The Great Debate

I was working last night when a family came through my line. A ten-year-old boy was trying to convince his dad to let him buy some gum. The dad told him no and explained that if he let him buy something then he would have to get something for all of his siblings. The boy replied, "Why? They don't need it!"

"Well, you don't NEED it either," countered the dad.

Without hesitation the boy said, "Yes I do! My breath stinks!"

Needless to say, this made my night. I told the father that he needs to put that boy in debate.

My Families, My Countries

I had an amazing experience this past Saturday. I was at my lovely job when a man came in to purchase a MoneyGram. Almost immediately he said, "you look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?" 

 I looked at him for a second and replied, "I don't know. You look very familiar too. Did you work at ***?" 

 "No," he said, and he turned to his MoneyGram form to continue filling it out. 

I watched him as he did. As soon as he wrote down his last name,I thought I had it. "De donde eres?" (Where are you from?) I asked. 

"De Guatemala." 

 Continuing the conversation in Spanish I said, "Really! I served my mission there!" 

 "In what part?" 

 I had served in four different areas while I was there, but I was pretty sure I knew who he was at this point, so I answered, "El Tejar." 

It turned out I was right on the money. Ten years earlier, while I was serving in his hometown of El Tejar, Chimaltenango, he returned from his mission. I had met him then, and I had known the rest of his family even better. I had eaten my meals at his oldest brother's house every day for six months. I was ecstatic to see him. My mind took a trip to the clouds for a while, and I even temporarily forgot how to do my job. My brain was occupied in other pursuits as so many memories I had thought irretrievably lost flooded back. 

I asked him about all of the people I had left behind, and he rewarded me with the knowledge that all were well. He had married an American girl from Manti, Utah and had been living there for the last seven years. He and his family were moving down here to Hurricane, Utah, of all places, where he has a job at Costco. Now my wife could testify to how excited I get just to meet someone from Guatemala. Suddenly my understanding is perfect, and my normally shaky Spanish becomes fluent. I love to hear news from my second home country. 

But in ten years, I had not run into someone I knew from Guatemala one time. The best that I could do to describe the emotion to my wife was to say that it felt just like when I disembarked from that plane ten years earlier and saw my family for the first time in two years. Indeed, the people of Guatemala, and especially my friends from Guatemala, hold a piece of my heart, and I have adopted them into my extended family—my brothers and sisters, hermanos y hermanas.

A trip to Latin America

This is a restaurant profile that I wrote for a composition class a couple of years ago. Unfortunately, the last time I drove by this restaurant, it looked like it was out of business. I guess the recession finally caught up to it. So, I'm not sure it will do any good for anyone to read this review, but I hate to see it go to waste. I did already get a grade on it a couple of years ago in advanced composition, but I guess my ego would just like a few more people to see it. If nothing else, perhaps it will convince a few of you to give pupusas a shot if you ever get the chance. 

  A Trip to Latin America Leaving the antique, historic-district part of Saint George behind and turning off of Bluff Street and onto Sunset Street, you will encounter, amidst an otherwise small-town city, an area that highly resembles the big city feel of Las Vegas–minus the skyscrapers. For one thing, it’s an extremely busy intersection on Sunset and Bluff St. For another thing, the shopping areas around here remind me of growing up in Las Vegas more than 17 years ago.

 Arriving almost immediately at the intersection of Valley View and Sunset, you will encounter the first of these Las Vegan style shopping centers. The buildings are all of an off-white color of stucco, the small pocket of smog seeming to stick to them, discoloring them instantaneously. Across the street is a big, flashy movie theater, along with a used sporting-goods store, a Rib House, Quizno’s, and several other restaurants. On this side of the street are a bank, a liquor store, a gas station/ convenience store, and Zion Golf. And in the most unlikely of spots—right smack dab in between Zion Golf and Sunset Road—and hidden in plain sight is Las Palmeras, a wonderful little mom and pop Latin-food restaurant. 

 I had driven down this road a hundred times and had never noticed that this place even existed. It seemed to have some sort of an invisible forcefield or other barrier that not only made the restaurant fade into the background for the ninety-four percent of the population with white skin, but also prevented the scores of white senior citizens coming out of Zion Golf or the dozens of Hispanic Americans coming out of the restaurant from crossing over into the unreasonably forbidden territory. Were it not for a friend of mine who had told me about it, I wouldn’t be coming here right now. 

 Yet here I was in search of a cuisine that I had sampled but once nearly ten years ago. That one time was enough to know that I would go to great lengths to get my hands on more of the same. As I got out of the car and walked up to the restaurant, I saw in the front window the typical glowing neon signs advertising “Bud Light” and “Corona.” But in addition to these signs, there were other, less-than-typical handwritten signs advertising “vendemos paletas de yogurt hechas en casa a $1.00” (we sell homemade yogurt pops at $1.00) and “Sabados y Domingos hay menudo y sopa de patas” (Saturdays and Sundays there are—basically two soups made out of cow stomach and foot respectively). Well, I had been warned not to expect a typical Americanized Mexican restaurant. 

