to an identical pair with clear lenses, sat as diminutively as possible, ate her hotdog, drank her foaming Coke and enjoyed herself as she intently worked away in a large book of Sudoku puzzles.

Now I'm not intending to be judgmental here or attempting to be humorous at the expense of someone else. Nor am I making a statement about cross-dressers, as this can be really tricky business. Let's say that, like most of us, this man had a New Year's resolution to be more adventurous. He wanted to follow through on something he always wanted to try or to make-do on a dare made to him by a friend to cross-dress in a public setting. While many of us have already fallen off of the wagon with our resolutions, perhaps he is keeping his. No matter what his intent may be, I say, "Go Tootsie, go!"

A Few Random Christmas Memories...Because You Never Know

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 19:01:00 +0000

Because you never know…just where Santa will leave your gifts

I recall a time when I was a young boy, probably 4-5 years old, we finished unwrapping all of our presents on Christmas morning and I started to play with my toys. To my surprise, my mom said, with a puzzled look on her face, “Let’s go out to the garage. I think Santa may have left something for you out in the trunk of my car.” Sure enough, she opened the trunk and there was a Snow Cone Maker with the crank handle, a variety of sugar flavorings and paper cone cups. All that was needed was ice. That was an amazing gift in my eyes and the magic of Santa was strong that year. Not only could I not figure out how the man in red entered our home on Christmas Eve without a fireplace and chimney, I was baffled that he had a way to get into the trunk of my mom’s car.

Because you never know…just how much you can learn about Christmas romance from a few good books

Just the other day I listened to a conversation that took place between my 13 year old daughter and 11 year old son:

Last Christmas, by George Michael, was playing on the radio. You know the little ditty:

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart
But the very next day, You gave it away
This year, to save me from tears
I'll give it to someone special [special]

Son: “This song doesn’t even make sense. He gave her his heart and she gave it away. You can’t give someone your heart. That makes no sense at all.”

Daughter: “Oh yeah? You just don’t get it. It makes total sense to me. You just don’t know anything about romance.”

Son: “And you do? Like YOU know anything about romance. You only think you understand that song.”

Daughter: “Well, it makes total sense to me and I know exactly what it means that you can give your heart away to someone.”

Son: “You do not. What makes you think you understand it?”

Daughter: “Well, I totally understand romance because I – READ – BOOKS! I know all about it because I read books like Anne of Green Gables and The Goose Girl series.”

At least there weren’t any Harlequin’s in that list.

Because you never know…if they will play with the toys that you get excited about

I like to shop. My wife doesn’t. I do, however, hate shopping in crowds. And so between the both of us, we vowed we would never go out shopping on Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. All it takes is a story like the one this past Black Friday when a Wal-Mart male employee in New York was trampled to death.

“A Wal-Mart worker died early Friday after an "out-of-control" mob of frenzied shoppers smashed through the Long Island store's front doors and trampled him, police said.”

No siree, not for us. However, a few years back, there was a dancing and talking Elmo doll that was the hot item for toddlers. Our boy wasn’t old enough to make a Christmas list, let alone tell us what gifts he wanted. But we saw this Elmo doll in the Thanksgiving ads that year, and we just knew that our son would want, love and die for that talking-dancing Elmo doll.

I got up early the next morning, threw on some sweats and a baseball cap and dashed to our nearest Kmart. I wasn’t there when the doors busted open, but I did arrive early enough to be greeted by one of the last Elmo dolls on the shelf. I could never get him to repeat it, but I’m quite certain that when I picked him up I heard him say, “You’ve arrived. Your son will love me and he is dying to hold, talk and dance with me.” I laid down the Visa and walked out with my prized possession. Victory was claimed.

You would have thought we had just brought a new baby home from the hospital as we accepted that little Elmo into our proud bag of Christmas gifts. To make a long story short, we anxiously watched our son open this gift on Christmas day to relish in his joy and wonderment. The paper flew off the box and, well, nothing. The moment was totally anticlimactic. He didn’t jump up and down with glee or reject little talking-dancing Elmo. He was simply indifferent. Why wasn’t our excitement his excitement? What had gone wrong? Needless to say, that Elmo doll that we just had to get for him was never played with once it left the colorful packaging and the nine-million wire twisties that held him to the back of the box.

