Mock Worthy Moment #2

Phobia
n. : a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it. Failure to avoid can lead to mock-worthy moments.

me + heights = panic
I don't like heights. Actually, I should clarify. I don't like unsecured heights. What does that mean? Ladders, trees, cliffs edges, and the like much above 6 feet or so are not my idea of a good time. It's not the climbing that scares me; it's the getting down. Or the fear of falling. That's probably more accurate: fear of falling--hard. Me and my lonesome, awful balance responsible for keeping myself from getting seriously injured...or killed.

Now, I love love love rollercoasters (the harrier the better - nothing, absolutely nothing, has beat the thrill of "X" at Magic Mountain), cliff jumping, and even rock climbing, if I trust my climbing partner. Why? Because the getting down in all those activities is all fairly secured and absolutely thrilling. Getting out of trees? Nothing glamorous or fun about that. Falling off a cliff onto jagged rocks below? No thanks. Slipping on a ladder rung and eating every step on the way down? Um, no. Falling out of the attic onto the new hallway floor? I'll pass, thanks. So when, at our family reunion in 2000, it was suggested we take a "Family Tree" photo in a large tree at Presidio Park, I was less than thrilled. The idea was to put Mom and Dad at the base of the tree and have all the kids sitting on a branch. Cute, huh? Yeah. Right. Everyone thought it was a great idea and jumped in the tree right away.
I was astonished at the recklessness with which Stephen propelled himself into the arms of David and James. Throughout my childhood, I had often wished for the physical confidence of my brothers. I don't mind having my body hurt in some ways, but blunt force trauma has always been something I've avoided (please see "Mock Worthy Moment #1" for more details). As I watched the combined family effort to get Stephen onto his branch, I saw myself attempting the same feat and falling out of the tree onto the exposed roots below. The boys (and even Karen) didn't seemed to be phased by any of it; they were all laughing and having a great time. I was even laughing, but that was because I was safely on the ground, laughing at Dad finally propelling Stephen into the tree via his backside. I wanted to be having fun in the tree, too, but I knew that just wasn't going to happen. I stood below and off to the side, looking for the lowest branch, preferably something three or four feet off the ground. No luck. The best I could do was one about two feet overhead. I did my best to put on a happy face.

Once I got into this position, I actually had no intention of actually righting myself on this branch. I'm laughing here because I thought I could get away with staying right there in that position for the picture. But no, I was to be IN the tree for the photo. Everyone was waiting. As I considered my position, I just couldn't believe what I was seeing: Bruce was perched in the tree, so calm, crouched down on his two feet, balancing on his branch; other brothers were switching places 10 feet above the ground like it was no big deal. And then there was me. James could see the panic in my eyes as Dad attempted to push me up and over the branch as he had done with Stephen. James reached out his hand, trying to gently coax me up, but I wouldn't budge. I was in the tree but I was definitely not having fun. The exposed roots seemed to be taunting me from below.

James promised he would not let me fall; all I had to do was give him one hand and he could get me up in the tree. It took a while for me to believe this, but then I considered all the years we had been swing dancing together and remembered that he had never once dropped me, and we had done some ridiculous things. So, I eventually let go with one arm--reluctantly--and gave him my hand. However, I had failed to release my death grip on the tree with my other arm.

"Let go, Julie!" Everyone was getting restless. James pulled so hard I had no choice but to let go and try to help, but I was useless. He had to pull up my shaking, reluctant, dead weight with two hands.

I was finally righted up on the branch. The protestations ceased; they were no longer needed--they had gone unheeded, and I was all the way up in the tree. What followed? Are you ready? Now, to James' credit, he never once mocked me for this moment. In fact, not one member of my family did. I, however, cannot look at this picture without laughing outloud.

This, my friends, is what we call pure, unadulterated panic, Julie-style.

Below is the picture they were going for (minus the parents - I couldn't find the real picture). Notice how James got me to smile even? It's because he's got me pinned between his right leg and left arm. Say it with me, friends: secured heights.

Needless to say, this family picture was not recreated during the 2006 family reunion.

