Dodo Eggs

Sunday morning…tiny motes of dust swim through slanted columns of light that pushed through the window curtains. Each bit took my thoughts in a different direction.
Am I breathing that stuff in? How much does each one weigh? Is it skin off that guy over there?

I thumbed to the maps in the back of my Bible and studied the path of Paul’s third missionary journey again. The room was filled with the smell of old paper and jasmine perfume. Every time I squirmed a bit the battered, metal folding chair would creak.
Hmmm, I wonder if Paul ever contacted a travel agent?

I was trapped in the Sunday school class called the “Late Bloomers.” I should have escaped to the class with for my own age group but it was too late now. They had just taken six thousand prayer requests for various aches, pains and other more serious matters. I know God listens and is aware of each one but I couldn’t care less about Silas Gretchmore’s gall bladder.

Have I ever read the book of Numbers? I wonder what it’s about?

Then it was time for prayer. At the front of the small room, an elderly voice droned, “And Lord, we also pray for Eugene Blatamer’s gallbladder as well. We pray that you would give him comfort as it has been removed.”

I wonder if those around me are praying or getting a head start on their afternoon nap?

I didn’t know any of the folks for whom they were praying and it wasn’t easy to sit still.  My most recent bout with “prehistoric” jock itch was occupying most of my attention. Each time I adjusted my hindquarters the chair would release another squeak – like the cry of a pinned rat.

Mmmm…I can smell the casserole dishes from here. This potluck is going to be great.

My wife should be sitting beside me but she woke up with a headache and flu symptoms. I might have stayed with her but my Grandmother-in-law persuaded me otherwise. “Oh yea, you can come with me. You’ll enjoy the prayer request time where each member gets to air their latest health problem.” He smiled and poked me in the ribs. “I’ll be sure they mention your fungus problem for prayer.”

“…and Lord we pray that you would give Matt comfort from his unmentionable request. Lord, we don’t know the exact nature of Matt’s problem but we pray for Your hand on whatever it is bothering him…Amen.”

I sat half listening to the lesson on fleeing from temptation. Listening to all the metaphors to running, I couldn’t help wondering when was the last time anyone in the room had fled from anything.

After the closing prayer, I offered this question to my grandmother-in-law and a few of the older gentlemen around her. “When was the last time you actually picked up your knees and ran?”

They looked at each other smiles creasing their faces. No one could answer my question. I pressed the issue. “Well why don’t you? Wouldn’t you like to run again even if it’s for no apparent reason?”

A man in an out of date polyester suit pointed to me. “We don’t run because we’re old. Once you get old – you’re done running. Actually, you’re done doing a lot of things.” The guys around him chuckled a bit making me feel uncomfortable.

“So basically what you’re telling me is that once a man is old, that’s it, he’s old. The sign a man is officially old is that he can no longer run.”

Another man said, “You’re only as old as you feel and if you feel old, you ain’t running.”

One of the wives scooted her chair toward the men. “So you think that’s what makes a man old huh? Well then, what makes a woman officially old?”

This answer I knew. “Ma’am, if you look at all the other women’s hair you’ll notice it’s permed into spirals so tight it would take a can opener to reach their scalps. That’s how you know an old…I mean mature woman.”

The woman’s expression didn’t change for a second then she smiles and said, “Well, look who just talked his way out of the potluck.”

Nothing says, ''The sex appeal is gone!'' like a good perm

I’ll be honest; there is a digressive gene in my family that has been proudly passed on from generation to generation.  It isn’t apparent to the eye but Teply’s have a genius that is difficult to detect (see: DodoEggs.com).  To prove my point, I am offering you three quick snippets of information.  Two of them are absolutely true and one is fictional.  See if you can pick which one.

Uncle Bill Teply has a nose for valuable collectibles…well valuable is the wrong fit.  When cassette tapes first made their appearance, 8-tracks were doomed to share the dodo bird’s place in oblivion.  However, my uncle saw an opportunity for investment.  One day Bill went to K-Mart (You know what a K-Mart is right?) and bought stacks of eight tracks with a mind that they would one day be sought after antiques.

You know there is only one way this ends…a dusty box in a musty basement.  The only thing of value my Uncle earned was this valuable lesson:  Never let good money chase bad technology.

