Better than a Staple in the Head

Last November we moved into a new house because Tanner was sleeping in the hallway. There just wasn’t enough room for him anywhere else. And he only weighs, like, 25 pounds. Standing, he only takes up half a square foot. It’s not like he’s chunky—I mean, nobody’s ever asked him to buy a second seat on Delta.

But if you take 8 people and all their stuff and ask them to live in a small house, it’s bound to get a little awkward.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten out of bed in the dead of night to do whatever it is you do in the dead of night—only to step on somebody’s head.

And nothing can bring a dad a pang of guilt like stepping on his child’s head.

Imagine sleeping peacefully on the floor when suddenly your dad’s size 10 medium gets planted on your skull. And dad isn’t exactly light-footed at 3 o’clock in the morning.

Which is all a long way of saying that the White family is a bit neurotic about square footage.

So last November we moved into a bigger home and promptly spread ourselves luxuriously throughout the house. No more running hurdles over little people sleeping in the hallway.

Which is also why it’s mighty ambitious of us to go camping—because there’s still 8 of us—and we’re all getting bigger—and our Coleman Trailer has exactly 32 square feet of floor space.

For those of you who think that 32 square feet sounds like a lot, let me remind you that that’s a space 8 feet long by 4 feet wide.

Which is just enough space to play a really tough game of Twister.

You have to ask yourself what would prompt us to want to pack up all the camping gear, cram ourselves in the Suburban, drive 4 hours down the interstate—just to stuff ourselves in our little trailer.

We were calling it Spring Break 2009: Zion National Park.

And Murphy’s Law was in full force for this one.

An hour before we were scheduled to leave, Tanner, our 3 year-old, fell and split his scalp open. If you’re a parent you know the drill. Dad thinks it’s not so bad, but Mom thinks he needs stitches.

DAD: “Shoot, it’s not that bad… Just keep holding that blood-soaked rag against it. It’ll stop. Sometime.”

MOM: “But he needs stitches or he’s going to have a scar for life!”

DAD: “So what if he has a scar…it’s in his scalp. His hair will cover it.”

MOM: “But what if he goes bald someday?!"

DAD: “Well, that’s what comb-overs are for. Besides, if he goes bald that’s your fault. It comes through the mother, you know.”

MOM: “Well, maybe we can super glue it. I’ve heard that works.”

DAD: “Are you serious?”

MOM: “Yeah…I heard it somewhere.”

DAD: “Okay, that’s too weird. Go take him to the doctor and get some stitches.”

So Lori takes the kid to the doctor while the rest us sit glumly and tap our feet because we’re all ready to go and time’s a-wastin’.

And I’m sure you know the drill at the hospital. Fill out some paperwork. Then fill out more paperwork. Then wait a really long time while the rest of the family is back at home sitting glumly and tapping their feet.

Then it’s finally time for the great procedure. The thing that Lori literally crossed town for. It’s like climbing the proverbial mountain to consult the wise guru.

We have an injured child here and we need your expertise oh Great One!

DOCTOR: “Okay, we’ll just put a staple in it. (CHACHINK!) There. All done. You’ll see a bill for $485.00 dollars. It will arrive in your mailbox before you get back home where your family is sitting glumly and tapping their feet. Thanks for coming in!”

Later, I’m looking at Tanner with a single glittering staple sticking out of his head and I’m thinking that if he ever goes bald he can thank me to the tune of $485.00 that there’s nothing to mar his shiny noggin.

And I’m thinking, Sheesh, I have a stapler….

So, off we go down the interstate—our Suburban looking like a General Motors pin-cushion—bikes sticking out at odd angles—the inside like Hurricane Katrina—pillows, blankets, and bare feet all strewn about….

Lori opens a bag of sandwiches and passes them around—no mayo for Jason. We’re listening to an MP3 mix on the stereo that I’ve imaginatively called Good Songs that randomly switches from Black Water to Yo Ho, a Pirates Life for Me to Hotel California, and then to Lori’s all–time favorite, Muskrat Love.

Okay, so that’s not her favorite. And maybe that’s because I sing along and stare at her with a twinkle in my eye.

By the time we finally arrive at Zion National Park we’ve sung along to Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, A Bug’s Life version of Beauty and the Bees (you have to hum that one), Johnny Cash's I've Been Everywhere, K.C. and the Sunshine Band's Shake Your Booty, and Doby Gray’s Drift Away.

