My Favorite Teachers

     For those of you who have been reading my blog for a while know that my childhood was spent moving around from town to town resulting in attending many schools. There were good and bad aspects to all the moving around. I sometimes wish that I had experienced more stability in my youth. Yet at the same time I am thankful for the many experiences that came with moving so much and for the many friends that I made along the way.

     One of the downfalls was that I didn't become a very good student along the way. I never put my best effort into my studies. I always did well in school mainly because I was not really challenged. I don't think of myself as overly intelligent but I know that if I had truly applied myself I could have excelled. I suppose knowing that I would not be around long caused me to think I didn't need to give too much heed to my teachers.

     Don't get me wrong, I didn't rebel or anything. I wasn't disruptive and I didn't skip classes. I was always in attendance and I paid attention. But the homework was never a great priority. I did what I wanted to and it was always just enough. Always finished with about a 'B' in most classes. This kept me out of trouble with teachers and administrators. My parents never seemed too interested in what was going on unless there was a really bad grade so I didn't have to deal with that at home either.

    Every once in a while there was a teacher that I really liked or that challenged me somehow to apply myself without even knowing they were doing it. Liking a teacher is half of the battle, in my opinion. You put a pretty young teacher in front of a class who has a nice smile and a friendly personality and all the students, including the boys, will likely pay more attention. I had a teacher like that once in 4th grade at Homedale Elementary School. Ms. Neubauer. She was one of the nicest teachers I ever had. She was also the only one that I think I might have had a crush on too. Ok, there is no "might have". I definitely had a crush on Ms. Neubauer. I am sure I wasn't the only one. Her pretty blonde hair and blue eyes had captured the eye of every 4th grade boy in school.

     Ms. Neubauer's class was so fun. I remember always doing my best in her class. I know that I always wanted to impress her and there was nothing like getting praise in front of the class with her arm around your shoulder.

     Another teacher that seemed to bring out the best in me was Mrs. West in 2nd grade at Syringa Elementary in Pocatello. Mrs. West was amazing. Her class was so fun and she always made everyone in the class feel special. She used to show us her photographic memory and her speed reading skills. She seemed to know everything. We could ask her questions about anyone or anything and she could tell us all about it.

     Some teachers that I had, or should I say most of the teachers that I had were boring and uninteresting. I would fall asleep in some classes or lose myself in my imagination until the bell rang. I would dread going to these classes. Even if the subject might be of interest to me I just couldn't learn in that environment. Very few of the teachers brought an element of intrigue that would make us ask questions and want to know more.

    After I first moved back to Pocatello during my 7th grade year, one of the required classes at Alameda Jr. High that I was signed up for was Self-Esteem. I had never heard of a self-esteem class. Sounded weird to me. I thought maybe there were a bunch of odd kids with different challenges that would be in the class. Surprisingly I was wrong. Everyone in the class was just like me as far as I could tell. The teacher was Mr. Anderson. He was a tall and fairly good sized man. I was a little intimidated at first.

    The first day in Mr. Anderson's class he presented us with a scenario and an activity that to this day is the most memorable moment of my adolescent learning. Mr. Anderson provided our class with the most thought provoking lesson that took every student to the edge of their seat and fully interested and engaged in the activity.  He began by handing out a sheet of paper to each of the students. On the paper we found a person's name and below it an occupation, age, skill set, and health background. All of the girl students received a girl's character and all the boy's received a man's character. The character's ages ranged from young teens, about our age, to advanced elderly ages up in the 80's.

    Occupations ranged from dancers, teachers and professors to doctors, mechanics and farmers. Most of the characters were given a clean bill of health with a few exceptions like one of them had cancer.

     The activity we were given involved a great deal of thought and emotion. Mr. Anderson told us that there was one week left on earth before a nuclear explosion would cause life as we knew it to end. The local government had put a plan together that included the construction of a huge vault in the side of a mountain. This vault was built to withstand any nuclear type explosion and would keep any radiation out. It was made to sustain life for 1 year until the radiation levels had returned to normal on the outside. Inside the vault was food, water, tools, medicine and other necessities to sustain life for one year.

     The kicker was that the vault would only sustain life for 12 individuals. There were a total of 26 students in the class. For the next week we would be debating over which 12 of the 26 students would be allowed to enter into the vault. The rest would parish in the nuclear aftermath.

     For a bunch of 12 year-old 7th graders, this was quite the undertaking. Over the week that followed we would experience much turmoil and a roller-coaster of emotions as we considered our decisions.  It was amazing to see my classmates take their characters to heart and fight for the right to survive. Many discussions became heated as it seemed every argument to save someone was countered with a convincing reason not to.

     I was among a few of the boys who tried to be valiant heroes and volunteered to stay behind. But even we were argued about by those who saw the importance of our strength and abilities.

     It was amazing to see what became important over the week. Slowly we began to agree more and more and whittled our numbers down to the 12 we sought. The importance of procreation, trade skills, physical abilities and knowledge were all evaluated equally.

     On the final day there were tears shed as the final 12 were sent out of the classroom to "enter the vault". The other 14 stayed behind and the room was heavy with emotion. It was a life altering activity. We all came away with a better appreciation of the importance of all human life and for the importance of both genders and all occupations.

    As hard as it was, I loved that activity and I love Mr. Anderson for allowing us to share in that experience. It definitely improved my self-esteem.

    Today I get to spend my life with my favorite teacher of all times. She is my wife and she is one of the best teachers around. I think she has all of the things that caused me to want to learn by my favorite teachers. She is a knockout that I am sure all the 6th grade boys at Heritage Elementary School are eager to do their best for. She has the friendly personality that all the kids love and react to. She is willing to challenge them and allow them to think for themselves in ways that will impact their lives long term.

    I am thankful for the many teachers out there who do everything they can to inspire our children today. Especially those who can do it despite the government chains that bind them down and choke out their greatest strengths. It is you who will allow this great country to remain at the top led by those who were inspired in your classrooms.

To Spank or Not to Spank, That is the Question

Here is a topic that seems to really get some people fired up. Should we or should we not spank our kids? With all of the opinions surrounding Minnesota Viking’s running back, Adrian Peterson, it is something that I felt could use some discussion.