 I somewhat cautiously proceeded through the door. Almost instantly, I was transported from this bustling little city in southwestern Utah to a little Latin-American cafe. The Ranchera music filtered down from the ceiling with its constant boom boom bass line, reminiscent of the trombone line emanating from the big top circus tent. Several potted plants sat in front of the window, for atmosphere, I guess. To the left was a small mural of a Salvadoran pupusería (a restaurant specializing in pupusas) right alongside a flag from El Salvador. Several other pictures and souvenirs from El Salvador were hung along this wall, which was painted yellow on top and green on the bottom. This Salvadoran decor was to be expected since, according to the business card and yellow page advertisements, this was supposed to be a “Salvadorean & Mexican Restaurant.” 

 What was a little more surprising were the decorations which lined the other wall, with “Guatemala” all over them. While this would mean little to most people, it instantly drew me in, Guatemala being the place where I had first experienced and fallen in love with the delicious fare I was about to sample anew. I took a step forward, and my eyes were instantly drawn to what had to be the most prominent feature in the place, an enormous 3’x 5’ sign painted onto the kitchen hood, hanging in the air over the pony-wall partition dividing the kitchen from the dining area. The sign read: Ya Servimos Tacos Chicos a (We now serve little tacos of) *Cabeza (Head) *Lengua (Tongue) *Chorizo (Sausage) *Cesos (Brains) *Asada (Roast beef) *Chile Verde (Green Chile) *Tripa (Stomach) *Pollo (Chicken) *Adobada (Marinated Pork) 

 While most Americans would not view this sign with a watering mouth, it certainly appealed to the restaurants main base of customers. It was clearly marketed for the Hispanic community since the English translations, which I included above, were entirely lacking in the restaurant itself. And this sign, among other things, was a sure sign that the culinary experience that a person would have here would be the real deal. It called to my own mind images of an old man from San Jose, Villa Nueva pushing a wheelbarrow through the streets in the early morning hours peddling his wares of body parts from a freshly slaughtered cow. In fact, while in Guatemala, more than one person had slipped some cesos or tripa into my meal without telling me, believing it to be a kindness to provide me with what they believed to be the most flavorful of meats. So, while this may have turned my stomach a little more several years ago and it did nothing to whet my appetite now, it did not divert my attention from the food that I had come here after. 

 After standing there for a few minutes looking around, I found a good place to sit (I guess you seat yourself here). I sat down across the room from several tables full of Spanish-speaking gentlemen who couldn’t seem to take their eyes off of me, wondering what in the world this “canche (white guy)” was doing in their restaurant and how he had gotten past the force field. Suddenly, I had become the minority. I looked around a bit self-consciously and tapped my fingers on the table. Above the heads of my fellow diners hung a sign, much less conspicuous than the body parts tacos sign. It was maybe 8”x 10” and read— in English only—, “Warning, driving under the influence of alcohol or drugs is a serious crime that is prosecuted aggressively in Utah.” Well, I thought as I glanced down at the men chugging their Coronas, I guess they’ve done their part here to combat drunk driving. 

 Not long after I had sat down, a middle-aged man came out with a menu. He seemed about as nervous as I felt. He handed me the menu and then returned to the kitchen in silence. When he returned, he carried chips and salsa, a staple at any Mexican restaurant. I ordered right away. “I’ll have an horchata to drink and to eat, two pupusas.” This was the culinary prize that I was seeking. Daniel (No, he didn’t introduce himself. That’s just what I read on his tag.) walked off to the kitchen in the same quiet manner. I munched on my chips and salsa, looking forward to the meal I would be having shortly. 

This wait was a little bit longer than the last. But who’s counting when your meal, including drink, is only costing you five bucks and there are chips and salsa to hold your attention? As I sat there waiting, two women sped their car into the parking lot directly in front of the restaurant. Parking diagonally across two spaces, they came to a halt with a squeal of their tires, and the middle-aged one jumped out, running into the restaurant. Looking over at me, she frantically asked, “Do you know what their shrimp cocktails are like here? Are they like this?” she asked as she made a bowl out of her hands. “It’s just that I’m spoiled. I’ve been to Mexico,” she said. I didn’t have a chance to do anything more than shake my head before Daniel came out of the kitchen. She once again cupped her hands and asked Daniel, “Are they like this or are they in a circle around a cup?” “No,” he answered copying her cupped hands, “They’re like this.” “Good,” she said, and she turned around to wave her companion into the restaurant. There is one thing to be said about international or ethnic foods: if you’ve had the real thing, you won’t settle for a cheap imitation. This woman knew this, and I knew it as well. 