And the sandwiches have been reduced to crumbs.

Now let me be clear that we go to Zion in April for the sunshine.

Not the snow.

Which, according to Murphy’s Law, is what we got.

So instead of having thousands of acres of national park as our home-away-from-home, we had 32 square feet of trailer.

So we busted out the Twister game.

Just kidding.

Poor Natalie was beside herself because she came for the lizards and toads—and cold-blooded animals aren’t exactly fond of the cold. She did manage to catch a couple of lizards that had missed the “Feeling Sluggish? Perhaps it’s THE SNOW” memo. But the toads were another story.

And I suppose that’s what dads are for. When you just can’t bear to break your daughter’s heart you bundle up, grab a flashlight, and go out into the frigid night hoping that there are such things as Eskimo toads.

And somehow it’s okay that you don’t find any. The important thing is...you tried.

And I suppose it’s okay that Tanner had to get a staple in his head—and that it snowed during our Spring vacation—and that we ran out of propane for the furnace in the trailer—and that the sway bar on the trailer wasn’t working right.

The important thing is we did it.

And we actually had a great time.

First of the Season

We’re jumping the gun here.

March 1st is hardly spring in Utah, but the months of snow are gone.

There’s a warmth in the air and the sense that winter’s ending. The idea of an impromptu hotdog roast is simply too good to pass up.

A bit of backyard bliss with the smell of smoke, mustard, and Ballpark franks….

How to Fell a Tree Without Hitting the House

Step 1
Find Yourself an Ol’ Codger Who’s Done it a Hundred Times.

In this case, he’s easy to find. Look no further than my dad. A year and a half shy of 80 years old and he can still work circles around me.

I work with old people every day—so I know old. This guy's in better health than most people half his age. He could’ve been a card-carrying member of AARP for the last 28 years—but he doesn’t need ‘em.

Never even swung a golf club.

Gets up every day at 6 AM. Pulls on his overalls, laces up his boots, walks outside and tackles any job he has a mind to.

A dying breed.

Jack-of-all-trades.

Master of all.

I’m not kidding.

This guy can do anything if it’s even remotely related to plumbing, electrical work, concrete work, welding, design, engineering, woodwork, heating, auto mechanics, roofing, finish work, farming, etc.

He’s an artist with a shovel.

Need a custom part made from steel? He’ll fire up his blacksmithing tools and pound you out a piece on the anvil.

And he’s no hayseed either.

Yeah, he was a typical Utah farm boy—until he left home and went to school…. Then he turned himself into a scholar with bachelor's and master's work at BYU, Ph.D. work at Columbia University, and a Fulbright scholarship to study northern European economies.

Step 2
Fire Up a 91 Year-Old Tractor.

That’s right. 91 years old. As in built in 1918.

Really—who has a 91 year-old tractor out in the shed that they crank up on a regular basis and use for real work?

Seriously.

The thing’s beyond antique—it’s ancient!

My kids asked me what color it used to be. I didn’t know how to answer them. I’m sure it was a nifty color once-upon-a-time, but now it’s just rust and grease.

My grampa bought the tractor "used" in 1925. Farmed hundreds of acres around his home. Dad learned how to drive it when he was six. At the time he could barely push in the clutch.

Unlike most tractors at the time, this one uses tracks instead of wheels.

Last Saturday Dad calls me up and says, “I’m taking down a tree with the old tractor. Do you and your kids want to watch?”

Well, I’ve seen this routine plenty of times…but my kids haven’t, so I say, “Sure, we’ll be over in a few minutes.”

We arrive a while later and he laughs at my oldest son, Jason, because Jason’s wearing shorts. It’s about 20 degrees in the shade.

Dad's holding a bucket of warm water. As he pours it into the tractor’s radiator he explains that it has to be warm—because the tractor’s massive block is so cold that cold water would instantly freeze.

I’m thinking: Huh. Smart.

1918 was a while before electric starters, so this ol’ Cletrac needs to be cranked. I watch my dad with his left hand on the choke and his right hand turning the crank. It occurs to me that the tractor looks like an extension of himself—he’s done this so many times that the tractor and he are one. He casually turns the crank and I’m thinking: you better give it a little more elbow grease or it will never start.

Click on the play button to see and hear it.