Of course you never know, there’s always a chance that all that plastic and magnetic tape could appreciate.  I suggested to my Uncle that he send each 8-track to the respective artist.  Perhaps getting each one autographed would help the value.  After all, it’s not like any of those musicians are doing anything now anyway.

He replied with something unbecoming so I suppose that means his collection won’t be left to me…whew.

Papa Teply hated paying the bills.  That’s really no surprise and no one can really blame him.  What separated Mr. Teply from other dads was the charismatic way my father went about paying his bills.  As he wrote out the check, he would make good use of the Memo line.

What do I mean?  Instead of writing, “Electric Bill – August ’85,” he would spell out something of a more abusive nature.  That’s right; my father would cuss on his checks.  The water bill would have, “DROWN IN $!##.”  The electric bill would be embellished with, “KISS MY ELECTRIC @$$!”

Who needs personalized checks when Papa Teply was so adept at doing it himself?  Don’t you wish you were a Teply?

Teply’s are masters of innovation.  There is no problem that a Teply can’t either cobble together a solution for or completely ignore.  It’s a gift.  My brother Nate bares this talent.  Try as I might to convince him he was adopted…the mark of Teply genius is simply too strong to dismiss.

Sometimes apartment dwellers are left a little in the lurch when it comes to Halloween.  Do you stock copious amounts of candy in case smart trick-or-treaters decide apartments offer the most doors with the least walking or do you buy just one bag because many parents steer kids away from these dens of debauchery?

A few years back, Nate decided that his Halloween traffic would be light and there would be no need for more than one sack of candy.  He didn’t even bother putting it in a bowl.  Yet before seven o’clock his stores of confectionary delights was running low.  (It didn’t help that he couldn’t keep his own fingers out.)
With the doorbell continually ringing and the bag running low, Nate went into Teply genius mode.

“Hey Jennifer, if we had any candy hidden where would it be?”

Jennifer replied, “Well since you don’t cook…I’d hide it behind the spices but I don’t think there’s any there.”

Nate went to the narrow cabinet and seeing nothing sweet settled on a different option.  For the remainder of the night, he passed out colorful, foil wrapped chicken bouillon cubes.

“Hey, at least they’re sugar free.”

I don’t want to get too personal but…

“Can you tell 10k gold from 24k gold?”

“Are you able to rescue fruit bits from cottage cheese?”

“Does your eye find decent programming during daytime television?”

If you said, “Yes!” to any or all of the above questions then you are eligible to read the following two short stories.  One contains embellishments that at least orbit the truth and the other came from deep space.

Puking  Pendulum

Those who say size doesn’t matter haven’t delivered a ten-pound, eleven-ounce baby.  That’s where I tipped the scale when I arrived.  My mother wasn’t even conscious when I made my grand entrance.  It’s hard to blame her…you try to…never mind.

To all eyes and measurements, I appeared healthy.  (My diaper size was immediately upgraded from newborn to sumo.)  Yet I was underdeveloped in one key area. The valve that closed my stomach was not fully formed. That meant at least half of the liquid formula I took in traveled to my stomach on a round trip ticket.  Mom Teply found this circumstance constantly annoying. It was hard enough for a new, exhausted mother to look nice but to try and accessorize with burp rags as scarves was too much.

And yet, the constant burping up wasn’t all thorns and hexes.  For their amusement and mine, my family would strap my round body into an old wind-up swing. It was a four-legged contraption made mostly of metal with a vinyl sling for a seat. A few quick turns of the handle and the mechanism sent me click-click-clacking back and forth.  With each forward swing my momentum brought up a small portion of whatever was in my stomach.

It turned into a parlor trick.  “And here’s my son Matt.  Watch closely and you’ll notice he burps up a little bit each time his swing brings him forward.  Isn’t he cute?  If you decide to pick him up, please be careful.  The floor may be a little slick.”

Hey Nate, You Were Adopted. Here is Your Real Family

The Phony Photo

When my brother Nate finally found someone who would adopt him into the fraternity of the blissfully wed, he asked his brothers (Jake and I) to participate in assembling the wedding.  This was more of a gesture than anything else.  After all, Jake and I really don’t have any skills.  (Well, Jake knows how to turn his underwear inside out, but that’s about it.)

Jake and I did wind up with a few important jobs that our sister-in-law-to-be quickly began to erode.  She had quit trying to make a good impression with us.  For instance…

Exhibit A-

“No, no don’t worry about picking up the tuxes. I will have one of my operatives, uh, I mean bride’s maids do that.  Oh yea, they’ll be helping you decorate Nate’s car, too.” (Here, she cracks her knuckles.)