It wasn’t long before Daniel came out of the back with my pupusas and my horchata. I thanked him and then took a long draught of the cold creamy and cinnamon-filled horchata. Tastes like Guatemala, I thought. Then I moved on to the pupusas. I had only sampled these one time, a Salvadoran lady having served them to me in Guatemala, but it was enough to fall in love (with the pupusas, not the lady). And if the horchata had transported me back to Guatemala, the pupusas put me right back in the little tin roofed home of Lupe. The wonderful aroma of fresh masa stuffed with queso fresco came into my nostrils. As I took the first bite, smothered in red sauce and curtido (a pickled cabbage relish), I went from Guatemala straight to heaven. 

 I left that day with a great appreciation for these little mamá and papá shops and a desire to tell everyone with a desire to experience different cultures, or just good food, about it. As I stepped back into the open air, I was somewhat regrettably transported back to St. George, Utah. But now it was a little bit different, and my outlook was a little bit brighter. I left with the knowledge that a little trip to Latin America wasn’t nearly as far away or as expensive as I had previously thought.

Can't Buy Happiness

When I first got married, my wife was still attending BYU. I was working 30 hours a week for a marketing research company, playing househusband (For those nine months, I did most of the housework), reading a lot, and lying around the house a lot. 

I didn’t mind being poor one bit. Just six months out of my Guatemalan mission, I felt like I was living in the lap of luxury in our scantily furnished, one-bedroom apartment. In actuality, our furnishings consisted of a small, beaten-up dining room table, an equally small dresser, a futon (our bed) that I had acquired as a teenager, and a half dozen plastic patio chairs. The bathroom was barely large enough to contain one person, and the kitchen was literally a converted closet, and I’m not referring to a walk-in. Take one step into the kitchen and to the left was the smallest gas oven I have ever seen, to the right was a mini-fridge, and straight ahead were a cabinet and a kitchen sink. You could literally access any location in the kitchen without moving your feet and without bending over. 

Looking back now, I’m sure that we would have been happy in any situation in our newlywed bliss. I’ve frequently reflected on that time since then. We didn’t have a television and still didn’t want one. We didn’t have much of anything, but we did have each other and a complete devotion to one another’s happiness. And we were happy, happier than we had ever been in our lives. These days, we often have our hearts set too much on the things of this world. We are still happy, but any true happiness that we feel doesn’t come from the things that we have but still from one another. It just goes to show that you can’t buy happiness. I’m not saying that money doesn’t make things easier or that the lack thereof doesn’t make things much more difficult. I’m just saying that while it’s necessary to function from day to day, the minute it becomes the goal of our existence, we will no longer be happy.

Where’s the button?

I hate to be the stereotypical father, but I frequently find myself presenting the kids with “when I was a kid” scenarios. I never tell them that I had to walk uphill to and from school in the snow—snow was a novelty to me when I was a kid, and I never lived close enough to a school to walk. My comments are more along the line of “when I was a kid, I had to wash the dishes by hand.” 

I wouldn’t say these things if they weren’t constantly complaining about having to do the simplest of tasks, like loading and unloading the dishwasher. One day, about a year ago, I really began to wonder if the kids were coming to rely on technology a little too much. “Boys, come unload the dishwasher,” I called. This was one of the few responsibilities that our two oldest boys had at the time. As usual, my two oldest did not come right away. The only one that did show up was my third oldest son, who was then three years old. He was ready and willing to help. After intently staring at the dishwasher for a moment, he looked up at me with his face scrunched up and asked, “Where is the unload button?”

A Native Love

My wife is part Native Hawaiian, and she dreams of living in the islands someday. Although I am less optimistic about our chances of doing so, I share the dream with her. Even though I have never been to Hawaii, I’ve fallen in love with its culture and people. And the more I learn of this land of beauty and mystery, the deeper my interest goes. 

 I am a huge fan of mythology, so in the last couple of years, I have made Hawaii’s history and mythology my unofficial emphases in college. I’ve managed to squeeze four projects in four different classes out of my fascination with Polynesia. I wrote an in-depth research paper on why Hawaiian literature should be included in a Multicultural American Literature class, I gave what ended up being a 20-minute presentation on that paper, I wrote a paper for a mythology class comparing Hawaiian mythology to other mythologies, I gave a presentation on Hawaiian mythology in a Public Speaking class, and I built a Hawaiian mythology website for a Writing for Interactive Media class. You could say that I’ve milked the subject for all it’s worth. 

But with each project, my knowledge has grown, and my appreciation has grown for a little-known and lesser-understood subject. This is a part of my children’s heritage that I want them to have, and it’s not widely available for study here on the mainland. One of my goals as a writer is to write a series of novels based on the Polynesian demigod, Maui. He is absolutely the coolest person in Polynesian mythology, and coming from me, that’s saying something. Sometimes referred to as the “Hawaiian Superman,” he has enough myths and legends surrounding him that I should have plenty of material. Yet so far, I haven’t felt inspired enough to write or even outline one of these novels. I have written chapters, but I always get stuck at that point. I can’t help thinking that maybe I just need a few novels under my belt before I can write my Maui novels. I guess all I can do for now is just keep writing—and praying. If you’re interested in learning more about Hawaiian mythology or just checking out my website you can find it at www.wix.com/ronbo10/Hawaiian-Mythology. Thanks for reading.