But he knows his tractor.

And after a few nonchalant—almost effortless—cranks…it fires right up.

Back in the day when this thing was built they didn’t bother with mufflers—so the fire shoots straight out of the manifold. And there’s no doubt if it’s running or not—it’s loud.

Step 3
Drive Through the Snow, Hook a Long Chain Between Tractor and Tree, and Put Tension on the Chain.

Click on the play button to see and hear it.

I wondered about the wisdom of driving the old beast through the pasture and orchard—all the while grinding through a foot of snow. Would it get stuck? Would this turn into an oh-shoot-the-thing’s-stuck-now sort of a day?

But again, no worries.

The Cletrac busted through the snow like it was the ancestor of modern-day snowcats.

Which, come to think of it, it is.

Step 4
Make Son Nervous By Nearly Cutting All the Way Through Tree.

So what do you do when the ol’ codger (who's done this a hundred times) is wearing earmuffs, focusing intently on where he’s cutting...and can’t see the tree start to sway above him?

Suddenly his son (me) starts imagining all sorts of scenarios:

1) The tree does a slow pirouette and comes crashing down on Ol’ Codger—all while his son and grandchildren look on in horrified silence.

2) Ol’ Codger’s quick and valiant son (me) jumps forward at the last second and tackles Ol’ Codger to the ground while the tree narrowly misses them both. After an enormous sigh of relief, they both look down to see the chainsaw imbedded in Ol’ Codger’s leg.

3) Ol’ Codger’s son (me) sees the danger, shouts at Ol’ Codger (who can’t hear him), then strides quickly forward and grabs Ol’ Codger’s arm to alert him. Ol’ Codger is startled, nearly drops the chainsaw, is decidedly unhappy with his jumpy son, and lets loose with a string of cusswords.

None of those scenarios seemed particularly pleasant, so I just crossed my fingers and reminded myself that he’s done this a hundred times.

Step 5
Drop the Cletrac into Forward Gear, Let Out the Clutch, and Pull the Tree Down in Precisely the Direction You Want it to Fall.

Click on the play button to see and hear it.

Slick as a whistle.

Step 6
Give Rides to All the Grandkids.

And let the seventeen year-old in shorts drive the thing himself.

White Family Dictionary

burger \BĔR-gĕr\ noun.
1: booger.
Word Origin: When a father wishes to call his child a booger but is afraid that the neighbors may not approve, he uses the euphemism, burger, instead.
Unintended but Inevitable Word Usage:
Ryan: “Dad, can you get this burger out of my nose?”

but-but (BŬT- BŬT) noun.
1: butter.
Word Origin: A classic Derek word-morph. Used extensively and with gusto by Emily, who knows that it’s okay to say but-but, but it’s not okay (in our family) to say butt.

Chopper \CHŎP-r\ proper noun.
1: Nickname applied randomly by Derek to any one of our children at any given time.
See also Chops, Monkey, Monkey Chunk, Boot Monkey, Turkey, Turklet, Potlicker, Bucketmeiser, Crazy, Lippy-Lou-Lou and Boutros Boutros Ghali.

cim-cim \SĬM- SĬM) noun.
1: cinnamon roll.
Word Usage: “Holy cow! Mom just made a batch of cim-cims and she’s not giving them away to the neighbors! They’re for us!”
Word Origin: Word coined by childhood friend, Craig Dalley, who, during High School was always joking about being on a diet. Derek and his friends teased him mercilessly about giving up his cinnamon roll at lunchtime—ostensibly for the sake of his health—but more accurately to acquire and eat his cim-cim.

Dog-Head \DŎG-hĕd\ proper noun.
1: Nickname for Annie, our Boston Terrier.
See also Doggie, Dogtard, and Snoot.

edam \ĔD-ŏm\ noun.
1: Our favorite cheese.
Pronunciation: Finnish.

fresca \FRĔS-kah\ noun.
1: Any soda if you’re Ryan or Tanner.