The Power of Music

This morning I woke up before the sun and rode my bike down to the Belle Haven Marina. The morning was crisp and quiet. It was just me, my bike, and a quiet Mt. Vernon trail. It's been kind of a long week and I just felt this need to get away for a moment, farther and faster (and frankly with less effort) than running could take me. The marina at sunrise was the perfect place. I composed the perfect relaxing playlist for my outing. When I arrived at the marina, my playlist finally arrived at a song a friend introduced to me the other night: a Cambodian lullaby, part of a collection of lullabies from around the world. When I first heard it, the feelings were similar to what I felt upon listening to it again this morning. I don't know that I entirely understand it and therefore am having difficulty explaining it, but I was deeply touched. How is it that a song with words I don't understand and a tune I don't recognize is able touch me that way? What is it about music that makes it so transcendent?

Music has been a part of my life ever since I can remember. Since I'm on the younger end of my family, the music started in my house long before I entered. Almost all my older siblings played a musical instrument of one sort or another and we usually spent Sunday afternoons around the piano singing or playing those instruments as a family. My own training was primarily classical in nature but I've always been drawn to all types of music. I've had many spiritual experiences through the preparation, performance, and observation of music, and, over the last couple of years or so, I have stopped to think about why that is. I don't know that I've come up with a good, concrete answer. I have lots of theories and ideas, but I won't outline them all here. I will, however, make this very general and obvious statement: I think music means more than we think it does.

Sure, you can give scientific explanations of places in the brain that are stimulated when one listens to a piece of music, thus creating a sense of pleasure, but I'm talking about something more. I'm talking about music on a spiritual level--not necessarily spiritual music, but music of all kinds, tempos, beats, etc., that awakens something dormant, that causes you to be surprised by the joy you find welling up and spilling over. D&C 25:12 tells us that God considers the song of the righteous to be prayer. Prayer has the power to heal, to move mountains, to call upon the power of God through our faith. It would follow then, that music could have the same power. It's interesting to stop and think about that. What is it about music that gives it so much power?

Thoughts?

Some side notes/afterthoughts:

(1) If the song of the righteous is like a prayer, then what is the song of the unrighteous?

(2) I think Tolkien may have had more insight than he realized when he wrote the Ainulindale, "The Music of the Ainur" (first chapter of The Silmarillion). It's worth a read; don't let yourself get bogged down in the names; unless you're a serious Tolkien reader you don't need to keep many straight. All you need to know is that Iluvatar is God, Melkor is the dissenter (a Lucifer figure), and the Ainur are like demi-gods (Michael and others, if you will). It's one of the coolest creation stories I've read, mainly because it deals with creation and visions through music.

(3) Another thing about music I have considered a bit in the last year or so is its place in "one eternal round." Music's relationship to mathematics and the components of famous and timeless pieces are fascinating to consider. The thing that really spurred on this particular thought process was this NPR segment: http://www.wnyc.org/music/articles/27256. It's fascinating (the parts about motives and mathematics, etc., not the crazy Wagnerians, though they are fascinating in their own right), especially if you like Wagner and/or the humanities in general.

Mock-worthy Moment #1

Phobia

n. : a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it. Failure to avoid can lead to mock-worthy moments.

A friend once told me he was surprised at how many phobias I have. Do I not look like a girl who is afraid of things? Well, surprise. I've got a list. They may not be so evident because as I've gotten older I tend to avoid these situations. In my younger years I didn't think far enough ahead to keep myself out of them. Or I didn't have an exit plan. Or I let myself get bullied in spite of myself. [sigh] At any rate, it has given my family plenty of mock-worthy moments...some of them immortalized in photographs.

Mock-worthy Moment #1: me + projectile objects = ?

Now, I realize that a fear of projectile objects is not irrational, so it may not fully qualify as a "phobia," but it does prevent me from participating in certain events. Projectile objects for me really only include baseballs/softballs and paintballs. I believe it began when we were playing softball as a family for FHE. Tom was 6, which means I was 8. Gary was up to bat--I think he was 14-- and he hit a line drive down third base. POW! Right into Tom's eye. I have this very vivid memory of Tom getting hit and going down. I was by first base, so I ran across the field as fast as I could. By the time I got over to him, his eye was swollen shut. Watching the healing process was enough to make me shy of line-drives and pop flies for the rest of my life.