For those of you not familiar with Mr. Peterson’s situation, let me briefly break it down for you.

On May 18, 2014 Peterson disciplined his son after the boy pushed another one of Peterson's sons off of a motorbike video game. The Vikings running back used a switch (a thin branch or rod used for whipping) to discipline his child, resulting in bruises and lacerations on the boy's back, legs, arms and buttocks.

After the boy returns home to his mother in Minnesota, the bruises are discovered during a routine doctor's visit. The doctor says the injuries are consistent with child abuse.

Peterson did not deny anything and faced punishment from the NFL and later the criminal justice system. The latter of which he plead guilty to a misdemeanor charge. He remains suspended from the NFL.

Peterson claimed he was “disciplining” his child the way he himself was raised. He admitted that he had gone too far and never meant to harm his child in that way.

Now I don’t want to dive too deep into this situation but it does raise the question as to what discipline is acceptable and what is not. Obviously when there are lacerations and bruises, it falls into the not acceptable.

I have been listening to many debates over this on talk radio and sports talk radio. One commentator mentioned the differences in the part of the country that a person is raised which seems to make harsher discipline acceptable and normal. A person raised in the south like Alabama, Arkansas, Mississippi and other nearby areas are more likely to discipline their children more firmly using paddles, switches, etc. People in these areas have no problem seeing their neighbors disciplining their child in this manner.

However when you analyze people on the west coast or in the northeast you will find that it is absolutely forbidden to lay a hand on a child in any way.

So is one way better than the other? Is disciplining your child physically outdated and should it be removed from today’s society?
Let me offer my two cents and see if where you agree or disagree. (And I welcome all viewpoints.)

When I was growing up I remember spankings being pretty common. When one of my siblings or I had done something wrong we grew to expect a swat on our behind. Usually this involved the palm of one of my parent’s hands. On occasion a willow tree branch, pizza paddle, wooden spoon or hair brush was used.

My Grandma preferred a nice big pizza paddle. My brother’s and I used to do things just to see how fast she could acquire it from the kitchen. She would have us line up and bend over the sofa and she would take her best baseball swing. It hurt for a moment but usually the paddle would end up breaking and we would try to not let her see us laughing.

Once while my little brother Michael and I were jumping on the aforementioned sofa, my Grandpa was next to us rocking in his chair and reading the paper. He looked at us and gave us a warning. “You better stop before your Grandma sees you.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice that I had never heard before.  Before we could respond we heard the familiar sound of the paddle being lifted off of the hook in the kitchen. By the time we had jumped ourselves off of the couch, Grandma was making a b-line towards us with the paddle clenched in her hand.

Something was different this time. I couldn't quite figure out what it was. “Line up you little hellions!” she ordered. We assumed the position bent over exposing our derrieres. “You will stop jumping on my furniture!” she announced and took her best swing.

“WHAP!” I can’t explain the horror that I felt as I realized that something was different and was definitely not in my favor. By the time the pain seared throughout my backside a second swat was delivered. How had Grandma gotten so strong? How did that paddle not break? Before the thoughts were finished in my head I heard the sound of the paddle cracking against Michael’s own rear. I turned to watch as she took her second swing on him.

I quickly realized what had happened. Grandpa, always letting us do whatever we wanted, had gone and provided Grandma with a new weapon. I looked at him and he gave me a half smile that had “I warned you” all over it. I looked back at the paddle. Genius. Grandpa had drilled holes throughout the paddle face. Now the air passed through it as it was waved towards its target. A much faster, much harder impact was created.
Grandma stood over us with a smile, triumphant and gladiator like. I never jumped on her furniture again.

Now my mom had a whole other technique. Being inflicted with the horrible disease, Rheumatoid Arthritis, she was usually unable to inflict any physical punishment. Her hands were weak and her elbow joints were slowly freezing up. She was creative though and found that she could work a wig brush like the best of them. (I guess I was assuming there was some sort of wig brush competitions.)

Mom would take the wig brush, the type with the wire tines, and turn it so that the tine side was coming at us. Let me tell you, if you take a couple of those on the top of the head, you will stop doing whatever it is you’re not supposed to!

Dad, on the other hand, was a belt guy. Very effective as well. He was borderline professional in the way he could unlatch it and remove it from his waist. I swear that sometimes I would see his hands hit the latch and before I had fully turned to run I was already growing a welt on the back of a thigh.

When we were camping the belt usually stayed in place. Dad would pick out a nice willow or alder branch. We typically didn't get into much trouble camping as we didn't want to see that branch do anything besides cooking a hot-dog or marshmallow over the campfire.

Personally, I was not on the receiving end of too many spankings. I tried to stay out of trouble. Especially with my Dad. He had a way of looking at me a certain way and I would melt into a pile of mush. I hated that look.

I do remember one time that Dad skipped the look with me. July 10, 1976. I remember it like it was yesterday. I had been exploring in our garage and I came across a really cool racing set for Hot Wheels cars. It had a sweet track with loops and everything. My birthday was only a few days away and I knew it was for me. So I made the brilliant decision to go ahead and open it early. I played with it all day long. My Mom was not happy and she told me that Dad would be upset. I didn't listen.

Dad came home from work late that night. We were all sound asleep. Apparently the first thing that he saw when he came inside the house was the racing set all beautifully put together in the family room. He was not happy.

The first “spank” woke me and nearly killed me. It wasn't all that hard but my heart nearly stopped. By the third swat I was quite aware of my surroundings but it wasn't until the fifth or sixth that I grasped what was happening.  As tears flowed down my face and my posterior was searing I realized he had stopped. I looked at him through the blur in my tears. There I saw the look and it hurt more than any of the spankings.

I tell some people these stories and they laugh. I laugh too. I find humor in the mischief that I caused and in the way my parents tried to discourage my actions. Other people are horrified and saddened at the “abuse” that I received.

Now that I have been a parent for 19 years I have a different perspective. I see my children misbehave and now I have to figure out the best ways to discipline them. I admit that I have spanked my kids. I've never used a foreign object but I have threatened it for sure. The belt has been very effective for me. Never once came in contact with my kids but as I have removed it from my waist as quick as my Dad before me, I fold it over and grabbing both ends snap it together creating a loud cracking sound. My kids were so scared of the sound that I never had to follow through with the threat.