Girlfriend \GĔRL-frĕnd\ proper noun.
1: Derek’s nickname for Lori.
See also Chick, Chicklet, and Girl.

hat chak \HĂT CHĂK\ noun.
1: hot chocolate.
Word Origin: shortening of the word hot chocolate with Fran Drescher-like pronunciation.

hustle \HŬSL\ verb.
1: Intended by parents to mean I want to see you move faster than I’ve ever seen a human being move before, but interpreted by children as go ahead and take the next few millennia and throw in several epochs—in fact, mountains shall rise and be laid low—whole seas shall form and dry up again—the stars will fall from the heavens and new suns shall appear…all before you need to complete that little task.

iwillkillyouandmakeyoudead \ī-wīl-KĪL-yū-ānd-māk-yū-DĔD\ statement.
1: Statement directed at our children to make them laugh.
Statement Usage: Said with a goofy voice while chasing them through the house.

Jazz \JĂZ\ proper noun.
1: Nickname for Jason.
Word Origin: Ideal example of Derek’s penchant for deliberately mangling people’s names through multiple evolutions. What began as simply Jason, was soon pronounced Jăhs-SŌN (with a quazi-French accent), then (due to the opening of Disney's Aladdin) it morphed for a short time into Jasmine before Jason was old enough to know that Jasmine was a girl’s name—then (to Lori's relief) it evolved into the much more manly Jazz—which is appropriate because he's a jazz drummer. And he's manly.
See also Jazzy, Jazzarooni, and Jazzman.

Please don’t tell him about the girl-name thing.

microwave popcorn \MĪK-rah-wāv PŎP-kōrn\ noun.
1: Food item we have totally banned from our house after multiple scorchings and subsequent openings of every door and window in an effort to remove the smell.
Word Usage:
Julie Porter: “Our microwave has a pre-programmed microwave popcorn button so that doesn’t happen.”
Derek: “So does ours, but nobody is smart enough to use it.”

nerdgirl \NĬRD-gĭrl\ noun.
1: Term of endearment for daughters and any other cool, non-nerdy girl.
Word Caution: Not to be applied to actual nerd girls.

nab \NĂB\ verb.
1: A lighthearted command to purchase or acquire something immediately with no further complicating discussion.
Word Usage:
Lori: “Wow, that’s a good price on a pancake griddle.”
Derek: “Nab.”

ornch (ŌRNCH) noun.
1: orange juice.
Word Origin: A classic shortening of a word—from orange juice to orange to ornch. Pronounced with glee after pouring a nice, cold glass.
Word Usage:
Natalie: “Hey Dad, look! ORNCH!”
Derek : “Awesome! Will you pour me a glass?!”

sammy \SĂ-mē\ noun.
1: sandwich.
Word Usage: “Hey Mom, will make me a PB&J sammy?”
Word Origin: unknown.

I’ve heard that Quizno’s now sells “sammys”.

They stole that word from us.

skinny lips \SKĬN-ē LĬPS\ verb, noun.
1: To make skinny one’s lips while flaring one’s nostrils.
Word Origin: While Derek was dating Lori he would tease her by attempting to kiss her with skinny lips—whereupon she would promptly reject his advances. Nowadays this facial expression is performed often and with zeal by all of the children in order to annoy her.

shmampin \SHMĂMP-ĭn\ gerund.
1: camping.
Word Origin: Lori’s contribution to what a brain can come up with when put into random mode.

Sweetie \SWĒ-tē\ proper noun.
1: Term of endearment used by Lori only when she’s mad at Derek.
Word Usage: “SWEETIE, get OFF that computer and help me with the KIDS!”
See also, idiot.

Tepanyummy \TĔP-ahn-yŭm-ē\ proper noun.
1: Nickname for one of our family’s favorite restaurants, Tepanyaki.
Word Usage: “It’s not TepanYAKI, it’s TepanYUMMY!”

toast \TŌST\ noun.
1: Food item thought by Lori to have full and complete nutritional value when consumed daily with a cup of hot chocolate.

whodidthis \hū-DĬD-THĬS\ question.
1: Question asked multiple times daily by Lori and I—and always answered by the kids with “Not me.”

Yelly \YĔL-ē\ proper noun. 1: Our favorite camping destination, Yellowstone National Park.

Snowy Night: Photos taken at 11:00 PM

Years ago, as a kid, on nights like this I would dress myself from head to toe in all my warmest clothes—thermal underwear, snow-pants, puffy coat, scarf, gloves, and hat—and I’d wander out into our yard amazed by the silence.

The low clouds, gently falling snow, and the powdery fluff underfoot muffled all the usual noises.

And it was oddly warm, with no breeze stirring the air.