But that's not the story I came to tell you.

This story involves the family Christmas gift of 1998. I was 18. Mom and Dad decided to buy the five or six children still at home our own paintball guns. Our back gate opens up into a canyon, a perfect playing field for paintball (unless the neighbors decide to call the cops on us...) and Mom and Dad were pretty excited to find a family gift they were sure everyone would like. I had played paintball with my brothers a few times before this gift, but, unbeknownst to my parents, it had quickly become one "sport" I do not like. Why? My brothers insist on shooting me in the bum every time we play. They think those bruises are the funniest, not only on me but on each other. Nevermind the unintended injuries that have resulted from bad aim...but I digress. I opened my gun and tried to match the enthusiasm of my brothers but deep down I was dreading the pressure that would inevitably come to actually use it. The boys could not have been happier, though. They immediately set to souping up their guns; they turned up the pressure for maximum bruisage and played every chance they got. My gun turned into the "spare gun" for any friends who came over to play. Unfortunately for our guests, it was also the red-headed-step-child gun since it sat in my closet, neglected. It really was the girl gun.

The following year, we headed up to my Uncle's property in Aguanga, CA (pretty much in the middle of nowhere) for Thanksgiving dinner. The boys were so excited: open fields, crisp air, and hours before Thanksgiving dinner would be ready. Bruce's family was even in town and he joined us for the day. I dutifully brought my gun (they wouldn't let me out of the house without it) but had absolutely no intention of playing. My statement of intent not to play was followed by much cajoling and coaxing:

"Julie, you'll have so much fun." Wrong. I will not have fun.

"Julie, it won't be any fun without you." Read: It's more fun to have an easy target that we know will scream on impact.

"Julie, we'll play president and you can be the president. We'll protect you." Being president means I don't even get a gun and I'm the only target in the game. Um, no thanks.

When the cajoling and coaxing didn't work, they used force. And when I say "they," I really just mean Mom. I had intended on staying at the house to hang out with Grandma, but I was informed by my mother that this was a "family" outing and that I had to come and play. Next thing I knew I was being thrust into the van. (I didn't see anyone suiting Mom up with a gun....)

So there I was, sitting out in a field, not dressed nearly warm enough, holding a gun I had no intention of firing (not because I didn't want to nail one of my brothers in the hoo-haw but because it would draw attention to my location). My team didn't even bother including me in the battle plans except to point to the most massive bush on our side and suggest I park it over there, since I had made it clear I had no intention of actually making myself visible to the enemy.

Dad didn't play paintball very often but he was a darn good shot; having been raised in podunk mining towns, he hunted deer every season for their family's winter meat. All he needed was the top of someone's head to poke up, and BAM! they were a goner. Dad and Bruce were on opposite teams--father against oldest son--and they spent the entire game gunning for one another. It didn't take me long to get bored and I eventually sat back and considered life I guess. I actually have no idea what I was thinking about. All I know is that I had been there for a while and really had to go to the bathroom and was wondering how much longer I would have to wait when I eventually became aware of a rustling in the bushes; I thought it was Bruce, who was on my team, so I didn't give it much thought. Then I saw Bruce sneak from one bush to another on the opposite end of the field. I immediately tensed; we were the only ones left on our team so I knew whoever was rustling the bushes was one of the "enemy." The boys always said that surrender was an option, but I knew their style; the offer to surrender was almost always followed by an "accidental" shot fired and "innocent" claims of a hair trigger. I listened and waited to shoot close range at whichever of my brothers dared sneak up on me. The rustling eventually ceased, however, and I determined that whoever had been there had spotted Bruce and changed direction. I relaxed-- but too soon. It was not a brother but rather my dad who popped up from behind the bush, looking fierce, his gun pointed right at my forehead.