I have mastered my Dad’s famous look too. I love using that. There is something very satisfactory in looking at my child and seeing them realize the mistake they made and the disappointment they created.

I often would ask my kids “Who wants a beating?” and they would all in unison yell “Me, me, I do!” Mainly because my beatings consisted of tossing them around on the bed or among pillows and then tickling the laugh out of them. I used to get nervous that one of them would tell one of their friends at school about out their Dad “beats” them and I would be getting a call from social services!
So what is my opinion? I think parents should have the right to discipline how they see fit as long as there is no real harm inflicted on the child. In today’s society, I feel, there is a lack of discipline and accountability for today’s youth. I believe this has led to children being more and more disrespectful to parents, teachers and other authority figures.

I hear the stories my wife tells me about students at the schools she has taught in and the things that they would say to her. I cannot imagine what would have happened to me or one of my classmates had we said the things they say. Early in my school years teachers were still sporting paddles and yardsticks at the front of the classroom. Teachers would swat a kid or crack them across the knuckles right in front of the rest of the students in class. And you definitely didn't want to get sent to the principal’s office!

I’m not saying we should revert back to those days but there was something to be said for the discipline then. I don’t remember there being too many individuals getting out of line.
If there is no punishment or accountability for the crime then there is no reason for a child to think that there is anything wrong with what they are doing.

Even in sports and other activities that we encourage our kids to participate in has changed. Today a child receives a reward for just participating. Doesn't matter whether they win or lose. I don’t understand this at all. This is not how it works in the real world. Unless you join one of the many outdated unions. Today if you are not trying your best to succeed and produce then you are not going to have a job. Unless of course you count the government welfare system but don’t get me started on that.

I went to my daughter’s basketball game the other night and the announcer told everyone that they could not use any artificial noise makers. I thought that was a bit strange but then during the game as I tried to yell during the opposing team’s free throws I was quickly chastised and looked upon like I had the plague.

What college or professional sport will you see the away team’s players shooting free throws and the entire arena is silent? Why is it different in high school?

It’s like we cannot let our children experience failure and even if they do we label it as something else.

Imagine our great country without the rule of law. Imagine how our society would fall apart if we didn't discipline those that break the law. It’s already bad enough in some places even with the law enforced. Imagine if it wasn't.

So I say discipline away. Discipline your way. Don’t hurt them but make it clear that they have made a mistake and there are consequences.

I love my kids. Even when I am punishing them. I was punished often. Yet I know my parents loved me. Not very often did I receive discipline for something when I wasn't guilty.  I jumped on the sofa. I mouthed off to my mother. I got into the racing set. Each time I was quickly dealt with. Each time I remembered the action and the consequence. I learned quickly and I sought out activities that didn't result in a spanking.

Hmmm. That is probably what my parents were trying to accomplish.

The Boy I Always Wanted

     Many of you know that I have a passion for the sport of basketball. I've played it since I was old enough to know what a basketball was. I am a die hard fan of the Los Angeles Lakers as well as most NBA, college and high school games. Unfortunately for me I was and still am vertically challenged. In school I was always the runt of my class. Actually I was usually the runt of the school. Even my senior year when I stood mighty and proud at 5ft 3in tall and weighed in at a hefty 120 pounds. Luckily I was lightning quick and could outrun almost anyone and I had a great handle on the ball as well. Being short meant I didn't get many shots but I learned how to pass the ball from watching old video of Pistol Pete Maravich or watching my favorite Laker, Magic Johnson. I had a true feel for the game.

     When my wife and I had our third child I was so excited when I learned we were having a boy. I loved my two daughters dearly but there are dreams every father has playing sports with his son. I named my son after my grandpa and me, so we called him Trey because he was the third Horace Hallenberger.

     Ever since the womb, Trey has beat his own drum. Many times to music that nobody else can hear. He apparently did not like being upside down inside the tummy. He would always be in a sitting position with his head up. This was not a big deal early on but as he grew the doctors became concerned and decided to turn him over so he would be in position for birth. I remember the doc molding my wife's stomach and I could see the indentation from Trey's arms and legs. The doctor slowly manipulated him through the skin until he had flipped him over.

    A couple of days after that doctor's appointment my wife noticed that the baby was kicking very low in her belly. We decided to talk to the doctor about it again and set an appointment the following week. Sure enough, Trey had flipped himself back into the sitting position. The doctor told us that the baby was too big now to flip again and recommended that we come back in couple of days and do a c-section. He didn't want the risk of my wife giving birth to a baby who was breech.

    So Trey was born on April 25, 2000 via c-section and everything went according to plan. He was healthy and strong. The first thing I noticed as I held him for the first time was his hands. They were HUGE! Long fingers and wide palms. I began to have visions of my son's NBA greatness. I envisioned him playing like the Utah Jazz great point guard, John Stockton. (Though I pictured him playing for the Lakers).

    As Trey grew he was hilarious. Absolutely beside himself when it came to superheros and Disney characters. Woody and Buzz were at the top along with Shrek and the Incredibles. He was so fascinated with the characters that they consumed everything he did. He loved to draw. He never went anywhere with out his crayons and paper so he could draw all of his favorite characters. Even watching his favorite movies, he would be laying on his stomach with his pad of paper in front of him as he concentrated on his masterpieces.

    I tried to engage Trey in playing catch or dribbling a ball but he would lose interest very quickly. Especially if the ball happened to hit him on the head or shoulder or leg. He would immediately walk away. He was also the most noncompetitive boy I had ever seen. As soon as any playing became a competition he would just walk away and do something else. I remember him coming home from school and telling us that some boys had invited him to play football with them. Not knowing what football was he agreed and joined them. After seeing the first player get tackled, Trey had seen enough. I asked him why he stopped playing and he said "Why would I want to do that? Why would I want to get tackled? That's dumb!"

     When Trey was about 8 years old we thought it would be a good idea to expose him to sports so that he could get exercise and learn teamwork and the other great lessons that come from participating in sports. We signed him up for the local YMCA youth basketball league. Trey didn't really want to go but he decided it might be worth it because he had seen all the snacks that everyone got after his sister's games.