Several bridesmaids did follow us into the parking lot after the ceremony.  I didn’t doubt for a second that they had nightsticks tucked under their garter belts.

Exhibit B-

“Make sure you keep the ring in the right front pocket of you tux’s jacket. The pant’s pocket has a slight hole in the upper part of the pocket for pulling your shirt and we don’t want you to lose the ring.  Do you know where to wear a cummerbund?  It goes around your waist.”

Elbowing Jake I quipped, “What!  I thought it was a fancy headband!”

Jake’s eyes narrowed.  “Matt!  You told me it was a loincloth!”

************

The one thing Jake and I were allowed to assemble was the reception slide show.  We set photos of the happy couple and their families to music. It was an easy enough task and one we had no problem doing.

“Say, you know what we ought to do?”

“No, what?”

“Let’s pull a photo of some overly happy family off the Internet and slip it into the presentation. We’ll slip it in between one of the transition parts and give it an extra three seconds of exposure. Do you think anyone would notice?”

“I don’t know but I’m not going along with this unless we find a photo of folks waving with grins you would need antidepressants to achieve.  Oh yea, make sure they’ve got a dog.”

Jake found a photo with a “cheese” factor that clearly broke the lactose barrier.  We made sure to laugh it out early in order to maintain our composure during the presentation.

To my eternal dismay, no one batted an eye as everyone present admired a photo of what was to everyone in the room a collection of perfect, well-wishing strangers. The only sound audible over the instrumental music was a strangled snicker from my brother on the other side of the table.

Life as an adult gradually blurs a person’s childhood memories.  Routines and responsibilities play a wicked role in stealing them from you.  But memories aren’t the only thing lost to adulthood so are the feelings that once coursed through your body like fast pumping blood.  I remember the thrill of holding a ten dollar bill and imagining it bringing the world to my feet.  When that girl I so adored looked at me, nothing else filled so filled me with excitement.  I recall when my birthday really mattered and Christmas held wonder. 

Above everything else was waking on a summer morning with nothing crowding my day. “What’s next?  Maybe breakfast?  Or do bother to dress first?  I wonder what’s on tv?”
 I had a bike and could ride from one end of my home town in Dakota Territory to the other.  My destination was often Greg’s house.  Greg’s mother still cooked gigantic portions (Greg had a bevy of older sisters) and was generous enough to feed the likes of me.  He also had a computer which at that time was still something of a novelty. 

So here’s the story…Twelve and thirteen year old boys are sometimes incapable of seeing the consequences of their actions.  Their eyes are blind to the subtle angst of those around them and if they aren’t told directly they may never come to understand.

Case in point:  Nothing was more enjoyable than spending hours at the Southside Pool in Dickinson, Dakota Territory.  Greg and I would many times go swimming immediately after lunch (What cramps?  I still don’t get it?  Are they an urban myth?), journey back to Greg’s house for supper, then go night swimming.  Why not?  We didn’t have anything else to do.  Only after the sun had finally drifted below the horizon would I wheel my bike home.  Too exhausted to shower or bathe, I would collapse in my bed and sleep without the pester of an alarm clock. 

When the next morning arrived, I would do it all over again.  What was the point in showering?  I soaked for hours in a pool filled with chlorine!  All week long I would go through the same procedure:  eat, swim, bike, and sleep.  As it turned out, I only bathed on Sunday mornings for church.  I lived in my swimming trunks.  Being twelve is GREAT! 

Something cosmic occurred two summers in a row.   Even now I have a hard time believing it was mere coincidence.  On the last day of the Southside Pool’s summer swim schedule, I tore my swimming trunks going off the diving board.  The trunks had worn so thin that the material (synthetic as it was) simply could not hold any longer.  I remember coming up from both of those last dives and carefully swimming over to Greg.

“Geesh Matt, what was that?  It sounded like you ripped one.”

Through gritted teeth I replied, “I did but it wasn’t gas Greg.  My trunks ripped!”

Greg’s eyes widened a bit.  “Really?  Wow again!?  Didn’t that happen last summer?  I guess we’d better go get some supper huh?”

“Yep, it looks like summer vacation is over.”