Good Thing They're Cute

I am a father of five children—four boys and one little girl. They are some of the greatest blessings in my life. They also frequently serve as my greatest trials. I have remarked to my wife on more than one occasion that “it’s a good thing that God made them cute. If an adult did some of the same things that these kids do on a regular basis, they might not live to see another day.” 

These things include poking holes in and drawing on seats with a pen, writing on walls, knocking over the one-day-old DVD player and breaking it, and just keeping the house in a perpetual state of chaos. In perpetrating these offenses, there is no greater culprit than my youngest child. He seems determined to do everything months sooner than his brothers or sisters and to do it just a little bit better. None of his siblings walked until they were at least a year old. He did it at ten months. He wanders around the house everyday like a man on a mission. It almost seems like he has a to-do list: pull the books off of the bookshelf, pull the DVDs off of their rack, pull the laundry out of the baskets, pull the folded laundry off of the couch before someone puts it away, climb on top of the table and do a little dance, etc. 

We have finally resorted to keeping the chairs on their sides (adding to the mess that we call a home) to keep him off of the table. And if we try to get after him after catching him in the act, he just gives us the biggest, cutest smile and looks so proud of his accomplishment that it’s impossible to stay angry. And that is a good thing. I don’t want to be full of anger, so once again, it’s a good thing that God made them cute. 

Here is a short story inspired by my youngest child. 

Journey to the King’s Kitchen 

As I slowly opened my eyes, I saw the gleaming, textured surface above me. I wondered where I was at first but understood quickly enough when I looked around and noticed the white-washed, wooden bars that enclosed me. This couldn’t be happening again. It seemed that some of my more rebellious subjects attempted a coup at least once a day by imprisoning me in this padded cage the moment I drifted off. Luckily for them, I hadn’t yet discovered who the guilty parties were. Luckily for me, I still had several loyal subjects. 

 “Servants! Servants!” I called out to those in whom I entrusted my life. But oh, the incompetence! I had been calling out with my shrillest voice—the one that will instantly make the most laid-back of people grind their teeth and clench their fists— and still, no one came. It seemed impossible to find good help anymore. 

And talk about clueless. Just a few days ago, I had fired one of my servants named Dud, and yet he continued to show up to work every day. Not that showing up meant much to him. He’d leave early in the morning and not return until late afternoon. The other servant was much better. She was at my beck and call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week—except, that is, for those few times when she would go A.W.O.L. and times like this, when she didn’t seem to understand that when I called, I meant, “come now.” 

I have many names, although they seem to refer to me most frequently as chubbers, baby boy, or sweetheart—at least that’s what the princess tells me that they’re saying. I don’t remember much about life before I was crowned king. In fact, the first thing that I remember is my woman servant holding me in her soft, warm arms and giving me a smile that surpassed the warmth of her arms. She had me with that smile. She was my most loyal and trusted servant, and I must admit that I felt a certain affection for her, although I wasn’t above disciplining her when the situation merited—like now. 

“Servants!!” I called again more loudly. The increase in volume usually seemed to do the trick, but this time, it was a no go. Already, some twenty or thirty seconds had passed. I could not and would not tolerate such poor service. I was starting to panic. What if they left me here? What if they were all in on the coup this time? What could I do from this prison? It was time to pull out all the stops. “Servants! Come here now! I can’t wait any longer! Come here, come here, come here!” 

Finally, I could see the portal open and in came . . . no not him! It was one of the little servants, the skinny one. Not that they were little compared to me. But they were only about two or three times my size, unlike the giant ones. The little guys were unpredictable, uncomfortable, and at times, downright insubordinate. On occasion, they were so bad that I preferred Dud to them. 

“No, not you!” I called out. “I want Mum! Get me Mum!” 

The little man came over and started speaking some gibberish that I couldn’t understand. “Itsh okay widow babiesh. Bruddersh gochoo.” 

 I stopped yelling at him for a moment, attempting to decipher this code. All of the servants seemed fluent in this bizarre language. I hadn’t yet cracked it, though when they raised the pitch a couple of octaves, I was able to make out some words. That’s how I learned the names of Dud and Mum. These little guys’ names were a little tougher to grasp, so I just referred to them as Hefty, Flaco, and Smiley. It was a struggle to learn their language, but I persevered. I figured that if I could learn the language, I could spy on them. Then they would stop disobeying me and plotting against me. 

 That wasn’t going to happen today, though. As I was listening intently, Flaco walked over to me, lowered the portcullis of my cell, and picked me up! The audacity! He did not have my permission to do this. In fact, I remember specifically telling him to get me Mum. I mean, I wanted out of there, but not that bad. 