Because you never know…just how good Great Grandma Rhea’s boiled raisin pudding is until you taste it

I received a few comments about my Grandma Rhea’s yummy boiled raisin pudding that I talked about in last week’s column. Those of you who have had something like it before (because you couldn’t really have ever had the best pudding in the whole wide world straight from Grandma Rhea’s kitchen, unless you have Wilde in your blood), testified of having tasted one of the most delicious Christmas desserts to ever hit your pallet. To all of you, I’m sharing, free of charge and straight from Grandma Rhea’s kitchen in the town of Oakley, Utah 84055 her coveted recipe.

To those of you who made comments like the following…

“Boiled raisins, carrots and potatoes in a pudding? And you like this concoction? Stay away from me you sick man from Kamas” –not to mention any names, BRIAN!

and

“Carrots, potatoes and raisins? Honestly, Bryan, get serious. You can’t tell me you eat that stuff. That is really disgusting,” –not to disclose your identity, RICK!

…you can stop reading HERE and close the window. This recipe isn’t for you. No, don’t try to talk your way out of it. Don’t even think about making the pudding and giving it a try. I have jinxed the recipe and it simply will not cook properly because of your snobbish and superior attitude.

To the rest of you, ENJOY. May this festive time of the year be filled with great memories and warm relationships.

From the Kitchen of: Great Grandma Rhea Wilde - Oakley, Utah 84055
For: Those who believe in Santa Clause and love Christmas Pudding
Recipe: Boiled Raisin Pudding

Cream together the following:
• ½ c butter
• 1 c sugar
• 1 c grated carrots
• 1 c grated potatoes

Add:
• 1 ¼ c flour
• 1 t soda, dissolved in hot water
• 1 t cinnamon
• 1 t nutmeg
• 1 t cloves
• 1 t vanilla
• pinch of salt
• 1 c raisins
• 1 c dates (optional)
• 1 c figs (optional)
• ½ c walnuts (optional)

Pour into a small coffee or peanut can and cover with foil. Secure with a rubber band. Place a pan of water (1/2 full) on the stove and bring to a boil. Gently submerge the can of pudding into the boiling water and cook for 3-4 hours or until pudding is done in the middle. Turn heat down to maintain a slow boil and continue adding water to pan to keep about ½ full.

Recipe: Sauce for Boiled Raisin Pudding

Bring the following to a boil in sauce pan:
• ½ stick butter
• ½ can of evaporated milk
• 2 c sugar

The Aluminum Retro Christmas Tree

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 01:00:00 +0000

I attended a work Christmas party last week at the home of one of my co-workers. The home was decked with a beautifully decorated tree in the living room, garland strung in all the right places and two battery-powered color-changing plastic-frosted-glowing snowmen (that our host said he purchased at K-mart because they were the “gayest things he had ever seen”) that rose to the maximum height of fourteen inches, sitting on the counter. There was no way we could have missed their glow as we moved into the kitchen to place my wife’s all-day-made gingerbread cake in the kitchen for post-dinner consumption.

After consuming a few bottles of water that I drank to chase down the nine yummy stuffed mushrooms and gobs of spinach dip and crackers that I ate, I made my way to the bathroom with the skylight over the toilet. I later convinced the host that I saw two beady little eyes peering through the skylight. “Probably raccoons,” I said. I really didn’t see anything, but my paranoia stemming from the possibility that it could happen will preclude me from installing those exhibitionism promoting, Peeping Tom-inviting-windows in my bathroom anytime soon.

Anyway, after coming back from that violating and intrusive bathroom, my eye caught a glowing blue, changing to red, changing to green, changing to orange light splashing into the hall from the host’s study. I was drawn toward the light where I found something that took me into Alfred’s Twilight Zone – it was an aluminum tree, just like the one Great-Grandma Rhea used to have when I was but a lad.

