Some heroes kneel

By Lance Earl

Recently, my wife and I traveled to Boise to watch four of our grandchildren play soccer. It was a perfect, beautiful Saturday. We sat together as a family enjoying cool drinks, laughs and good conversation. Occasionally, a grandson or granddaughter did something so awesome, so tremendous, so unbelievable that everything else was forgotten while we clapped, and cheered, and reveled in the moment.

As the day went on and my sunburn deepened, we finally arrived at a game that was to be the highlight of the day. Have you ever watched 4-year-old soccer? These tiny athletes are inspiring, cute as a button, and hilarious. These games remind me of a swarm of bees. When the ball moves, the little bees shift, glide and follow in a giant chaotic swarm. One moment in the game was Wheaties strong, Sports Illustrated intense, and Far Side funny. One young fellow broke away and crossed the boundary at about midfield. He ran as fast as those tiny legs could carry him, driving the ball in a beeline, across the park and away from the playing field. His compass may be a little off, but his technique was flawless.

Just before the game started, I noticed the coach of the opposing team drop to a knee and call “power pellets.” As his team of four pint-sized boys gathered around, I watched as he drew a small bag of multi-colored candies from his pocket. I moved in close so I could hear and smiled as this coach, in all seriousness, reminded his team that power pellets only work if each boy selects a different color. When each boy had eaten, he said, “Can you feel it? Can you feel the power?” Through serious eyes, four boys looked at their coach as four small heads nodded in the affirmative. They felt the power and believed because a man they trusted told them it was so. The little team gave a raucous cheer and the coach announced, “The Sharks are ready to attack!”

I watched as the game progressed. I took note of how this coach treated these boys. I noticed that he never talked down, but instead, always dropped to a knee so that he could look into their eyes and they into his. Sometimes you know something special is happening even when there are no words to describe… the heart knows what the heart knows.

On every team, there seems to be one child that just can’t quite get it, can’t quite do it. So it was with this team. One little guy struggled. My heart softened a little as I watched this coach from time to time, drop to a knee and offer the young boy the encouragement, support and love that he needed. I wondered if the encouragement was taking, but I didn’t wonder long. During a break in the game, the team was in a tight huddle while the coach discussed top secret team strategies with his team. I watched as this young boy wrapped a tiny arm around his coach’s head that was prickly because of the close cropped hair and wet and sticky because of the hot afternoon sun. None of that mattered because this child loved a coach who first loved him.

I only had a moment to visit with the coach after the game. I found his motives enlightening. He is not there to turn out soccer players. He is there to turn out children who are motivated and excited about doing something. What they do is less important than that they do—drama, swimming, soccer or otherwise does not matter. If this soccer season can help them gain the confidence and desire to try again, that is everything.

Heroes are born on battlefields, but not all. They are born in classrooms, athletic fields, band rooms, behind lawn mowers, over broken bikes and kitchen tables, and in any place and in every way the human mind can imagine. Some heroes give all, some heroes stand tall, and some heroes kneel.

For me, at least, the hero of the hour is a good man from Boise by the name of Ty Arlint.

Lance Earl of Rockland is a firearms instructor who focuses on advanced tactical and defensive shooting. Learn more at www.dallypost.com.

It’s time to vacuum the old sod house

By Mike Murphy

Before I forget, could someone please teach June bugs how to read a calendar.

Spring cleaning time is always a hassle, but imagine what the early settlers of the West had to deal with.  In a good year they were dirt farmers, but when the weather was hot and dry, they had to switch to dust farming, then came along a monsoon and they were mud farmers out of necessity.  And can you imagine the frustration when the man came home after a hard day of harvesting clods only to discover that his wife had accidently sucked up the entire sod house with a Super-Vac?

Yes, it’s springtime in the Rockies.  Graduates are popping up like dandelions and have just about as good a chance of finding a decent job—decent job meaning a job not in Idaho, the minimum-wage capital of America only outdone in cheapness by The Republic of Vanuatu, a South Pacific island where the current exchange rate is two giant cockroaches for one mummified marmot—what a rip-off!

One can’t help but wonder about the basic common sense of graduates, sitting for hours, suffocating in long hot  robes, wearing goofy hats they normally would not be caught dead in, and suffering through boring speeches by obscure professors who only emerge from their offices one day out of the school year.  Wouldn’t it be much more logical for the students to simply pick up their diplomas at the unemployment office while waiting in line?

Another thought that I have as we approach the end of the school year is some concern that I feel for homeschooled students.  First of all, prom must be really low-key.  Furthermore, if I am homeschooled, how depressing would it be if there was a parent-teacher conference, and my parents didn’t show up?      In a discipline matter, if I am being homeschooled and receive out-of-school suspension, do I get sent to an actual school to serve my punishment?   Lastly, if I am homeschooled, wouldn’t it be a bummer to celebrate the last day of school before summer vacation, only to wake up the next morning and discover that I am still in school?!   These are some real concerns.