My freshman year of college was spent in the forgotten halls of Dickinson State University in the northern part Dakota Territory.   Oh the hours I spent with my other socially disconnected friends prowling the streets looking for wild women and finding only beverages with too much corn syrup.  Time that wasn’t squandered driving pointlessly on Dickinson’s streets was left in the computer room at Greg’s house. 

We pick up the scene there…

Greg looks up from his Computer Shopper.  “Well, should we go drive around?  I just dubbed ‘Whoop-There-It-Is’ onto tape and I think I’ve got enough base to make your skull rattle.”

“Nah, let’s just relax here for another hour or so then rush to the gym for a fifteen minute workout.  Does your mom have any more Cheerios?”

“Honey Nut or regular?”

“Honey Nut of course!”

“Nope.  I ate the last of it for supper.”

Matt stares hard at the computer screen.  PageMaker stares back at him with a blank expression on its face.  Suddenly inspiration strikes.  “You know what’s funny Greg?  The phrase animal husbandry.  Think about it.”

“That’s not funny, Matt.  Now, these prices on an Intel 286 processor…now that’s funny.”

“Wait, watch this.”  Matt leans toward the keyboard and begins typing.  “We can make up a notice that we can post all over DSU.  It can be a celebration of animal husbandry only with a bit of a twist we can include dates and places for these made up events.”

The Computer Shopper finally closes.  “Alright you have my attention.”

Both young men spent the next hour coming up with a full page promotion that boasted, “DSU Student Senate proudly presents a celebration of Animal Husbandry!  You like cows and it’s OK!…

Monday:Stickney Auditorium / 6:30 PM  – The inspirational story of Eugene Utterman the first man to literally marry into his profession.  His story is called, “Coming Out of the Barn.”

Tuesday:  Emmit Building’s main lecture hall / 7:00 PM – Dr. Seiver opens the a forum of leading experts as they debate Branding or Pre-Nuptual Agreement. 

Wednesday:  Blue Hawk Stadium / 12:00 Noon – Come early to get the best seats as different breeds of cattle are lead around the field.  Experts will be on hand to match you with the perfect breed.

Thursday:  DSU Bennet Memorial Gym / 5:00 PM – Professor Seiver shares the amusing stories of the animal husbandry movement titled, “What to Serve at your Reception…Fish or Your In-Laws!”  Come and laugh until the cows come home!

Friday:  Stickney Auditorium / 4:30 PM – Honorary Doctor Yarvis tackles the fundamental issues of the animal husbandry movement with his lecture titled, “The Gold Ring Goes Through The Nose.”

Because Greg’s father was a professor at DSU, Matt and Greg were able to break in well after hours and post the signs all over the main hall.  The janitor found them after the boys left and removed all the bulletins but at least Matt and Greg enjoyed a good laugh.  That week DSU issued the following order:  “All posts to the bulletin boards now required a seal from the main office.”

I wound up doing the same thing at Crighton College.  The college was largly a commuter college and Greek life had been banned the year before I arrived.  Thusly, student life was anemic…very anemic.  There was nothing in my personality that demanded a wild party three nights a week but SOME SORT of activity other than Faculty/Student suppers would have been appreciated. 

I tried to develop a somewhat impromptu sports program by inviting every guy I knew to a large park on Saturdays.  We were supposed to play touch football or just hang out.  It never took off.  I was lucky to get a ten percent turnout.  In frustration, I made a flier that extolled all able bodied men to join me at the park that coming Saturday.  After listing the time and location I pulled from clip art for to give the bulletin a little visual appeal.  I found a female golfer swinging her club and I put in next to a cross with an Easter Lilly wound around it.  Between I placed an equals sign.  The idea was this…I’d rather die than play golf.  I know it wasn’t clear but I DIDN’T HAVE A LOT OF CLIP ART! 

Students piled out of chapel one day and the responses I overheard were…

“Golfers are Christians?”…”Only Christian golfers play football?”…”We’re playing golf in a cemetery?”…”Matt is a moron.”

My foray into public relations ended the same way as it did at DSU.  Crighton instituted a new rule requiring anything posted to be approved by the student services office.

When I was in high school, I operated under several faulty assumptions: I would always be young, neon colors go perfectlywith black, and s looked for guys with big muscles.  As it turns out, I’m old and neon colors became a fashion fatality.  The idea that women wanted men with bulging muscles stuck with me. 