At least I assume she had one of those trees. You may recall from a prior column that Grandma Rhea became a widow at the young age of 70 and lived until she was 101. As is the case for many as they age and settle into their empty nests, Christmas decorating becomes a lesser priority with the exception of a few festive accents here and there. Grandma Rhea lost Grandpa Harold to a heart attack before I turned one. As I frequented her home each Christmas, there was not a decorated tree to be found in sight. But anytime we drove past her home in the evenings, that same glowing blue, changing to red, changing to green, changing to orange light lit up every window that faced the street like that glowworm The Mill’s Brothers used to sing about on the 33 1/3 vinyl record that my Grandma Thelma used to play on the TV-Turntable-AM/FM stereo console purchased from Granite Furniture Store in Sugarhouse Salt Lake City, Utah 84105.

As mentioned, I never did see the aluminum Christmas tree that accompanied that rotating light, but I’m sure it was stashed in the basement somewhere. And that was the extend of Grandma Rhea’s decking-of-the-halls, with the exception of displaying the Christmas cards that would arrive throughout the month of December from friends and family.

As I stood staring at the aluminum tree on my way back from that bathroom, I went further pining into the Twilight Zone and recalled that most excellent boiled raisin carrot pudding with the to-die-for caramel sauce that Grandma Rhea used to make in coffee cans during the holidays (not sure where she got those cans as java would never have touched the woman’s lips due to religious convictions, but there was a Planter’s Peanut can used every once in a while). I could have put that stuff on a pole, hooked it up to a line and sedated myself intravenously with that stuff.

Continuing to stare at that Reynolds aluminum foil retro-tree that I discovered coming back from that bathroom in my co-worker’s home, I began to recall the gift that Grandma Rhea gave me each year. She was as reliable as Old Faithful in that I could always plan on getting the same thing accompanied with the same predicament. She would go to Hoyt’s store in downtown Kamas, Utah 84036, and make a purchase with money that she really couldn’t afford (being on a fixed income and all), for her grandsons.

There was no surprise or anticipation of wearing something new on Christmas day behind those carefully wrapped packages that lay underneath the tree waiting to be opened. On Christmas day, I could always plan on opening a 3-pack of Fruit-of-the-Looms. Unable to accurately estimate my boyish figure, without fail her selection of my whitie-tighties were always at least two sizes too small. But I still liked getting them because I knew that it was a gift from her that she purchased specifically for me. Her repetitive gift buying left a more memorable mark on me than had she bought a different new and shiny toy for me each year.
I now make that delicious yummy pudding for my family and I’m amazed each time I prepare it that it contains shredded carrots and potatoes. I cook it with disbelief at how long it takes to cook as the coffee can boils in a pan of water for four hours. I don’t even attempt to buy my kids underwear. I leave this important task up to my wife. And well, I now buy my own - so no worries on the right fit.

I phoned my mom the day after the party and asked her to put her feelers out within the family for that old aluminum tree. I’m sure it’s long gone, but I would love to have it. Even if only the light is found, I’ll store it away until I’m an empty-nester and you know what I’ll do with it. Drive by my home sometime. Don’t look for a Christmas tree or lights strung along the eves of my home. Just enjoy the light illuminating from my windows as they change from blue, then red, then green, and finally orange.

Should you have such an aluminum tree and/or rotating light that is collecting dust and you want someone to take it off of your hands, send me a response. Now get out there and shop – only sixteen days left!

Answering a Letter from a Sixth Grader

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 04:45:00 +0000

Last year my daughter and I exchanged letters as part of an assignment she was given in the sixth grade. I shared her letter that she sent to my work address and my reply with you as one of my posts a while back. Well, this year I have a son in the sixth grade and it's that time of the year again. You probably know what's coming - I am once again going to share with you my correspondence with a sixth grader. You may not find it funny, but the best part for me was that he reported back to me today that his teacher literally laughed out loud as she read it and asked if we would provide her a second copy.

November 22, 2008

Dear Mr. Wilde,

There are some important things I would like to discuss with you sometime soon. The things I would like to discuss with you are about the privileges I get.