No one could have predicted my reaction, not even me. I had intended to shoot whoever poked their head over my bush, channeling my fight response, but it failed me, as did my flight response. Instead I dropped my gun and literally burst into tears as I screamed at the top of my lungs, for the entire valley to hear, "No, Daddy! Please don't shoot me!" It was unnecessary; he was in the process of lowering his gun anyway. He immediately threw his arms around me, assuring me as he laughed sympathetically that he would never shoot me. He told me later he felt terrible that he had scared me so badly. Unfortunately, though, all of my brothers heard my tearful cry; their howling laughter echoed all the way through the valley. That plea has haunted me for years since in the form of mock-high voices at even the slightest hint of cowardice: "No, Daddy, please don't shoot me!" At least it replaced "Freshens my breath!" I'm not sure which I prefer...

[sigh] Sometimes it's really tough being a girl in a family full of boys.

More mock-worthy moments to come..

10 Years of Love Affairs

I've had many mishaps with cars over the 10 years I've been licensed to drive. My first car was Bertha, a 1981 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, also known as the Beast, the Tuna Boat, and the Gutless Cutlass. My dad bought her for me when I was 17. She didn't look like much, but then again, I didn't need much. She was a fixer-upper: the headliner was sagging, she needed a new paint job, and was just going to need a lot of love.

Bertha and I...we went through a lot together. She was a comfort-mobile. My boyfriend insisted on installing an incredible stereo system, complete with 2 10-inch subwoofers. People would mock her until they got in and settled into her couch-like seats; Bertha never disappointed. Throughout our four years together, I learned how to change my sparkplugs, my oil, my brakes, and my motor mounts. The motor mounts cracked at the same time the transmission turfed due to being in two accidents in two weeks (I was rear-ended on the freeway both times if you can believe it AND at the exact same place on the freeway, just going in opposite directions). Bertha was technically totalled both times but she was still driveable and legal, so we merely changed the title to salvage and I continued to drive her around for another two years.

This picture is from the motor mount expedition. My mom thought I looked cute in Dad's old coveralls, covered in grease, so she snapped a photo. I don't know if you can see the look of disgust on my face, but this was taken just after we realized we had let the engine slip and weren't sure if we would be able to get it back to where it needed to be in order to put the new motor mounts in. No cherry picker + one engineer + his daughter + one jack + one broomstick = makeshift cherry picker and a very dangerous situation for the girl sitting on the other end of it as the stabilizing force. Thankfully I avoided impalement and we got the engine back where it belonged. Just another Saturday spent in the driveway of 3502 Wisteria Drive.

We thought that with the mending of the motor mounts and transmission, Bertha was fit for action. Unfortunately there was damage deeper than we realized and a large oil leak finally did her in. Dad tried to revive her one more time, but when he dropped a very important nut into the depths of the engine, he looked at me and said, "Julie, this car has had enough. It's time to let it die." Her, Dad. Her name is Bertha. I almost cried when the tow truck took her away.

I drove the OG Beast, my dad's 1976 Chevy pickup, for three weeks. No suspension, no radio, and 8 miles to the gallon. I was dying. I was also a month away from graduation. I made my boyfriend take me car shopping. I walked onto the lot, found the cheapest new car I could find - no more used cars for me; I wanted my Saturdays back - took it for a drive, and said, "I'll take it." Thus Betsy entered my life. Nevermind the fact that I didn't really know how to drive a stick-shift; I learned very quickly through many heart-pounding moments.

Betsy and I were together for five years (what can I say, I'm a long-term relationship kind of girl). I paid her off in a year and loved having a brand new reliable car. She was worth every penny--never gave me a lick of trouble. Then one day I was on the freeway, minding my own business, sitting in stop-and-go traffic on my way back from a mud run in Norfolk that wasn't really a mud run. (Grayden and/or Reed, do you still have the link to that picture of us running through the one mud pit? I still think we totally should have bought it, even though I was half-naked...or maybe especially because I was.) This guy driving a Tahoe decided he would come play, but Betsy is littler than most and the Tahoe smooshed her.