I remember wearing tank tops whenever I could.  I inflated my pectorals with the assurance that every woman in the room had to be looking.  Weightlifting became the necessary prerequisite to attracting a mate.  Guys who didn’t lift dated, of course, but I was sure that the s really wished they were with someone who worked out (like me).  After all, men put such a premium on a ’s appearance why wouldn’t women do the same with men?

This thinking started turning around in college.  A goober named Steave seemed to never lack for a date.  Pick any of the s wandering the hallways of my college and a third of them had gone out on a date with him and at least one half had flirted with him.  I couldn’t have earned those ratios with the janitorial staff!

What really surprised me about this Don Juan was his outstanding lack of stature.  He was short, was all of 120 lbs., and a set of shoulders that you could measure with a ruler.  His personality was gregarious and boisterous with a heavy lean towards obnoxious.  

Yet the man consistently found s more than willing to go out with him!  Didn’t they realize that I was available?!  Look calf muscles!  Mrs. Teply even dated him. 

I began calling him “Golden Balls” because I could think of no other reason why this guy had so many dates or the hope of one day procreating.

What also shook my faith in the almighty muscle was seeing Altas-like men come to the pool with dumpy, unattractive troll women in tow.  This guy has pectorals the diameter of dinner plates and she couldn’t win Best-of-Show at the local kennel club!  This was happening too many times for me to ignore.

“You don’t really get it do you?”  Mrs. Teply would say. “Steave had charisma and that’s more important than broad shoulders.  Most s like a nice body but what they are really looking for is a sweet personality, thoughtfulness, and an interest in us as a person.  It just so happens that most of the gymrats have big egos.  Yours could use an adjustment.”

I’m playing a rough game of pick up basketball in my high school’s gym.  Everyone else has basketball shoes but I don’t play very often so I don’t own a pair of basketball shoes.  Instead, I’m going side to side in my expensive pair of Nike Air Max 180s.  As I commit my fourteenth foul, I hear a short tearing sound coming from my right foot.  Crying out in pain, I fall to my rear cupping my shoe with both hands. 

“Matt!  What’s wrong!  Have you twisted your ankle?”

“Waaaa!”  I’m rocking back and forth running my fingers over the rip.  “I’ve torn my precious shoe!  An ankle will heal but not my all synthetic upper!  Waaaaa!”

“Get off the court moron!”

This horrendous scene occurred in either 1991 or 1992.  I still haven’t thrown those shoes away.  My grandmother took them and found white thread that would match the shoes’ color.  The patch looks a bit overdone (I think she used half a spool.) but her intent was that they not tear again.  Indeed they won’t because I’ll never wear them again!

I made a decision that these shoes were too expensive and too important to me to completely ruin them.  From that moment on every overpriced pair of Nike shoes I bought has been worn to the brink of wearing out before being washed, stuffed, and lovingly set aside (boxes as well). 

Why?  Well, if what I’ve already told you didn’t make sense then look at this peculiarity as a collection.  There’s a small room in my home where I store what I’ve come to call the “Archive.”  At one time, I would give first time guests a quick peek at some of my old shoes, but the response I received wasn’t very gratifying.  The tours have ceased (to my wife’s delight) and now only I spend quality time with my old shoes…reliving memories…enjoying each other’s presence.

************

I mourn over only one pair.  It was Nike’s FIRST Air Max called, surprisingly, Air Max Lights.  (Please note: their value on the used shoe market today would have pushed fifteen dollars!  And they said used shoes would never appreciate!)  They were white accented with rust red and a dark off purple.  Remember, these colors were beautiful in the early nineties!

This pair of shoes was tormented by a duo I can only quantify as Tweedle-Dee (my cousin Dustin) and Tweedle-Dumb (my brother Nate). 

Dustin began the festivities by loading up the insoles with onion powder.  A fiendish tactic that sent the stench causing bacteria in my shoe into quantum overdrive.  The Max Lights became so bad Mama Teply banished them to, “Leave outside the front door!” status. 

Only under the weight of my tears did Dustin finally relent and offer up his terrible secret.  The Max Lights were washed but the onion smell was stubborn.  The shoes were tainted and would never be the same.

As terrible as Dustin’s offence was, Nate’s deed was much worse.  It was my turn at the video game council and Nate was examining my cherished shoes with one hand and he had a compass (?!?!?!) in the other.