I feel as if I do not get very many privileges. I would like to ask you if you could possibly extend the amount of time I get for things. These things would include: the amount of time I get for the computer, how late I get to stay up, and how much work I have to do. I think if I get these things extended it would help me in many ways. Like if I have lots of homework to type up, if I don't get to spend enough time on the computer I will get a failing grade.

If you could possibly extend the time of these things, I would be willing to help put up the Christmas lights this year. If you do not like this idea, at our meeting we could think up another thing for me to do. Thank you for reading this letter, and I will see you soon at our meeting.

P.S. Please write back.

Sincerely,

Zach Wilde

December 1, 2008

Dear Zach,

Thank you for your letter requesting a meeting to discuss increasing the privileges you get as a result of being a member of the Bryan Wilde family establishment. You noted that you do not feel like you get very many privileges. Before I address your requests for increased and expanded privileges, allow me to review what you currently receive by being a member of the said establishment above:

1. Free room and board. This means we do not charge you for rent, food, bug spray, toilet paper and the amount of sugar you consume as a result of your hyperactive sweet tooth. May it also be noted that we do not charge you any maid fees for removing your sticky sucker sticks out of the carpet or bleaching your white socks from your ongoing habit of traipsing around the neighborhood without shoes.

2. Free transportation. This means we do not charge you for the cars you ride in or the gas used to transport you to and from your various places of play and amusement.

3. Free Member and Association fees. This means that we do not charge you dues for being associated with such a great establishment and for the benefits you reap toward your reputation by being associated with such a fine, classy bunch.

4. Free tutoring. This means we do not charge you when you need help with your homework. Nor do we charge you for supplies that you use to complete you assignments or the many fine works of art you create with your exceptional artistic abilities (seriously, you are talented).

5. Free piano lessons. This means that Mrs. Wilde gives you a weekly 30 minute lesson at the cost of $0 and without any usage or wear-and-tear costs billed to you as a result of using the household piano.

Now I would like to address each of your recommendations to increase and expand your privileges as you raise them in your letter:

1. The amount of time you get for the computer. This has only become an issue since installing software on the computer that restricts your amount of computer usage to 1 hour per day (such awful parents we are). I would be happy to extend your time for any homework assignments that you may have that do not include Lego.com games or Google searches for video games and the like.

2. The amount of time you get to stay up at night. You are free to stay up as long as you please. All I ask in return is that you get yourself up in the mornings for school, get your own breakfast, comb your own hair and catch the bus, all with a cheery smile and disposition as you now display as a result of getting 8-10 hours of parent-forced sleep. Oh, and as long as you don’t bother your mother or me after 9:00 pm.

3. The amount of work you have to do. Please see your bedroom and the uncut lawn. Enough said. I appreciate your offer in the letter to help me put up the Christmas lights. I think this is a fabulous idea and I will take you up on it since the lights will not get strung this year unless you or your siblings take it upon yourselves to get out the ladder and attach the bulbs to the rain gutters according to your liking.

Zach, as you can see, I am way open to having a meeting to discuss how you do not get very many privileges. Let’s say that you first clean the downstairs bathroom and fold 3 baskets of laundry for your mother and then we can meet. In fact, now that you have extended bedtime hours, let’s meet tonight, 11:15 pm, at the computer for a hot game of Lego Racers on Lego.com. After you beat me, we will talk more about your lack of privileges and see if we can come up with a solution on how you can earn more by doing more work around the plantation.

I am proud of you; your letter is a proactive move to assume more ownership for your existence and prepare yourself for your adult years that lie in the not-so-distant future. I look forward to meeting with you this evening.

Sincerely,

Mr. Wilde

P.S. Count on me to bring a super-sugar-filled treat to our meeting tonight. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.

Down In the Dumps? Put on Your Party Pants

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 04:45:00 +0000

In a "How-to-Do-Therapy" class I had in graduate school I remember the instructor drilling into our heads, "When you don't know what to say or where to go in a session with a client, start where the client is at that moment. Don't try to take them back to their past or push them toward unexplored resolution. Simply have them talk about what's going on for them right at that moment and how they're feeling."