He took off with me on another crazy ride through the castle, whipping around corners and letting my head hang every which way. He descended the stairs at such a rate that I think that I left my stomach behind. I always felt that he was right on the verge of dropping me. Flaco was not the type of guy that you chose to carry your litter. I began to call out again for Mum. But instead of taking me to her, he tried to hand me off to one of the other little guys, Hefty. It was a toss-up which of these two was worse. Hefty didn’t usually pick me up without permission, and he was a little bit sturdier than Flaco. His one downfall was that he rarely came when I called. Sometimes, I’m not really sure why I kept these guys on. I suppose they made me laugh now and again, so I employed them as my jesters. It was when they attempted to fill these other duties that they really caused me grief. 

I calmed down for a minute, attempting to come up with a plan. I would just tell this guy what to do, but I swear sometimes that he didn’t understand my language even though I had declared it the official language of the kingdom shortly after my ascension. I sometimes wished that these people would just go back to whatever country they came from. But then who would serve me? 

I finally came up with a plan. I began to grunt and strain, and it wasn’t long before the magic happened. That would do it. These little guys just weren’t qualified for this royal duty. They would have to get me Mum now. I began to holler at him again in an attempt to speed up the process. “Hey clown! Get Mum now!” 

He put me down and walked out of the room. Finally, we were getting somewhere. He had scarcely left the room though when Dud walked through the door. He came over to me and picked me up. I must admit that this was slightly better. I usually found it soothing when he bounced me on his knee, but in my current predicament, the bouncing presented a real problem. The fluid mass that now filled my breeches began to ooze into every crack and crevice as it burned my sensitive, regal skin, and what’s worse, with each bounce, the load threatened to burst forth from its containment. “Open your nose and smell the vinegar, you fool!” I yelled at him. “Whatsumatta baby boy?” he asked. He grabbed my noble plug and attempted to shove it into my mouth, but I was in no mood for pacifying right now. He tried to give me one of my favorite games, which, under normal circumstances, I find very stimulating. Couldn’t he understand what was going on? There was only one thing that could take my mind off of my present discomfort, and let me tell you that this guy was just not equipped for it. There was just one more thing for me to try. I had to get through to him in his language. So I let out with a string of “Mum Mum Mum Mum” amid my cries of discomfort. 

His pinched brow finally relaxed, and his eyes opened wide in understanding. It was as if the light bulb had just come on. “Oooh,” he said. “I thinkee wantsyu sweetie!” Then I was lifted up and carried down the corridor into the great hall. And there, seated on the throne, was the object of my desire. I must admit that I lost control a bit at this point. I let Mum know of my mistreatment, I told her what I needed, and once again, I fired Dud. 

I looked on and screamed as Mum appeared to chew Dud out. She changed my imperial breeches. I felt much better, having clean pants once again, but it was too little, too late. I let her have it with another round of screeching. The decibels increased as I really lost it. She knew what I wanted, yet here I was waiting still. I needed my fix and I needed it now. Finally, all my chastising seemed to pay off. I melted into her warm arms as she satisfied my most primal need, drowning out all of my sorrows. What was I upset about in the first place?

Something Lighter

I hope to publish something funny or at least more entertaining along with some of my more serious thoughts. I don't want to scare anyone away with some of the heavier postings. My goal is to entertain, and in the process, I hope to educate, motivate, and inspire. So even though nobody (beside my wife and sister) appears to be reading this blog yet, I will post another one of my shorter pieces here today. As with most of my humorous creations, this one requires a disclaimer. I have nothing against police officers. I have had friends who were police officers, and my own mother served on the Arizona Highway Patrol for a time in her life. Police officers provide an invaluable service, one for which I am extremely grateful. However, I think that some police officers and departments lose touch with what their real priorities are,and they frequently forget just who it is that gives them their authority. I hope you enjoy this, all two of you. 

Bad Boys (H.C.P.D. training manual) 

 So you want to be a cop and live the daring, dangerous life that you see on such shows as CSI, Law and Order, or even Hawaii Five-O and Dragnet? If you think you have the guts, pride, and lust for power that it takes, then the Hickville City Police Department is the place for you! On the H.C.P.D. (as we like to call it on the force), you will get a chance to apprehend perpetrators, arrest criminals, and otherwise stop the bad guys. Through our patented practice of traffic patrolling and the setting of speed traps, you will be able to keep dangerous criminals literally off our streets. You will have many tools at your disposal in the H.C.P.D. including the following: 

1. Handgun: 9 mm., .44 magnum, .357, or .45 (depending on which firearm you wish to purchase for yourself) 

2. Baton (for poking, prodding, and/or beating) 

3. Flashlight (this is great for shining into the perp.’s eyes, or as a backup weapon if your first two fail) 4. Car, truck, or if you’re really lucky, you can re-enact your favorite episode of C.H.I.P.S. on one of our brand-new police motorcycles. Most vehicles come complete with video camera, flashing lights, siren, cage and push bumper (it’s so much fun to use this, by the way). 