I would lie out on the snow and burrow myself in—sweeping snow on top of me—and I’d just listen to the stillness.

I haven’t had that feeling in years…until tonight when I turned off all the lights in the house and was surprised at the wintry glow that came from outside.

All the conditions were the same as…(thirty?) years ago when I lay in the snow—surrounded by silence—thinking my own thoughts.

Some of those memories were here in Utah and some were in New Hampshire.

I suppose that’s why, years ago, when I ran across this poem by New Hampshire’s own Robert Frost…I understood what he was saying.

You could say it struck a chord.

And although we’re a long way from New Hampshire—and there’s more sagebrush here than woods—there was something out there tonight that was the same.

Something good.

Something peaceful.

So with a nod to Frost, here's his poem:

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost, 1923

A White Christmas

Wow.

Christmas came fast this year.

I guess that’s what happens when you move into a new home the week before Thanksgiving.

Last July marked the 9th month that we had been looking for a new house for our family. 9 months of looking on the internet, marking neighborhoods on a map, touring homes for sale, and driving miles and miles of roads to find our new house. We ended up walking through over a hundred homes. A bunch were new homes that had never been lived in. Whole streets of them—like ghost towns with nothing moving but a few tumbleweeds—victims of the recent screaming halt to the Utah housing boom.

After a few months of house-shopping you realize it’s a bit like going on an endless series of blind dates. You recognize within the first minute or two that you’re stuck on a 20-minute tour of a house that you know you don’t want to be stuck with. At first we were so tactful with the listing agents…trying so hard to be polite about floor plans that we really didn’t like. But after seeing fifty or so homes you lose all diplomacy.

“Nope, don’t like that.”

“Hey, that’s really nice!”

We had house-shopping down to a science.

Yet after 9 months I said to Lori, “I don’t feel like we’re any closer to finding our new house.... Where is it?”

Well, just a week or two after that we found it.

Problem is, finding our new home set in motion all the events that would make the coming of Christmas a startling surprise.

Offers, contracts, mortgage qualifications, national mortgage companies going bankrupt, (then back to square one), new mortgage company qualifications, piles of full-disclosure paperwork, an arm here, a leg there, getting our old home ready to sell, keeping it showroom clean by threatening the very lives of 6 children….

Whew!

Then moving out, moving in, unpacking, meeting new neighbors, giving talks in the old ward, giving talks in the new one, re-painting the old house, setting up the new one.

And then, BAM! Merry Christmas!

Ah…Merry Christmas.

It hit hard and fast but when it got here it was magical.

And talk about a White Christmas! We haven’t seen this much snow for years.

On Monday night Lori and I walked the mile and a half to my parents' place—through snow-covered streets, past houses brightly lit for the season, the air brisk and cold. It was quiet and still—the powdery snow soaking up all the sound—nothing but the crunching of the snow under our feet and the quiet puffs of our breath in the air.

We rode my dad’s ATV back to our house and I hooked up a sled on a long rope behind it. Emily was my first victim, since Connor and Natalie had been (pretending to be?) sick yet claimed to be miraculously healed when faced with a possible sled-ride. I’m no dummy, so I told Connor and Natalie to rest on their sickbeds until the next day.

So Emily and I faced the wintry darkness by ourselves—and she trusted me to pull her willy-nilly around a nearby field. I half-expected her to be terrified, but was delighted to find that she was thrilled and laughing uncontrollably.

Next, I unhooked the sled and we motored through the neighborhoods on the ATV toward my brother Rod’s house. For years the 15 minute trip that separated our old house from his seemed like a journey. Now, to be separated by three minutes seems like he’s next door.

So why not just pop on by?

After our visit we zipped back through the quiet streets and I made Emily laugh again by fish-tailing the ATV around a few corners.

And she gave me one of the world’s best hugs when we arrived back home.

So, like Christmases Past, we stuck to our traditions. When Christmas Eve came we had a dinner of dinners—turkey, stuffing, gravy, garlic mashed potatoes, fresh homemade rolls, sweet corn, spinach salad. We all pitched in and made it happen.

The Christmas tree was lit in the family room, Christmas carols piping over the speakers.

Then we had our nativity program with every one taking a part…. Natalie and Ryan as Mary and Joseph—a toy snowman as baby Jesus. Jason and Annie as shepherd and sheep, Tanner as a wise man, Emily as our angel, Lori as narrator, Connor as musical maestro.