We all know that springtime is the season for romance.  A time when young men’s minds turn to thoughts of hooking up on Craigslist, and young women completely ignore whatever guy they are with by constantly checking their cell phone.  Nothing more romantic than couples holding hands, strolling through fields of wildflowers, sneezing and eyes watering as their nostrils suck in ragweed pollen by the bucket.

Mother Nature is showing other signs of spring in the air.  Early in the morning I can hear the robins  tweeting each other which made me think that Tweety Bird was actually way ahead of his (her? its?) time and was a pioneer in social media.

On a more serious note, there is ample evidence of global warming this spring what with the early spate of wild fires around the country.  Closer to home, due to the early heat I have noticed a hummingbird in my own backyard wearing a tiny dew rag, or do-rag, or doo rag, or scooby dooby doo rag.  Birds have historically been harbingers of climate change, so when one sees geese migrating south only as far as Bismarck, North Dakota, one can’t help but wonder.

Recently I saw a picture in a nature magazine that clearly showed penguins which had exchanged their tuxedos for black tank tops and white Bermuda shorts.  Even more alarming is a report that, due to an ice shortage, Eskimos must now construct their igloos out of large white Legos.

Bears that  hibernated in hammocks this past winter due to warmer temperatures are now trying to wake up after sleeping for months, so don’t go hiking with steaming cups of Starbucks in your hand.  And don’t be surprised to see sluggish bears gulping down five-gallon jugs of 5-Hour Energy Drink.  Speaking of which, I was wondering if I just take a little sip can I get five minutes of energy.  Say, for example, I want to run a mile instead of all the way to Salt Lake City.

I have heard rumors that some of the bears are in a particularly bad mood this spring because they have been informed that, due to sequestration, the number of campers they can eat this summer has been reduced.

As the hot summer progresses, don’t be surprised to hear about folks who live in Las Vegas booking vacations in Saudi Arabia so they can cool off.

Finally, speaking of Las Vegas, you would think that Senator Mike Crapo would know that what’s invested in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

Mike Murphy lives in Pocatello. He teaches high school English and is a member of the adjunct faculty at Idaho State University. He plans to retire as soon as he pays off his 1994 Dodge van.

Jesse and Rob

By Martin Hackworth

The photo above my byline this week is not me. It is a photo of my friend, Jesse Stocker. Jesse is nine years old and the son of Jimmy Stocker, who was killed a few weeks ago while competing in the Mexican 1000. Right now Jesse is growing up without two things that every kid in Idaho should have: a dad and a motorcycle. There’s not much that anyone can do about the recent passing of his father, but the cure for the other part of all this is within reach. I sat down and talked with Jesse for about an hour after the service for his dad (which he attended in MX attire – including boots). His family recently sold his only bike (one that he’d outgrown) but he wants to ride. He’s worried, however, about his mom being able to afford a bike, things being what they are. Well we are going to fix that. My buddy Jimmy may not be working out in the garage anymore, but we can sure put a bike in there for his boy.

We’ve started a drive to get a dirt bike for Jesse. The plan is to deliver to the lad a tricked out, big-wheel CRF150R. This bike is a close replica of the modded CRF450X his dad rode when he raced. My friends at KLIM are crafting some custom clothes for him. Several local shops are contributing to the effort as well. If all goes to plan, sometime in early June we are going to get his mom to bring him down to the desert that his dad loved, surprise him with the bike, then take him riding. Jesse’s dad had a lot of friends and now they are his friends. The bike won’t make up for growing up without a dad, no matter how cool it is, but it’s all pretty good in its own right.

There is a fund to purchase a bike for Jesse. It is an account under my name (Martin Hackworth) at Westmark Credit Union. The name of the specific account is the Jesse Stocker Fund, and the account number is 2408431-02. You can use your electronic bill pay or bank funds transfer or just send a check to Westmark Credit Union, 333 West Alameda Road, P.O. Box 2366, Pocatello, ID 83206-2366 (208-233-0725). You may also use PAYPAL by clicking the button on the MotorcycleJazz.com website and letting me know that it’s for Jesse instead of a donation to MotorcycleJazz. Whatever way you donate, please let me know that you did so that I can verify that it went to the right place. Be sure to specify Jesse Stocker Fund on any donation. As of this writing we’ve raised more than $1500 (in about 24 hours) and that’s pretty awesome. Any money left over after the purchase of the bike and gear will be given to the Stocker family.

It’s been a tough week. On the heels of Jimmy’s passing, just when I didn’t need any more bad news, came the call about my buddy Rob Wiscombe, who passed last week while attending his daughter’s wedding in Mexico. That, friends, is Shakespearean. The immensity of it all is still sinking in. I can barely believe it.