5. Two-way radio (for getting the low down on the suspects) 

6. Uniform and badge (note: While these two items might seem like the least helpful in your arsenal, they must not be underestimated. They are the very items that give you the power to exercise nearly unlimited dominating authority over your suspects and anyone else you wish to show who is boss.) 

With these tools on your side, you cannot fail. As you begin your life on the beat, and throughout your career as a law enforcement officer on the H.C.P.D., you will encounter many situations for which you must prepare yourself beforehand. To improve your chances for success, we will give you several of these scenarios along with their best possible solution. 

Exhibit A- The broken taillight. This is one of those marvelous situations that will allow you to circumvent those pesky laws that limit our control over normal law-abiding citizens. When you encounter this situation, you must immediately pull the suspect over. You never know when you might pull over a thief, mass murderer, or leader of a polygamous sect wanted for performing marriages of underage girls. You may be tempted to show the person leniency if it turns out that they are not a murderer, but you must never, I repeat NEVER let the suspect go with anything less than a written warning or fix-it ticket. They must be made to feel the inconvenience caused by their daring to drive in public with such a violation. 

Exhibit B- The broken headlight. While at first glance you might think that this situation is much the same as the last, you would be very mistaken. The first situation is conceivably (though probably not) purely accidental. A person might drive around with a taillight out for some time without noticing. A malfunctioning headlight, on the other hand, is very hard for the suspect to miss when driving around on the dark streets of Hickville. Therefore, you must never believe them when they say that they were unaware of the situation. Help them to understand what a dirtbag you see them as, but do so subtly, in the tone of your voice and the positioning of your flashlight. You must punish them to the extent of the law. Although the law normally only allows the above- mentioned fix-it ticket, you may be able to provoke them into assaulting an officer (either physically or verbally) through your use of the previously mentioned “dirtbag” techniques. In the best-case scenario, you might even find drugs on their person or in their car. 

Exhibit C- The midnight stop sign run. Many people might be under the impression that, just because it’s the middle of the night or they are on a deserted stretch of road, it is okay to not come to a complete stop at a stop sign. You and I know that this is wrong, and we must help them to see the error of their ways. This lesson can be taught by using the “dirtbag” techniques. Another possible solution is achieved through what we refer to as the “scumball” technique. This is done by first provoking the perp. to raise their voice at you. Once this is accomplished, ask them to exit the vehicle. If they exit either too slowly or too quickly you are then justified in using either physical force or (if you really want to show them who’s boss) your taser. Remember that, one way or another, all suspects must acknowledge your power and authority over them. 

Exhibit D- The speedster. This is the person that likes to go fast anywhere and everywhere, all of the time. You must make them aware that only you have the authority to drive around at these extreme velocities on public roads. If they seem repentant, this is one time in which you may show them that H.C.P.D. officers are not only just but merciful too, if and when the suspect is sufficiently deferential. If they were going five miles-per-hour over the posted speed limit, write them a ticket for four. If they were going ten m.p.h. over, then write it for five, and so on. Note that it is not mandatory that you show them mercy. It is at your sole discretion as to whether or not they are worthy of this kindness. One more note about exhibits C and D: In order to increase the number of offenders caught and tickets written (and therefore the department’s revenue) you will need to set up “speed traps” or exhibit C’s equivalent “sign traps.” To do this, you need only park your car in an inconspicuous location where these laws are frequently violated and wait. This technique is also great for slipping in an unscheduled coffee or doughnut break. 

Exhibit E- The neighborhood roundup. This is another great way to increase the department’s revenue. On occasion (when you aren’t busy with a speed trap), you may want to drive through a residential neighborhood. This is a wonderful way to just keep the criminals on their toes. Take advantage of this time to look for vehicles that are parked on the wrong side of the street, in front of a driveway, too close to a stop sign, etc. It is often amusing to turn this into a game to see how many tickets you can write in one neighborhood. You are only limited by your imagination. 

Exhibit F- The off-duty call in. This is the last of the great revenue generators. Imagine it’s your day off. You are driving around town when you come across a vehicle that is in violation of one of the above-mentioned laws, or perhaps they have expired registration. You may be tempted to say, “it’s not my problem. I’m off duty right now. Let Bill deal with it.” Wrong! While you are not expected to write the tickets yourself, you should always take the initiative to call in any of these offenses. Not only will this increase the number of criminals apprehended, but the officer on duty will also have the added pressure of reporting back to you on what they did about it. This will greatly reduce the temptation to let someone go with just a warning. Remember, it is up to you to pay your salary. 