I have thought about this lesson for the past couple of days and finally realized that some of my best writing emerges from my present circumstances or state of mind. I have been trying to get out of a slump so that I could rise to the occasion of a great post. Then it occurred to me that maybe others are feeling the same way and that I just needed to "start where I am" and write.

I expressed my frustration to my friend Julie in an email:

"I'm having writer's block this week. Column should come out today or tomorrow. It's hard to write when you feel down and discouraged about the economy, big-company layoffs and bankruptcies, politics, religion, the price of Swiss cheese, why the magpies always eat the ducklings at the pond in the courtyard every spring. What's a writer to do?"

Now my friend Julie is a thoughtful, wise, witty and hilarious friend. Here's her insightful reply:

"Life gets so serious sometimes. I got sick of all the political in-fighting with the election, the lack of accountability with all the bailouts and I have been just plain easily annoyed with people. These past few days I have tried harder to forget about all that is overwhelming me and take things a little lighter, and it has helped."

She continues, "My opinion is that we do what we need to do so that we can find humor in even the greatest of tragedies. We might say, 'Remember when the magpies swooped down and inhaled those cute little ducklings, without even dipping them in orange glaze sauce before they ate them?' Still sad, but sometimes laughter is all you've got. So...put on your party pants and have a better day!"

And that's just what I intend to do - have a better day. And nothing causes me to have a better day than to laugh - really hard. So, I'm going to share some laughter with you that my friend Travis recently sent me. The e-message made me laugh hard and I share it with you in hopes that you might allow yourself to LOL or go OTFLOL (On the floor laughing out loud).

If you have a minute, check out what Norman Cousins had to say about laughter. He found that he could feel two hours of pain relief from his illness from only 10 minutes of belly laughter. Having read Cousins' book, Anatomy of an Illness, author, blogger and former comedian, Joe Guse, writes,

"Most fascinating about Cousin’s story though is the laughter. Despite intense pain and discomfort, Cousin’s made a point of laughing so hard his stomach hurt during the early stages of his Marx brother’s intervention, and this “unquenchable” laughter never failed to produce a strong reduction in his feelings of pain."

So, may this e-message be the first of many deposits into your "belly laughter account." It's up to you to continuing filling it with the things that cause you to laugh the most.

The Psychiatrist and the Proctologist

Two doctors, a Psychiatrist and a Protologist, opened an office in a small town and put up a sign that read: "Dr. Smith and Dr. Jones - "Hysterias and Posteriors."

The town council was not happy with the sign, so the doctors changed it to read, "Schizoids and Hemorrhoids."

This was not acceptable either, so in an effort to satisfy the council, they changed the sign to, "Catatonics and High Colonics." This was a no-go.

Next, they tried, "Manic Depressives and Anal Retentives." Thumbs down again.

Then came, "Minds and Behinds." Still no good.

So they tried, "Analysis and Anal Cysts." Not a chance.

"Freaks and Cheeks?" Still no go.

"Loons and Moons?" Forget it.

Almost at their wits end, the doctors finally came up with, "Dr. Smith and Dr. Jones - "Odds and Ends." Everyone loved it.

--Author Unknown

Now go put on your party pants and make it a better day.

Parenting Advice - Beware of Halloween Treats

noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Wilde) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 06:15:00 +0000

www.costumzee.com/

I recently read that if you want to increase your readership, try posting a little parenting advice. So here goes (not that I'm all about the numbers, but it makes for an interesting intro to the barnyard tail I'm about to share).

When I was a trick-or-treating kid, my grandma used to warn me every Halloween to watch out for people who gave apples for treats. The caution came out of concern that someone with ill intent might insert a razor blade into the apple and upon taking a bite, I might connect with the blade and cut my mouth to ribbons. I always thought this was a little odd, but honestly I didn't question the possibility that it could occur. Apples were rarely given and I never did see a razor blade - not even hidden in a Hershey bar or a Big Hunk.