    So Trey became a basketball player......sort of. His first game was not good. When Trey was in the game he wandered around clueless as to the action going on around him. Nine kids would run from one end of the court to the other and somehow never ran over Trey in the middle of the floor. Trina and I chuckled as we watched. "It's only his first game" I thought to myself. "It's got to get better."

    I was wrong on so many levels. Every week was the same. Once during the game Trey walked off to the end of the court and got himself a drink from the drinking fountain. The only running Trey did was when he heard the final buzzer and he would run to the parent assigned the treats that week.

    Late into the season Trey was put into the game during a blowout. His team was actually pretty good even when he was in the game. The coach's son was one of the best in the league and could score easily against the competition of the YMCA league. During this particular game the coach's son had picked up his dribble and was trapped by the guy defending him and the guy who was supposed to be defending Trey but had no need to.

    Before I continue this story, I must first mention that Trey is what we like to call a "Mama's boy". And I mean in every sense of the word. He loves his mom even more than Buzz Lightyear and Woody. This unfortunately bleeds into everything he does including basketball.

     As the coach's son continued to struggle he glanced up and saw a wide open little boy near mid court. He started to pass the ball to the little boy and then the realization that the little boy was Trey stopped him. He glanced to the sideline and found his dad. His expression was the classic "Help me dad! What do I do?"

     The coach pointed to Trey. "Pass it to Trey!"

     The coach's son quickly obeyed and passed the ball to Trey. It went right to him. Trey fumble the pass and it bounced on the floor. Trey picked it up and began to run in what looked like a figure eight. All without dribbling the ball. The coach and I both yelled out at the same time, "Pass the ball, Trey!"  Trey stopped running, looked down the court towards his team's basket and then threw the ball. To nobody. It bounced a couple of times and one of the opposing players ran to it.

     Trey's reaction couldn't have been better scripted. It was as if he were Rudy winning the football game for Notre Dame. Trey's face was that of pure joy. He looked up and towards us. A big cheesy smile across his face. He spotted his mama and ran for the first time as a basketball player. As he approached his mom and I he asked "Did you see me? Did you see me with the ball? Did you see me make a pass?"

     Mom gave him a big hug and told him how proud she was of him. I smiled as best as I could. My dreams of a son playing for the Lakers was dwindling. I didn't know what to say to him except, "That's awesome, Trey, but you need to get back out there because the game is still going."  Trey turned and ran back into the game. People around us were no longer watching the game. They were laughing and telling us that was the cutest thing they had ever seen.

    So basketball was out. Let's try soccer. Trey joined a soccer team with his older sister Amaya. The results were similar. Amaya played her heart out. The team fought hard and was really good. Especially the brother and sister from Ecuador who could do amazing things with the soccer ball. Trey obviously liked the sister and using his mad flirting skills would let her know it. If he would only put that kind of effort into playing soccer!

     One game saw Trey's team playing a tough opponent. Back and forth the teams fought for scoring opportunities. As the teams ran to one end of the field, Trey stops at midfield and lays down on his back. The rest of the players continued to play. As the ball was stolen and the teams ran to the other side they passed Trey laying there. Amaya stopped and asked him "What are you doing, Trey? Get up!"

     Trey answered but didn't move. "I just got tired. I need to rest."  Amaya rolled her eyes at him and ran to help their team.

     As the season continued the team dominated the games. They were undefeated and virtually unchallenged. Everyone on the team had scored that season except for one. Trey. So they put together a game plan for one of the games. Trey would stay down near the opposing goalkeeper and the rest of the team would try to get the ball to him so he could kick in the goal. He got the ball a couple of times and kicked it out of bounds each time. Right before the end of the half the ball was again kicked right to him. Trey kicked the ball to his right and then reared his right leg back and kicked it as hard as he could. It went right past the goalie and into the net. I noticed the referee waving his arms that time had run out and that the goal did not count. Didn't matter. Trey was going to get credit from everyone else there. The whole team mobbed him and all of the parents cheered for him. Trey was beaming.

     Somehow that triggered something in Trey. He became the 4th or 5th best player on the team. The rest of the season he was playing defense and running and kicking goals and helping the team. I'm guessing it had less to do with the first made goal and more to do with the hug he had received from the pretty teammate from Ecuador!

     The next year, completely out of the blue, Trey told me he wanted to play baseball. This was an interesting development. Trey had never even played tee-ball. I told him it would be very hard because most of the boys had been playing baseball for years. He didn't seem to mind and said he really wanted to play. I told him I would take him to tryouts and we would see how he does.

    Tryouts were crazy. Hundreds of people there. Some were evaluating players, others were parents hoping their boys would do well and be chosen to play for a good team. Trey had his brand new mitt that looked like it was right off of the assembly line. He wore a hat that looked like my 1978 mesh John Deere tractor hat. His t-shirt and blue jeans completed the outfit and he looked like a misfit compared to the other boys.

     We got the information as to where Trey should go and they told us that there were three stations where they would evaluate him. The first station was hitting a ball thrown by one of the coaches. The second station was throwing the baseball. The third and final station was catching the baseball.

     We watched about a dozen boys get up the the plate and hit. They were thrown half a dozen pitches and then the were asked to run around the bases as fast as they could. When they called Trey's name he put on his batting helmet and walked to the plate. The coach explained the rules to him again and then threw the first pitch. Trey hit a hard line drive to center field. My eyes popped wide. "Where did that come from?" I asked myself. The second pitch came and Trey rocketed one down the third base line. The next on went all the way to the fences. Then another to center field and another just inside first base. My jaw was on the floor. I could see many of the scouts frantically looking for Trey's name in their charts and making notes.  On the last pitch the told Trey to run around the bases as fast as he could. This part did not go as well. Trey ripped the ball into the outfield and then began running to first base. He wasn't very fast and when he got to the base he stopped and started to take off his helmet. "Keep going!" the coaches yelled and pointed him to second base. Another coach waved him around second and another around third. It was not a very good time.

     They then sent him over to the next station. This did not go well either. Trey could barely throw the ball to the coach at that distance and he looked awkward doing it. At the catching station Trey would close his eyes and hope the ball would land in his mitt. Very few did.