Exhibit G- Trailer parks. While it is very uncommon in Hickville City, you must remember that you are not solely a traffic cop, and you will be called on occasion to deal with an actual crime. If this ever happens to you, DO NOT PANIC! Remain calm, and remember that this is why you joined the force in the first place. It is a wonderful opportunity to practice what you’ve learned on “Cops.” You can take statements, resolve disturbances, and make arrests. If it’s a really good crime scene, you might even get the opportunity to play C.S.I. (e.g. Dust for fingerprints, draw a cool chalk line around the victim, take pictures, and collect samples). Remember to take full advantage of this situation, since you don’t know when the next one will come along. You now have the tools you need to serve proudly as an officer. Once again, we welcome you to the H.C.P.D. We hope that you can serve long and faithfully. May you always enjoy dominat . . . I mean serving the people of Hickville.

Misery's Companions

"Misery loves company." It may have become a cliché, but for good reason, it’s true. I’ve seen it occur over and over in my life as some of my loved ones have gone astray and then dragged other loved ones with them. They don’t seem satisfied until not a single person is left basking in the glow of God’s love. 

I’m not sure they realize the damage that they inflict on dragging one person down. They hurt that person, of course. But they also hurt themselves. Their misery does not lessen. In fact, their actions have the opposite effect. Misery is only magnified by its companions. But its appetite for company only increases. 

Misery is not logical. It’s like a black hole that constantly sucks matter into itself, only adding to its voracious appetite with each particle. The damage is not even contained to just the two people involved. Those that watch their friends make bad choices suffer along with them. In fact, the bystander’s anguish is often greater. The ones that make the bad decisions often become numb to any pain associated with their decisions. 

Joy loves company as well. The difference is that someone that feels great joy will never be able to (and would never try to) force that joy upon another. They can only invite them to taste the sweetness of the fruit. And that joy is often accompanied by indescribable suffering caused by the choices of others. The more joy and love one feels, the more capable that person becomes of feeling this pain. So is it worth it? Absolutely.

Writing Update/ Public Schools Essay

I spent at least an hour writing and developing a story yesterday. I can't post it here yet since it is far from complete. It might actually end up turning into a novella (or at least a very long story). I will post something here though that I wrote a couple of years ago. Some of you have already seen this. Just a little disclaimer lest anyone take offense—I am a product of the public school system, so this is obviously an exaggeration. Even though my own children are home schooled, and I believe that one-on-one teaching from an educated and loving parent provides a superior education, I don't believe that it is for everyone, and I do believe that some of the best and the brightest minds come out of the public school system. That being said, I hope you enjoy this. 

In Defence of Publik Skools 

In resent decades there has been a lot of debate about the quality of ejucation that our children are recieving in publik skools. Many peeple think that the solooshun is to send there children to a private skool or even (heven forbid) to teach them theirselves at home. I think that they are wrong about this and they’re are many things that show that the publik ejucashun sistem is still number won. Probly the best argument for pubik skools is the crazy hi number of peeple that still send there kids their. Their’s something like 50 millyun kids going to public skools versis only like 7 millyun in ether private skools or homeskools (Ruesch). Its obviously much more popular, so it must be beter, rite? In addishun to this, a lot more kids grajuate frum publik skools then the alternutiv. Last year, their were something like 3 million high school graduates frum publik skools, to only like 500,000 frum private and home-based skools (Ruesch). Once agane, bigger numbers equal better skools. Aint I rite? I got won more statistic for you. More kids go on to college from public schools. Last yeer their were somewhere in the visinaty of 2 milion publik skool grajuates that went on to colluj to somewere around 450,000 private and home-skooled kids that went on to colluj (Ruesch). That’s some big diferensus. As if all of this weren’t enuf, we’ve gotta consider the danjerus effects of private and home skooling. In many of these institooshuns, they are learning the kids very danjerus relijus beliefs. This can lead to even mor divercity in the American populashun and terrorist activity. We must, at all costs, standardize what kids learn so they don’t grow up to be danjers to sosiety and thereselves. In kontrast to the danjerus relijus beliefs tot in private and home skools, there are many things that kids can learn in public skools that isn’t even part of the curriculum. They get to be exposed to things that will help them to machure and grow up much more quick. We as parents don’t even hafta teach um many of these things sinse they get so much exposure in skool. They will see and learn about lots and lots of things like these: 1. Violence 3. Drugs, alcohol, and tobacco 2. Seks 4. Cheeting and disonesty 5. unrespect for uthority figures. 6. soshil organizashun (i.e, bullys on top, wimps on the bottom) 8. importuns of pleezing yor frends and looking kool to them (lets fase it, its much mor importunt then doing wat you think is rite) With exposure to such things that are treshured so much that we see them on the t.v. 24/7, our kids will be well prepared to go out into the world. An other thing that’s grate about public skools is there overall effishunsy. They have one teacher teaching like thirty or forty kids. In private skools, they can only handle like fifteen or maybe twenty and in home skools, they have sumtimes as little as one student. What a waste of manpower! They would get fired for such ineffishunsy in public skools. And even with all them students in public skool classrooms, they don’t leave no one behind. To me, that is an amazing feet. If won of the students is falling behind, the hole class stays behind until he or she can cach up. What a noble idea. Now, I feel that Ive made a pretty dang good argument already, but if you need more convinsing, just look at me. I was ejucated in public skools, and you gotta admit that I’m doin pretty dang good. They learned me all three of the R’s in skool. Reading, riting, and . . . um, well I don’t remember what the other one is, but it must not be to important. Anyway, iregardless of wat u think, that’s all I got to say. Works Sited Ruesch, Ronny. “Out of Thin Air.” (2008) Ruesch Publishing. Hurricane, UT.