Rob Wiscombe was a consummate professional in a business where that is a very difficult thing to be. In its time, the Continental Bistro, where Rob was a principal, was not only the best restaurant in Pocatello but one of the best anywhere. Back when I was helping to produce a lot of local concerts, I’d take clients to the Bistro after shows. They were invariably impressed, and the ambiance at the Bistro usually went a long way toward making up for the difference between what the artist contracted for with the promoter and what was waiting when they arrived here. Rob did things the right way in a place and occupation where that is distressingly uncommon. He ran great restaurants, treated everyone around him extremely well, and was absolutely good for his word – a total standup guy. Almost all of my favorite places to eat here locally are in some way connected with Rob. Brother, I’m going to miss you a lot.

Along the line of mourning and loss, to you dingbats out there who pollute my answering machine and mailbox every time I mention religion in some way that you don’t like, process this – any higher power who actively screws with little kids, and with families in the middle of the most joyous of celebrations, as weird and perverse tests of faith and fidelity, is undeserving of anything other than dread. I think you ought to hope, a lot, that I am right about all of this and that you are not. Keep those cards and letters coming though. The goats like ‘em.

Award-winning columnist Martin Hackworth of Pocatello is a physicist and the editor of MotorcycleJazz.com.

Home matters to Pocatello’s central neighborhoods

By Mark Dahlquist

For 20 years, Pocatello Neighborhood Housing Services, which I lead, has been revitalizing the city’s central neighborhoods, knitting them together by building “in-fill” homes that replace vacant lots or run-down properties and add new life to those communities. We’ve built more than 110 homes in that time, and each one underscores that home matters to communities as well as individual residents. That’s an important lesson that underpins our work and has also led to a new national movement called Home Matters™, which our organization has helped launch.

Here in the city, we see first-hand the impact that every in-fill home has on its neighborhood. Our homes address the needs of families living on incomes of no more than 80% of the median, and they offer to those families an attractive setting in which to live and to the neighborhoods a higher quality of social engagement.

For the residents, each home typically provides 950 square feet of living space and a 950-square-foot unfinished basement. The basement offers the potential for expansion and the stability that comes from the capacity to meet long-term needs.

For the neighborhood, each home removes a vacant or unsightly property – and the problems associated with it – and fills that gap with people who bring new vitality, concern and commitment to the area. Not incidentally, our homes typically have a front porch facing the street, adding charm while encouraging the social interaction that makes a neighborhood strong. That interaction includes watching the street and what goes on, greeting neighbors as they go about their lives, and making it easy to stop by and share a concern.

That’s why, to commemorate our 20th anniversary, we’re working with the City of Pocatello to build another symbol of community – a 700-square-foot covered pavilion in the southwest corner of Caldwell Park in one of our targeted central neighborhoods. The pavilion will provide a much-needed place for community members to gather and hold events. It will add, just as the front porches do, a physical attribute that both conveys and enhances community. Its triangular shape – with three pillars supporting the roof – will add another element of community reflection.

The pillars represent three core elements of our community that have historically been crucial to the work of Pocatello Neighborhood Housing Services: residents, business, and government. The pavilion has been designed by Garry Ratzlaff, with much technical assistance coming from Booth Architecture, and a subcommittee of our organization to blend into the park and the surrounding neighborhood. The pillars, for example, will be made of material that closely resembles the color of the bricks at the nearby Presbyterian Church and LDS Church.

The design will allow for multiple uses, such as barbeques, family reunions, concerts, and neighborhood picnics. The pavilion will be equipped with power outlets, lighting and water, making it both a beautiful and efficient structure that adds to the aesthetics of the area.

The recognition that home matters to communities – and to their attributes, like the pavilion – is at the heart of the new movement Home Matters. That’s why I was so pleased that Pocatello Neighborhood Housing Services could be in the forefront of launching the movement, which aims to unite America around the essential role that Home plays as the bedrock for thriving lives, communities, and a stronger nation.

Participating in the launch of Home Matters (www.HomeMattersAmerica.com), which took place in March in Washington, DC, were leaders of nearly 200 housing and community development organizations from across the nation, as well as U.S. Secretary of Housing and Urban Development Shaun Donovan and a bipartisan group of Members of Congress. The launch was spearheaded by the National NeighborWorks® Association – on whose Board of Directors I sit – with crucial support from Citi Community Development and Wells Fargo. The participating Members of Congress represented a broad political spectrum and demonstrated that home matters regardless of your political beliefs.

Home matters to Pocatello’s central neighborhoods, just as it does to neighborhoods across the nation. A kick-off event and free breakfast at Caldwell Park will take place on Saturday, May 18, from 9:00 to 11:00 am, where residents will get a first-hand look at the plans for the pavilion, which will cost $70,000 to build. Commitments for half that amount are already in hand. The other half will be raised, if we remember two things: first, that amenities like the pavilion are a reflection of the fact that home matters, collecting the power of individual homes and redistributing it for all to see; and, second, that the power of home is the core element of community revitalization. How we harness and reflect that power is the key to the future revitalization of Pocatello’s central neighborhoods.