And just like that she was gone. I was so angry about having been stripped of my wonderful, reliable, paid for car that I couldn't replace her; every time I went car shopping I ended up being rude to the salesmen. Me. Rude. Unheard of. Seriously. So I finally decided to pay off my student loans with Betsy's blood money and held off on finding her replacement until I had cooled off.

It took me three months to recover. Then I met Percy. I was still miffed I had to purchase a new car, but I was going crazy. I needed to run errands alone. I needed to go to the temple alone. I needed to be alone in a car that was my own. Percy was my miracle. $900 later, he was mine. He's not much (a 1988 Honda Civic with 207k miles, no heat, no AC, no power steering, doors that don't lock, a trunk that leaks, etc. etc.) but I figured he would be a good filler until I decided what I was doing with my life. Little did I know how deeply I would fall in love with him. He's a zippy little thing with lots of character.

Then last night...he died. Driving to institute, my battery light flickered on and off. The service lights in my car frequently make appearances so I didn't think much of it. Then my radio started freaking out. I felt a couple of weeks ago that my luck with Percy was beginning to run out and I thought, oh boy, this is it. How short my memory runs. By the time institute was over I had forgotten about the flickering light and the poltergeist in my radio. I ended up offering Bekah a ride home so we could finish our conversation. We were deep in it when I realized my lights were becoming more and more dim until finally we were driving down the freeway in almost complete darkness. I didn't really know what to do: push forward until home or pull over immediately? It turned out I didn't have to decide; as we took the ramp from 495 to 395 it felt like Percy was downshifting, but I wasn't doing anything. Then he died on the uphill of the offramp. I kept praying that our momentum would carry us to the shoulder. We barely made it.

I've had so many car mishaps that I just had to laugh (there are countless Bertha breakdown stories...). I was still laughing when I realized a car had pulled up behind us. In the darkness I had no idea who it was. I tried to ignore them while I pulled my thoughts together; I had to formulate a game plan. Bekah's voice pulled me back into the moment: "They're getting out of the car. Lock the doors." Before we could remember that Percy's doors don't lock, we realized who had stopped: Janine and Emily. (Thank you, ladies!) They had recognized Percy and noticed that his lights were off as he slowed to a dangerously slow-poke pace. By the time they reached our car my decision was made: abandon ship. Hazards on, we left Percy. Janine called her dad, I called mine, and between the two we had a diagnosis and a plan.

When I got home, I called a towing company to come rescue Percy. They claimed they would be to the site in 25 minutes. It was 10:15. It was late (for me at least). I knew I would feel guilty for disturbing whomever I called. But then I remembered the guilt-free hotline: the home teachers. Shout out to Dan Ricks. Kyle handled the bat, Dan handled the car. He even brought popcorn.

We shared two precious hours in the comfort of his Audi, seats kicked back, moon roof open, bearing our souls, waiting for the tow truck to find us. Dan now knows what a mess I am, and I now know how kind and sensitive he is. Around 12:45 or so, the tow truck finally found us. We had already witnessed him zoom by us twice, but how do you flag down a tow truck from the comfort of heated leatherseats? You don't. When he finally found us, he pulled over and backed up to my car; I won't lie: even in Percy's dilapidated state, I get nervous about additional cuts and bruises. We had already judged our towing guy as incompetent since it took him two hours to find us and now his proximity to my car was solidifying that judgment. Then my car shook.

"He hit your car!" Dan exclaimed. "Did he just hit your car?!"
"He did! What the--" Then the front end of my car began to lift. In unison we both crooned, "ooooooh, cool." Seriously smooth. One quick backup and my car was ready to be towed, just like that. My impression turned to disgust when I realized what a racket these guys have. We drove all of 8 miles and the dude charged me $150. The good news is my insurance covers the towing cost. The hilarious news is my 6 month premium for that car is $175. Who's the sucker now? Oh wait, that would be me. The shop is charging me $500 to fix Percy. Is he worth it? Yes. This time. But this is his last chance.

Thanks again, Dan. Cookies will be forthcoming.