     They told us they would let us know what league and team he would be on the following week. I told Trey I was surprised at how well he hit the ball. He just said confidently "I told you I could play baseball." Apparently he wasn't aware of how important running, throwing and catching were in the game of baseball.

     I received a call from the coach of the team who had drafted Trey. He said Trey was high on a lot of lists because of how well he could hit the ball. He told me that they weren't concerned about throwing and catching because they could teach him that easily. I asked what league they were in and he said AA. Not the best league but definitely not the worst either. Much higher than I would have pictured Trey playing in.

     Trey continued to hit the ball well during practices. He got better at throwing but still showed fear when someone thew the ball to him. He definitely would have a lot of work to do on his catching the ball. I was pretty excited that he was doing pretty well.

    The first game changed everything. Let's just say that Trey would go on to lead the league in one category that he would prefer not to.  It wasn't strikeouts. Trey led the entire league in "HBP" which stands for Hit By Pitch. Trey was a human backstop. He seemed to lack the instincts to get out of the way of the pitch. The ball would come and rather than jump out of the way he would look like he didn't even see it coming. The bruises were brutal. I worked with him often trying to get him to see the location of the pitch so he could know if it was going to hit him or not. The real problem became when he started to pull away from every single pitch. Including the ones in the strike zone. His fear had taken over his ability to swing the bat.

     About 3/4 way through the season I finally had Trey standing firm in the batters box. He was depressed and didn't want to play anymore. His teammates teased him because he couldn't hit the ball. I told him that getting hit hurts but it gives you a free walk to first base too. That only helped a little. I told him to remember what it felt like at tryouts when he hit every pitch thrown to him. I encouraged him that he could do it and he said he would try.

     He stepped into the batters box and the first pitch whizzed past him. Trey pulled back to avoid getting hit. "Strike one" the umpire hollered. Trey looked at me at first base and I gave him a thumbs up. "You can do this, Trey! You have to swing the bat to get a hit!"  He nodded and stepped in for the next pitch. Same result. Strike two. I called time out and walked up to home plate. I put my hands on Trey's shoulders and told him that I knew he could do it but he had to at least try. "Just swing the bat" I said. "I promise the ball will not hurt you." Trey nodded and I patted him on the back and went back to first base.

      On the third pitch I saw Trey close his eyes as he swung the bat. The familiar sound of the ball cracking off the bat was beautiful. It wasn't hit hard but it was hit. Trey dropped the bat and ran for first base. "Go, go, go!" I yelled and waved my arms for him to hurry. The ball had barely made it between the pitcher and the second baseman. The pitcher picked up the ball and hurled it towards the first baseman. The ball sailed high over his head. I told Trey to keep going to second base. Trey ran as fast as he could. The first baseman finally got the ball and threw it to the second baseman. The ball just missed hitting Trey as he was running and then went right through the second baseman's legs and into the outfield. The third base coach started yelling for Trey to run to third. As Trey headed to third I could see that he was quickly running out of steam. His run became a jog and then a very fatigued jog. The outfielders had not been paying close enough attention and by the time the got to the ball Trey was already being waved around third and heading to home plate. "Hurry Trey!!" all of us coaches and all of the team and all of the crowd yelled in unison.

     Trey's face was one of defeat. He looked like he was not going to make it all the way. Something kept him going and as he stepped on the plate we heard the sound of the baseball slamming into the catcher's mitt. "Safe" the umpire bellowed.

      Trey's team went ballistic. The crowd went crazy. I hugged Trey along with everyone else. I knew it wasn't the prettiest home run but it was a home run nonetheless. It was the only home run the team hit all year. And it was hit by my son, Trey.

      Like all of the other sports Trey lost interest after only the one year of playing. I know now that he is not destined to be the athlete that I had dreamed about. But I am not disappointed. I know he at least tried. I am glad that he can laugh at these stories too. For a kid with so little sports experience he sure has a lot of great experiences that bring smiles to everyone.

     Trey continues with his love of drawing. He has become quite talented at it. He wants to one day draw for Pixar. I think he just might.

     I love to watch my girls play basketball and that they have grown to love the sport. But I am also proud of my son who tried to play sports. I found out later that the main reason he tried was because he wanted me to be proud of him. I am proud that he tried. But I am more proud because he cares that much. My greatest success will be to see my kids find happiness. If, for Trey, that is drawing characters for Pixar or writing stories and movie scripts, then I will enjoy his craft as much as if he had led the Lakers to a championship. And that my friends is pretty darn happy!

Fishing In The Zone

Fishing has always been one of my favorite activities. It runs rampant in my family. My grandpa, dad, brothers, sisters, uncles and cousins all love or loved to fish. Some of my greatest memories since childhood have involved fishing.

Contrarily, I know a lot of people who don't care to fish because they get bored easily and their patience is limited. For me, I have never had a problem getting bored. I have always caught fish and I believe that is the determining factor as to whether a person enjoys fishing or not. If you aren't catching fish then you feel you are wasting your time. 

I don't think I would ever feel that way myself because part of the enjoyment is being in the outdoors and taking in the beauty that God has created in this world. A majestic mountain with evergreen trees mixed in with the many fall colors provided by the other trees and bushes. A smooth flowing river intermittently flowing over rocks and following an aged path towards the ocean. The many forms of wildlife living life without human distractions. The sounds of the water passing by or the wind gently blowing in the trees. The music of the chirping birds. The clear, clean mountain air easily breathed into your lungs. You literally see, hear, smell and feel the joy that God sent you to earth to have.

Sometimes I enjoy a peaceful excursion to a mountain lake by myself. I take my fly rod and float tube and experience the tranquility of the surroundings. After catching a few fish, I reel in the line and place the rod across the front of my tube. I pull my hat down over my eyes and drift on the water and in my mind. It is the most refreshing sleep I can ever enjoy.

I enjoy seeing the passion that others have for fishing as well. I see many who know the local Cabela's store like the back of their hands. They have all the gear to make the fishing easier and to give them an air of confidence through the outfits they wear. I must admit that they do look amazing. I get a little jealous and decide to invest in new wardrobe and gear myself. Then I see what it costs to look that good.  $60 for a fishing shirt, $80 for pants, $180 for breathable waders, $100 for a fishing vest, $300 for a fly rod, $200 for a reel, etc. And those were the sale prices! I weighed out the decision. What was I getting for my money? Was it worth $1000+ just to look good? Would it help me catch fish? My old stuff never seemed to hinder my ability to do that. I just couldn't do it.