“Hey Maaaatt, look out!  I might pop your shoes!”  The taunt was designed to distract me and sped the end of my turn with the game.  My brother continued to threaten my shoes until…a brief pfffft and a stupefied expression overtook my brother’s face. 

“Oops, you can have another turn.”

I walked around for another month with a short whistle sound to every other step.  Finally, my grandmother sent them back to Nike and the company graciously replaced them with a second generation Air Max.  The first generations were gone and my shoes could not be replaced.

What will happen to all of my running shoes when I’m gone?  What is the Archive’s final place in history?  I can only assume my descendant’s will open a museum of some sort.  What else could they do with them?

Melissa and I are standing in our kitchen cleaning up some of the Tupperware that’s been hiding under my car  seat.  A team of forensic and culinary experts could never identify the moldy remains; they could only guess that most of the food once fell into the meatloaf category. 

“Ugh.”  Melissa states as she breaks the seal on another biological weapon.  “Why do you let these things sit in your car?  Why don’t you just bring them in?  Please Matt, you’re killing me.”

“I would but I usually can’t find them under the dirty laundry.”

I work two jobs.  One requires a “loose professional”look: non-themed tie, braided leather belt, slacks, and a button-up.  For job number two, I change out of these into a pair of swimming trunks and a tacky T-shirt.  This transforms my car (affectionately titled the 945) into a duffel bag on four wheels. 

When was the last time you opened your gym bag, stuck your head in, and took a deep breath?  (Warning: Bag may stink!  Illustration purposes only!)  That’s what my car smells like on a regular basis.

Melissa hands me another rinsed Tupperware container and I look for a place in the dishwasher to rack it.  The other dishes try backing away.

“Don’t worry about the stench in my car, Melissa.  I’ve got this simple solution.  I’ll just take some of that cologne you like that I hardly ever wear and spritz my seats a bit.  Problem solved!”

“Oh no!  Don’t do that!”  My wife releases her nose.  “You’re not destroying a smell you’re only marrying it to the bad one and the results aren’t pretty!  The freshman boys would walk by my room after gym class coated in some masculine body spray that only mixed with smell of their sweat!  Aaawk, it was awful.”

I tried placing the next plastic container; more shuffling by the regular dishes.  “So I wouldn’t be replacing a garbage truck with a limo…I’d be running the two into a head-on collision?”

“Yes, now gently and easily put the idea down and back away.”

“How about a little FreeBreeze?  Fresh meadow scent?”
 
“That would be ok.”  Melissa took a deep breath before opening the last container.  “You know, I had a girl who would smoke before she came to my class each day.  Before she walked in, she would douse herself in some cheap perfume to try and cover the smell.  Instead, she only made it difficult for those around her to breath.  I had to open the windows after her class each day.”

“Are you suggesting I drive with my windows open?”

She shook her head.  “Matt, for as long as you’ve had that car it has stunk.  Let’s not fight it anymore and by all means…let’s not share it with the world.”

Here’s a poem by the renowned poet and automotive philosopher Crank McKey.

—

Life’s road only runs downhill.  It’s all one way.

No U Turns or emergency lanes just tolls to pay.

Changing lanes; someone on your hitch

Some cause dents others are left in a ditch.

Potholes, breakdowns, and your balding tires,

Belts that stretch and needle nosed pliers.

Admiring the headlights of the newest models.

Sticker shock!  Payment plan so heavy it waddles.

Burning oil, plugs are pooped, and you’re out of gas.

Hope run-over, bent up fender, crack in your windshield glass.

—

Let’s brake here.

My grade school sweetheart was a button nosed little brunette by the name of Leah Schumaker.  Her and I shared a classroom from fifth grade until half way through my eighth grade year.  I spoke to her twice.  That’s an impressive average of approximately once every two years!  Scoot over Casanova, there’s a new sheriff in town! 

Forget the boogieman, what scared me to death was rejection.  I spent my early days just hoping for a chance encounter or even just a chance to impress her.

The sun was setting on a brisk fall afternoon in Dakota Territory. The overcast sky was flooded with the thick, slate gray clouds so common during the winter. It gave everything a subdued and melancholy light.  Football practice was over and I was sitting on the concrete steps outside of Hogan Junior High.  My mother would be here soon to pick me up.