House of Miracles

I have been working at Wal-Mart in Hurricane, Utah for over a year now. I find this job somewhat less than fulfilling. It’s just a temporary measure to help me get through college. But for the last six weeks, I had a reason to go to work. We were doing the annual Children’s Miracle Network drive to raise money for Primary Children’s hospital. At first, it was slightly difficult to ask every customer if they “wanted to donate to Primary Children’s Hospital,” but it quickly became easy. I knew that it was for a good cause. Every dollar that was donated will go to helping care for the children whose families can’t afford their care. So I did my best to make a difference in the world even while I was doing a less-than-ideal job. 

What I didn’t expect was the overwhelming generosity of the people in this community, a community that has been especially hard hit by the current woes of the economy. I only had to ask, and so many people gave. Many gave not once, or twice, but nearly every time they went shopping. In the process of doing my job, I witnessed a miracle. So many that were struggling to make ends meet themselves gave to help those that were in a more difficult situation than themselves. 

I asked everyone, and it was the most unlikely of candidates that would often give the most. One big, strong man in his late thirties said, “How can I fail to give when I spent my first four years there?” Another lady told me that her teenage son (who was right there with her) had almost died as a baby. He was losing weight quickly, and none of the doctors she went to could tell her why. When his body couldn’t hold out any longer, he ended up at Primary Children’s Hospital. There, it was an intern and not one of the doctors that immediately knew what was wrong. It seems that the intern had spent some time in a border state where this disease was very common among the immigrants. He had cow’s milk anemia. His mother told me that all of her children would stop eating when they were teething, so their diet during that time consisted solely of cow’s milk, which caused her son’s red-blood-cell count to fall into the dangerously low levels. 

It was truly a miracle that she ran into the one person that could tell her what was wrong with her son, and that person was at Primary Children’s Hospital, a place where the miraculous is apparently an everyday occurrence. My initial goal was to raise $500 (a full 10% of the store’s goal). By the end, thanks to the generosity of many people, I was able to collect $750. One coworker even beat me by about $50. We only had to ask. “Ask and ye shall receive.” I guess that is especially pertinent when you’re not asking for yourself.

Fight for the Write

I feel compelled to write—about me, about my family, about a fictional character, about anything really. I've felt this way since my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Shellabarger, got me writing in a journal. But the compulsion is matched by an opposition that is frequently as powerful as or more powerful than my drive. It pushes me to watch television or play a game, anything but write. Throughout my life, I would let months pass by without writing anything. Then I would feel extremely guilty, and I would spend hours trying (and failing) to catch up on all that had happened in my life. I’ve missed recording the births of my babies and the passing of loved ones. It even took me several months to write anything about my own marriage. This urge has only increased in recent years. 

I finally returned to school ten years after graduating from high school. I had finally figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up. The only job I had always wished I could do was not a comedian, or a firefighter, or an oral surgeon (all of these were on my “what I want to be when I grow up” list at one point), but a writer. The Lord finally compelled me to stop wearing out my body to make a living and use the best asset with which He blessed me—my mind. That has not made things any easier for me. Just one semester away from graduating with a degree in professional and technical writing, I still find it extremely difficult not to slip into the ease of following the opposition. I sit down to write and end up playing a game instead. I know that if I am to make a living in writing, I have to establish a routine of writing, yet I continue to slack. 

And I love writing. I love putting my thoughts on paper and discovering, in the process, what my thoughts are. I love the final product, and I especially love the enjoyment that others get out of the final product. I have spent most of my thirty-one years writing for an audience of one. It’s time to get my work out there and to give myself, in the process, someone else to whom I will be accountable. 

Apparently, I am not sufficiently motivating to myself. But every time I have had a deadline, every time I’ve had an assignment due for school, I’ve buckled down and gotten it done. This summer, I’ve set some pretty lofty goals for myself. I’ve decided to spend at least an hour a day preparing to take the GRE (graduate college entrance exam). I’ve decided to spend half an hour to an hour every day exercising and getting my body back in shape, and I’ve decided to spend an hour every day writing (a minimum of thirty pages of fiction). I set these goals about a month ago, and I’ve done pretty well with the first two. But, at least with the exercising goal, I had accountability. I posted my goal on facebook on the first day, and I’ve posted an update at the beginning of each week. I haven’t missed a single day this summer because I can’t go to my friends and loved ones and tell them that I gave up. So now I have posted my other goals as well, and whether anyone reads this or not, it is here for anyone to read. I will feel accountable if I fail to post. There is no looking back now.