I walked over to the clearance rack and purchased two shirts for $15 each and a pair of pants for $20. The shirts were a size to big but I figured I would eventually fill them out and the pants seemed to fit perfectly so I'm not sure why they were getting rid of them so cheap. 

The point is, I don't look like many of my friends who fish a lot. I have my dad's philosophy of, it doesn't matter what you look like or the fancy gear you have, it matters that you catch fish. So I take my low end Ugly Stik fly rod and my over sized fishing shirt and I head to the mountains. 

I recall one trip that justified our thinking the best way possible. 

It was around 1994 and we planned a little trip up to Lowman, Idaho in the Boise National Forest. We all enjoyed fishing in the South Fork of the Payette River. One of our favorite campgrounds was the Mountain View Campground about a mile east of the ranger station. This particular trip was the last real camping and fishing trip that I remember with my Grandpa Hallenberger. 

My wife and I met my grandparents at the campground. Also there to greet us was my Dad's sister Lela and her family. My Dad and his wife and many of my siblings showed up shortly after we arrived. Lela had brought up their large camp trailer and she and my Uncle Blaine shared it with my Grandparents. The rest of us spread out across the campground in tents. 

Aunt Lela

We had a great time together. We made s'mores at night and Dad played his guitar and we all sang along many of the songs we had known for years. We told stories and everyone laughed and had fun. Many of us stayed up and talked until well after 1:00am. I just love being around a campfire with family. 

During the days we spent time exploring, fishing and even enjoying a little dip at Kirkham Hot Springs a few miles up the road. Kirkham is a natural spring that is extremely hot in places but when it mixes with the river water it is cooled just enough to enjoy the heat and relax your muscles in. 

Kirkham Hot Springs

One day the family decided to take all the kids up to the hot springs and let them swim. My wife, Trina, decided to join them. Everyone ended up going except for me and my Grandpa. He wasn't feeling real well and decided to stay back and take it easy. He also wanted to get dinner started so it would be ready later. Grandpa made the world's best ham hock and beans! I was happy to stay back with him and figured I could get a little fishing done as well. Plus there was never better company than Grandpa. He was my hero and I loved every minute with him.

Grandpa

After everyone left I grabbed my fishing gear and began to string some new line onto my reel. Grandpa sat next to me near the fire and we talked about lots of things like baseball, fishing and of course family. I loved Grandpa's fishing stories. He was no only a great fisherman but also a wonderful story teller. When I finally got my reel and rod together and was ready to head to the river, Grandpa told me he was going to lay down for a few minutes in the trailer. I told him I would check in on him in about a half hour and I headed down to the banks near camp. 

I rounded up a few grasshoppers and placed them into a small Styrofoam container and then found what looked like might be a good spot to fish. I surveyed the river back and forth and found a deep hole created by a large rock in front of it. I saw a couple of fish swimming and decided it was perfect. I took out one of the grasshoppers and placed it on the hook. I placed a single small sinker about 36 inches above the grasshopper. I placed the line over my finger and lifted the bail over the spindle. I slowly drew the rod back and then flicked it forward releasing the line with my finger at the precise time so that the grasshopper would land just above the hole. The grasshopper slowly dropped over the large rock and into the hole. Right as it got into the hole a flash of silver flickered just beneath the water. The line went tight and the pole responded with a tug. I gave the rod a firm lift and set the hook. The fish was on. I let it play the line a little and then slowly reeled him in. I reached down with my net and swooped it up into the air. It was a nice little rainbow about 11 inches long. I removed the hook carefully and then set the fish back into the river and watched it swim back to the hole.

I repeated the process and recast my line. This time nothing happened. The grasshopper eventually floated right through the hole and down the river. I tried about 5 or 6 more times. That's weird, I thought to myself. Are these fish that intelligent to know what happened the first time? Usually when a fish attacks a type of bait so quickly it is a good sign that that is the best bait to use. But these fish were not biting anymore.

I decided to try something else. I pulled out my little container of night crawlers as well as the jar of Balls O' Fire salmon eggs. I broke one of the large worms in half and threaded it onto the hook the way my Grandpa had shown me many years before. Then on the end of the hook just over the barb I placed a salmon egg. I removed the sinker from above the hook as now the weight of the worm was sufficient for my needs. I then cast the line and watched as the worm crossed over the rock. Within seconds I felt the tugging of the rod and I had hooked another fish. I reeled it in and it was similar to the first fish but maybe an inch shorter.  Again I released it back to the river. 

The worm was still intact on the hook but the salmon egg had fallen off. I placed another one in it's place and then cast again. Almost identical to the previous attempt and almost an identical result. This time the fish was a little larger, maybe 12 inches. This went on for about 15 minutes. Fish after fish after fish. I got a little thirsty so I left my gear at the bank and went up to camp and got a Mountain Dew from the cooler. I drank a little and walked over to the trailer to check on Grandpa. Right as I knocked on the door he appeared from the around the front of the trailer. He said he was feeling a little better and decided to clean out his tackle box. I told him how great the fishing was and he told me he had experienced that many times throughout his life. I smiled and asked if he needed anything. He said no he had everything he needed so I headed back to the river. On my way I caught the aroma of the beans drifting through the campground. My mouth watered as I thought of dinner that night. 

I picked up my pole and made sure the worm and egg were still good to go. "Let's try it again" I said out loud to myself. I cast the line and voila, fish on! Right then I heard the family coming back. My cousins Tory, Sid and Jason all came right down to the river along with my little brother John and my sisters Heidi and Rebecca. I told them about all of the success I was having. We decided to start keeping some of the fish so we could have them with the beans that night. Tory, Sid and Jason all ran up to get their fishing poles. I stayed back and continued to catch fish. I let John, Heidi and Rebecca bring a few in as well. When my cousins returned I told them what to put on their lines.  