(By the way, our school mascot…The Midgets!  That’s right.  The long arm of political correctness hasn’t reached Dakota Territory yet!) 

I took a moment to inventory those gathered around me. There were always a few athletes or cheerleaders loitering long after school waiting to be picked up.  However, this afternoon someone more important was among their faceless assembly.

Leah was there. She was standing with a couple friends talking easily, breaking the drab of life with a delightful giggle.  She was only twenty yards away yet looking completely unattainable.  Did she even know I existed?

I did have one hope. My mother’s car was in the shop and that meant there were only two cars she had the option of using.  Leah would have to notice either one since both cars were members of their respective extreme. The car would either be my father’s completely restored 1973 Pontiac GTO or the rust red YuGo missing its front grill.

The Car Was So Bad, The Country Folded

The GTO meant a proud march to the car with my football equipment on the opposite shoulder.  I wouldn’t look directly at her until I was getting in.  As we rumbled away I would look again in her direction then to the tree above her as if a bird had caught my attention.  (Somewhere Don Juan is nodding.)

I asked God to grant me this wish.  I needed this.  There was no way I would work up the bravado to actually approach her.  It was this or I’d never know true love!  It was a simple prayer like a child asking for candy before bed.

Minutes later, a red bucket with four wheels turned the corner.  Nuts and bolts littered the asphalt behind it, acting as a trail of breadcrumbs leading home.   I bit my lip and draped my jersey over my head. Leah and I had missed our chance.

The strangest, most eccentric people I know are college professors, people who own lizards, and the frost bitten folks who live in Dakota Territory.  Life molds you a little differently when an ocean of open grasslands surrounds you.  On the high prairie, the only things that ever really change are the high clouds and the harsh temperatures. 

What do you do when the rest of the country forgets you exist? 

Option A – You can move away – possibly someplace with trees.

Option B – Well, there’s the Internet.  You could spend most of your time there.

Option C – This one has two parts…depression…heavy drinking.

Option D – Get a wee bit kooky.

Wish you were here?

I remember a particular dairy farmer who exuded “Dakota” with every step – cowboy boots, tanned face, and bone-dry wit.   This man and his family refused to own a television. He equated it with “running an open sewer pipe directly into his living room” and it was hard to argue with him.  During times of leisure, his family would sit around a spacious living room of driftwood lamps, afghan blankets, and out dated furniture digging through a box of conversational questions.

To shake the routine they would invite kids from my boarding high school over for an evening meal.  I don’t know anyone who ever turned them down or even wished they could.  The conversation cards might have seemed lame but they were always fun.  They never missed. 

“Alright Matt we’ll start with you.” He drew the first card and took on a parental tone. “If you had to get a tattoo, and I would break your arm if you did, what would it be?”

“That’s easy.  I would get two red, evil eyes tattooed to the back of my head. With my buzzed hair, you would only be able to see them only if you were standing directly behind me. And if I decided I didn’t care for the look anymore, I would simply grow my hair out a bit.  Cool, huh?”

The young lady beside me chimed in, “I’d want a tattoo that was small and tasteful.”

The farmer and I quickly exchanged looks.

“And what could that possibly be?”

She replied. “Um, I would probably just put my name in decorative lettering across my shoulder or ankle.”

“Are you in danger of forgetting anytime soon?   I mean, isn’t that a little like taking a permanent marker and writing ‘fruit’ across your bananas?”  I was trying to be funny but it came out a bit harsh. 

She took offense, “Well Matt, just because you’re a weirdo doesn’t mean I have to be. I mean eyes in the back of your head. How dumb is that?”

Another boy sitting to my right said, “Oh mine is worse. I’m planning on having a tight rope drawn between the nipples on my chest. Then I’ll have a stick man put on tight roping across.  I could shave my chest hair to look like passing clouds.  ARE YOU FEELING ME?!  AWESOME RIGHT?!”

A mixture of grunts and uncomfortable chuckles indicated weak approval.  Someone gave him a high five. 

“Yea, that’s neat until you get old and the rope loses a little tension.”

The farmer rubbed the side of his temple. “You know, a tattoo is like dental work or a hip replacement. It’s an investment that depreciates one hundred percent in the first minute and has absolutely no resale value. Only the thing is a tattoo doesn’t improve your quality of life. The only thing it really proves is you aren’t smart enough to move when someone keeps sticking you with a needle.

Draw another card.”