And then when I was a teenager, I remember the big buzz about kids receiving drugs in their trick-or-treat bags that were disguised as candy. I don't think this came from my grandma, but if she would have known about the possibility of marijuana being slipped into my bag disguised as those candy cigarettes they used to sell at the drug store, she would have expressed grave concern.

www.oldtimecandy.com

Last year I took the Fab-five out to collect their sugar-loot dressed in garment and garb (aka: costumes bought from that store where I'm supposed to pay less, but I still seem to drop a Jefferson and a few Washingtons at the counter for a piece of vinyl that I'm lucky if it will last for one hour of wear, and a mask with 2% visibility). I wasn't worried about apples or candy-dope. In fact, I wasn't worried about much of anything being in the packaged goods they were collecting.

But our five year-old chose one of those neon glow-in-the-dark necklesses as it was offered amidst Snickers and Dots (who eats Dots?). While sporting the prize around his neck, it inevitably became a great chew-toy for a boy dressed as a Star Wars Jedi. Soon, he started to complain about having a bad taste in his mouth and sure enough, his lips and tongue looked like he had been chewing on a mess of fireflies.

Now keep in mind that it is inevitable that some of my grandmother's worry genes have been passed down to me. After visiting a few more homes I concluded that we better go home, wash out his mouth and find out if the chemical inside of the neon necklace was toxic. I was sure it wasn't, but you never know (those famous words adults use to underscore the possibility that something dreaded could always happen).

As my wife washed out his mouth and the other kids warmed themselves by the toasty heater vent, I Googled the chemical substance and found that there are no toxic chemicals inside of the glowing jewelry. So, now you know and you don't need to pass that little cautionary worry onto your grandchildren.

This year, I wasn't thinking about any Bic Razors in fruit, disguised sweets being passed off as drugs, or chemical jewelry catastrophes. Even if I would have been worrying, there wasn't any amount of anxiety that could have prepared me for what our eleven-year-old son was about to bring home. We allowed him to stay out an extra thirty minutes with his friends. At the appointed time that he was to be home, he and two of his compadres, stormed the door to show-off their most prized find of the night.

As I met my son and his friends in the entryway of our home, they each stood with pure excitement on their faces, one arm retracted up a sleeve so that a real chicken claw and partial leg would protrude out in place of their hand. These boys were unbelievable. Forget the candy. This was the most amazing item they had received on Halloween and maybe even on Christmas.

As for me, I thought it was a bit on the fowl side (pun completely intended). And my wife met their excitement with an equal, if not exceeded, amount of revulsion and disapproval of her own. You should have seen her once she learned that he had placed the chicken limb on her kitchen counter. One might say that no costume or frightening gadgets were needed for the scare that he received from her.

This year we weren't thinking of cut mouths, bad Ecstasy trips or pot smoke rising from the basement. Oh no, this Halloween we were worried about Salmonella Poisoning, Bird Flu or Mad Cow Disease (the mind really starts to take off when animal parts arrive unexpectedly in the home).

Our son's activities were over for the night and his bag of sweets was replaced with a bottle of antibacterial soap to sanitize those chicken-stained hands. Now I don't have anything against chickens. In fact, I happen to like Chick-o-Sticks. But when I listen to my children sort their candy I don't expect to hear, "Chocolate, Chocolate, Suckers, Plain M&Ms, Peanut M&Ms, Chicken Claw, Sugar Babies..."

Now this was by far the most interesting and unexpected treat I had ever seen given out on Halloween. I thought that the soda crackers Grace Turnbow, from Kamas, Utah 84036, gave in place of sweets after her candy bowl ran dry, was a rather strange item to be dispensing into orange plastic pumpkins. But after this year, I believe Grace has been topped by someone who knows how to fly completely over the coop.

Like my friend Jan always tells me, "chicken one day, feathers the next." Well, Jan - I'll be modifying your little saying from now on: Candy one day, chicken claws the next.

Just before Halloween every year, my wife says that she is going to get that Dinner-in-a-Pumpkin recipe out and give it a try. Well dear, you had your chance to stew-up a yummy batch of chicken noddle soup inside of a bright-orange-hallowed gourd, but you blew it - unless you would like to ask our son to retrieve the main ingredient from the bottom of our outdoor trashcan.

Got any interesting items you or your kids have received as a Halloween trick-or-treat? Do you give-out anything that some writer might use for a post and try to classify it as "parenting advice?"