Just then a couple of guys showed up on the opposite side of the river. They saw me pulling out fish after fish and decided to check it out. I normally don't like to share my success secrets but I thought it would be OK and I also thought it was pretty cool that these particular guys had asked. They were decked out in all the finest gear and I could tell that their rods were exquisite. "What are you using?" one of them asked. I replied honestly and they looked at me funny. "Seriously?" they asked. I nodded and they seemed to accept it. They quickly took out their worms and salmon eggs and rigged their hooks as I had recommended. 

Tory and Sid

So now my little fishing hole was filled with lines. Mine was now accompanied by my 3 cousins' and the two strangers who looked like professional fisherman. I felt the tug on my pole and handed it over to Heidi. She struggled to reel it in but finally did. I cast again. This time I handed the pole to Rebecca and I helped her reel another in. I cast again and caught another, then another, then another. Tory and Sid thought it was pretty funny that I was the only one catching fish. The pros and Jason however were not amused. I let Jason reel a couple in so he wouldn't be upset. The pros kept trying and even changed up their bait but they ended up leaving without catching so much as a bite.

After bringing in about a dozen fish I decided to mix it up a bit. I took about 5 feet of line and tied it up above my existing line. I tied a fly to the end of it. I checked my other hook and saw that the worm and egg were still usable. I cast the line again and watched the worm plop right into the hole. The fly landed just beyond it and floated on the top of the water. The familiar tug on the pole and I had another 12 inch fish on. I began to reel it in. About 1/3 the way in I was startled as my pole suddenly doubled over and almost came out of my hands. I gathered myself and began to fight the line. Just then a huge fish jumped out of the water thrashing it's body around and slapping itself on the surface as reentered the water. My family started screaming and my heart leaped in my chest with excitement. I let the fish have a little line and tried to keep just enough pressure so that the hook wouldn't come out of it's mouth. It jumped a couple more times and tried to go downriver. I walked along the bank struggling to keep the line from breaking. Finally after a valiant fight the fish tired out and I was able to bring him to shore. I tried to net it but it was too big. I put my fingers under the gills and removed the hook. I lifted up the fish and then noticed a flash of white on the ground. Laying there with a hook still in it's mouth was an 11 inch fish. That was the first fish to hit my line. 

The fish in my hand was 25 inches long and was fat. I was so excited. My family had gathered around to see the monster. It sure looked like a rainbow trout but I had never seen one that large in that river. I figured I better make sure. I knew that there were salmon in that river but that it was illegal to catch them. I took the fish and ran back to camp looking for my Grandpa. When I finally found him I showed him the fish and begged him excitedly, "Please tell me this is a rainbow!"

Grandpa took the fish and examined it. "Wow" he said. "I haven't seen a fish this big in the Payette River since back in the 60's." 

"Yeah, yeah Grandpa, but is it legal?" I responded. 

"Oh yes," he said. "This is actually a native rainbow rather than the rainbows they plant here."

"Yessss!! I exclaimed. "Thanks Grandpa!!

I went back to the river and grabbed the rest of the fish and cleaned them all out in the river. I then placed them all in foil and into the cooler filled with ice. We would cook them up later to go with Grandpa's beans!

Everyone was talking about my fish. They were all laughing at how the professionals had come down and couldn't even get a bite in the same hole that I was catching fish on every cast in. I suppose I was in the zone and it was awesome. A couple of hours later and the Fish & Game Ranger stopped by. He said he had heard about a large fish caught in the area and he wanted to check it out. I was a little nervous and hoped that my Grandpa had known what he was talking about when he identified the fish for me. I took the Ranger over to the cooler and opened it up. The fish was bent upwards on the ends because it didn't fit the cooler.

The Ranger looked closely and shook his head. I got butterflies in my stomach. Then he turned to me and said that it was a beautiful fish. It was the largest one he had seen in over 15 years working as a Ranger in the area. He congratulated me and shook my hand and then told us all to have a good day. The family began to pat me on the back again and I was so happy. 

It was a great trip. My wife, my family, my Grandpa and a giant fish. Life was good!

Dear Life

Dear Life

Why is living you so hard? Why are you full of heartache and grief?

How do obstacles always appear, just when I feel a little reprieve? 

I’d like to know if you laugh, do you make fun of my plight?

Do you take joy, do you smile, and do you love the sight?

Why must I live through a family broken? Or the despair of a loved one’s death?

Why do I feel such pain, and cry, why at times must I struggle for breath?

This is what I ask on so many occasions when it seems I can’t overcome.

My mind spins with emotion and I begin to come undone.

I consider my options, contemplate what shall I do?

Should I leave, should I die, should I just remain blue?

The struggle continues and I take to my knees.

I pray and I pray, “Please hear my plea”!

The tears roll down on my cheeks as I plead.

“Father in heaven, help me I pray, this is my hour of need.”

“Why don’t you hear me, why don’t you care?”

“Please let me know that you’re really there.”

I wait and I listen but only silence I do hear.

I concentrate harder for the silence do I fear.  

There is nothing but breathing, heavy and strong,

I hear my heart in my chest like the beat of a song.

Rising louder the breathing and beating becomes.

Into the sounds do my thoughts quickly succumb.

It evolves into music with a melody fine.

It floods thoughts and memories deep into my mind.

I think of my childhood, with sisters and brothers.

I remember the laughing as we played with each other.

I feel the arms of my mom as she wraps tightly around me,

As I cry into her bosom after skinning my knee.

I picture my dad and I playing catch in the field.

He laughs as he tosses the ball and I squeal.

Out loud I utter a joyous chuckle and start.

Overwhelming happiness fills up my whole heart.

My prayer now forgotten, despair disappeared.

All thoughts of the darkness are now wiped away clear.

Thank you my Father for helping me see.

Thank you for setting my troubled mind free.

So life, I believe in you, no matter how many woes.

Regardless how dark, through it light always glows.

No matter how cold, the warmth overcomes.

From within me it burns and depression is done.

Dear life, you are special, you are precious to me.

For you I’ll give thanks when upon bended knee.

My prayers no longer will utter complaint.

But my life full of joy is the picture I’ll paint.

So remember my life, as you do what you do.

I'll always keep going, and I'll always love you.