Me, taking photos and singing Beautiful Savior.

After that, a visit from Santa, who sounded oddly like my 78 year-old father.

Ryan was absolutely transfixed by the bearded, old fellow.

As Lori and I sat and watched our kids open their gifts, we resolved to enjoy this Christmas Present—soaking in the sights and sounds of our 6 wonderful kids loving each other. We tried not to think too much about Jason being gone in two years—off on a mission for our Church. We realize that, in a way, it will be the beginning of the end of this whole, intact, little group. Childhood is fleeting.

But in the meantime we enjoyed the laughter.

And we may have closed a chapter in the White family story by moving away from our previous great little home, but the friendships we made there are still alive and well.

It’s been snowing for days now and the wind has whipped the snow into waves of drifts. The landscape is mainly shapeless and I can’t quite remember what’s underneath those lumps of snow.

Is that a rock or a bush?

Where do those steps end?

But, like our Christmas Futures in this new home and neighborhood, it will all be revealed soon.

And we’re confident that we’ll like what we see.

Merry Christmas!

The Longest Gig

“So Wendy wants me to audition for the voice of the KBYU Kids’ Club. I can’t do that!”

Lori said that 10 years ago.

People have always told Lori that she has a young-sounding voice. And I suppose they’re right. In fact, it’s not unusual for her to be dealing with a rude customer service rep over the phone—and they think they can bully her because she sounds like a kid. Then suddenly this kid-sounding voice stands firm. Surprise! She’s not backing down! You can’t be a mother of 6 without growing a backbone.

But...yeah...she does have a youthful-sounding voice.

So soon after we moved into our first house in 1998, her new friend, Wendy Thomas—Program Manager for KBYU Television—asked her to audition for the friendly, cheerful, young-sounding voice of the KBYU Kids’ Club.

Lori was duly flattered but felt exactly like she'd just been asked to sing karaoke in her underwear for the halftime show at LaVell Edwards Stadium.

There’re some people who would say, “Okay, what do you want me to sing? And do I wear whitey-tighties or boxer shorts?”

But Lori’s not one of those people.

Not even close.

So it took a lot of talking to get her to try. After all, it’s just an audition right? Just get in a booth, speak in a microphone, give it your best shot and walk away laughing with a good story to tell.

And hey, on the long shot that you get the job you can comfort yourself that it’ll only be broadcast to a few million people....

Funny thing is…she got the job.

And she’s been doing it ever since.

For ten years.

Now that’s what I call a long gig.

Hey...Buckaroo.

Don’t ask me where Ryan gets his acting skills. Far be it from me to dabble in such silliness.

But put the kid in a costume and he becomes the character.

What you see here, my friends, is the strong, silent type—broad in the shoulders, narrow in the hips. Heck on wheels with a gun. He’s not lookin’ for trouble, but if trouble comes lookin’ for him he’s not gonna shy away from it.

Straight out of a dog-eared Louis L’Amour.

Not that I read that stuff. After all, I’m a very serious reader as you can see by my no-nonsense Recommended Reads. Heck, I wouldn’t even know the names of any real Louis L’Amours. I’d have to make ‘em up—like, High Lonesome, or Dark Canyon.

Ha! This is easy! I can just flip a switch and put my mind on western dimestore-novel random.

Maybe North to the Rails or The First Fast Draw. Yeah! Those sound like romanticized cowboy titles that Louis L’Amour might write.

You wouldn’t ever catch me putting down my serious historical analysis of The Bounty for a guilty peek at how Ruble Noon, the mysterious tall gunslinger, kills Ben Janish in some ridiculous novel Louis L’Amour might creatively title The Man Called Noon.

No, you don’t see lists of such absurd fare on this blog.

And you wouldn’t catch me dressin’ up like a cowpoke on a pioneer trek a few years ago. Lookin’ just a little like The Man from Snowy River in my outback hat that I drove all the way to Salt Lake for because I was hopin' I'd be mistaken for Jim Craig.

No, I wouldn’t like the way the sun is settin’ behind me as I fiddle with my Nikon—lookin’ like some wannabe, weather-beaten, cow-punchin’ photographer.

No siree little feller.

Shootfire.

I don’t know where Ryan gets it.