Horrible Dinner Eti-"Cat"

      Here is an experience that I have shared many times and wrote down in my journal years ago. I've been asked on multiple occasions to share it on my blog. I've decided to go ahead but I have omitted some names to protect the innocent! I will warn you that some of you will find great humor in this, but others will be horrified. I hope that the humor will outweigh the horror.

      I served a mission in the California Santa Rosa Mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints from Nov. 1988 to Nov. 1990. I had many wonderful experiences that helped shape my life in so many ways. The people that I met are still cherished and many are still in contact with me today.

     The Santa Rosa mission covered the northern coastline of California. It ran along the Hwy 101 from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Oregon border. The area included the beautiful wine country of the Napa Valley as well as the mighty Redwood forest.

     While serving in the city of Santa Rosa, my companion and I were invited to dinner at a church member's home in Sebastopol, a small town about 4 or 5 miles away. The member was an elderly lady in her upper 70's or possibly early 80's. She was very sweet and visiting her home was like visiting one of my grandmother's.

     Dinner was planned for 6pm and we were riding bikes so we left Santa Rosa a little after 5pm so we wouldn't be late. This also allowed enough time for us to get off our bikes and cool off a bit so we weren't too sweaty going into her home. The bike ride was nice. I had been riding bikes during my entire mission and was in great shape. The terrain was mostly flat with just a few hills and the landscape was beautiful.

     We arrived at her home about 10 minutes early so we waited for a bit before we knocked on her door. We wiped the perspiration from our foreheads and locked up the bikes together. We walked up the steps and knocked. There was no answer so we knocked again a little harder. After a few seconds we heard the door handle start to wiggle and she opened the door. (I will refer to her as "Sister Smith". Her real name will not be revealed for reasons you will understand later.)

     Sis. Smith was so happy to see us and I could tell that she didn't have company over very often. We were happy that we could spend some time with her and alleviate some of her loneliness if only for an hour or so.

     As we walked into her home one of the first things that caught my eye was that there were lots of pictures hanging on the wall. Oddly, only one of them was of humans. I guessed that one was of her with her parents many years prior. The rest of the pictures were of a cat. All the same cat. Some of the pictures had the cat dressed up in cute little outfits. Others had the cat playing with a toy or some string. Some were just serious pictures take from what looked like a professional studio. My companion and I looked at each other and I could tell he was as taken back as I was.


     Sis. Smith invited us to make ourselves comfortable as she was still finishing up cooking the meal. We offered to help but she said there wasn't much to do and we could just sit and rest for a bit. We walked over to the sofa and sat down. Almost immediately the cat from the pictures came around the sofa and started purring and rubbing against my leg. He looked to be pretty old and a little overweight. Probably spoiled by this sweet old lady. Sis. Smith said, "Jasper, say hello to the missionaries." I reached down and gave the cat a little scratch behind the ears and then left him alone. I am not a big fan of cats and wasn't real interested in getting to involved with Jasper.

     Jasper continued to rub my leg but I just ignored him as I tried to carry a conversation with my companion and Sis. Smith who was talking to us from the kitchen. After a few minutes the cat began to scratch and claw at my pant leg. I tried to pull my leg away. Again, more scratching and clawing. I was nervous that my pant leg would get ripped or marked and I didn't have the funds to buy new clothes so I kept pushing the cat away. I even tried to push him over to my companion's pant leg but Jasper would have none of that. He came right back to me and clawed and clawed. I could feel his little claws on my skin through my pants and I was starting to get real annoyed. I kicked at the cat. Not hard but just enough to back him away from me. He bounced right back to me.

      I couldn't believe I was having to fight this cat! My companion was not helping the situation either. He just laughed and kept saying "sic him Jasper, sic him!"

      Finally I had to do something that would make the cat want to stop. What could I do. I didn't want to cause a scene in front of this nice old lady who was making me dinner. Without much thought I reached down and held my hand in front of Jasper's face. I placed my thumb over the nail of my middle finger and then quickly flicked the middle finger at the nose of the cat. The face of my fingernail caught Jasper square on the nose.

      I should just end the story here...But I can't.

      Without a whimper, whine, screech or sound, Jasper dropped to the floor at my feet. I stared at him for a few seconds. He wasn't moving. Not even a little. I nudged him with my foot and still nothing. I turned and looked at my companion. He had stopped laughing and now his eyes were wide and he had a look of pure horror in his face. "Is he dead?" he asked.

       Again, I nudged the cat with my foot. I reached down and tried to lift him onto his feet but he slumped right back to the floor. I didn't have to answer my companion's question. Jasper was dead.

      Horrified I looked up towards the kitchen. I had been unaware that Sis. Smith was still continuing on with our conversation. I mumbled something to her just to keep her aware that we were listening. I turned back to my companion and asked him what we should do. He said I needed to tell her and I rebutted vehemently to the contrary. "Look at her!" I exclaimed. "Look at this room! This cat is her whole life!"

      I saw the realization come over my companion. If we told her what happened she might die from the shock. I didn't know what to do. That is when I had what I call a stupor of thought. This means that there was no thought involved in my action. I reached down and lifted up the skirt of the sofa we were sitting on. I grabbed Jasper with my other hand and quickly swept him underneath and let the skirt back down. My heart was racing and my stomach was sick. My companion wasn't doing much better.

      I then sat through the most uncomfortable dinner of my life. She was so happy and tried so hard to please us with her conversation and a good meal. After finishing our meal we said a prayer with her. Sis. Smith asked me to offer it. Worst day ever. I stumbled through it as quick as possible without sounding like we were in too big of a hurry. We shook her hand and told her thanks and she showed us to the door. I hesitated on the porch and thought about telling her about Jasper. I looked into her tired old face and just couldn't do it. I walked away and we rode our bikes home.

      I never found out how Sis. Smith found her cat. I hoped it was quick and that Jasper hadn't began to stink or anything. I prayed that Sis. Smith would be OK without her beloved feline companion. I also prayed that God would forgive me. I didn't know what was worse, killing Jasper or withholding the fact from Sis. Smith.

      I still despise cats. But I would never intentionally cause harm (or worse) to one. Especially one that was so dear to someone that I knew. All I know is that the whole "cats have 9 lives" story is a farce. Unless Jasper had been nose-flicked 8 other times.