Mark Dahlquist is the executive director of Pocatello Neighborhood Housing Services Inc.

Mom

By Lance Earl

I, Lance, having been born of an amazing mother, therefore, I was taught somewhat in the realities of courage, and of love, of strength, of fortitude, sacrifice and service.

Mom has a gift for writing, and that gift has inspired and sustained me over many a rocky road. With this writing, I hope to tell her story and share her writing in a way that illustrates what motherhood, in God’s grand design, is meant to be.

Mom often referred to her life as a pretty garden. Of her early married life she wrote, “We were two young kids that had a lifetime ahead of us. Our life was a rose garden and we basked in its beauty.”

And then came the kids. We were a bunch of rowdy roughhouse boys who served up equal amounts of joy and pain for a mother who only deserved our best. She wrote the following about being a mother: “On December 11th, Lance was born. Oh, shout praises, weep gratitude, and burst my buttons! I was the mother of the most beautiful baby in the world! There is no joy, no love, no closeness with husband or God like that which comes with a baby…with EACH baby. And I was blessed with that wonderful experience then, and seven times more…each time equally marvelous, equally miraculous. Oh thank you, God! Thank you! Thank you! Eight times over…Thank you!”

While Mom sacrificed everything for her sons. Dad gave as little as possible. Booze, tobacco and other women often called him away. Birthdays, holidays, and most days were times when he chose a life outside of his home and away from his family. While he played, her life was an endless chain of stitches, stomach pumps, snake bite, broken bones and a zillion butterfly bandages. I think sometimes she wondered if she was running a family or a boys home. There was the time when Bret and I fell from a moving car on the highway, darn those suicide doors. I remember the day that the two of us were practicing our trick riding skills. The trick turned to a trample when I ran him over with my horse. I came home one day with my front teeth knocked out. The dentist put them back and fixed me up. The next day, Bret knocked them out again. Colby took a .22 ricochet in the eye. Darren froze squirrels and snakes amongst the burger and chuck in the freezer. Then, there was the day that Thad and Blake decided to stage a gunfight to scare the neighbors. How could they have known that homemade 20 gauge blanks can hospitalize. All in all, not their finest hour.

Mom’s greatest trial came in the summer of the fire. A grease fire in the kitchen spilled over four year old Blake’s head and back. Of this time she wrote: “He ran out the door with flames licking up his back and lapping all over his head! In sheer terror, I ran to rescue him, not realizing that four little boys were slipping and sliding through a wall of flames in the kitchen. Fortunately, the fire burned itself out and they had only minor blisters, but my little Blake…Oh, dear Father, my little Blake!…”

That summer was most difficult. As he lay in his sterile tent, I ached to hold him to my heart, but all I could do was put my sterilized hand inside the tent and caress the spots that were not burned. He spent the entire summer in the hospital where he underwent a most painful treatment. Daily his burns were scrubbed and then medicine applied. It stung and burned. Blake would jump and scream ’til the perspiration beads lined his lips. Then he would fall on his face in an exhausted heap. After that…skin graft surgeries. Then it wasn’t only his burn that hurt, but also his bottom or legs where the doctors had stolen his skin to graft his burn.

Through it all, Dad was conspicuously absent. The guys and the booze and the women called him louder than we did. Finally, he pushed back and pushed us away. Of that day she wrote: “…he did. Damn him, he did! Oh, Larry, where have all the flowers gone? …I don’t have enough tears to water this drought. Weep all you want… beg like a baby. Your garden is dead.”

Terribly sad things happen to families whose homes are broken. Children’s hearts are forever broken too. No one will ever know the grief I feel for that. But, like it or not and ready or not, it set us on a path…a path we really didn’t want to travel…a path that would forever effect our lives…but, travel we must, and travel we did.

The next years were so hard for our family but for her most of all. The sons she loved were angry and betrayed and we acted out. These years were filled with drugs and immorality, crime and jail, a loss of faith and a falling from the light. Her heart broke as she watched the inertia of our lives take each son and eventually place all but one behind bars. Even her happy days were tainted by the shadow of despair. Like the day she went to the mail box and found two letters. One from the Prophet and one from the County Jail. These were a mission call for one son and an arrest notice for another.

These were times of no money, and little hope. With hair pins and tape, she fixed our bikes. She taught us to play ball, and build pine wood derby cars. She taught us of God and of duty and she probably thought she was failing. And she prayed. When her sons needed to learn hard lessons, she let us pay the price. At other times, she protected her cubs like a mother bear. Through it all she put herself through school and became a teacher so that she could provide for us. But most of all, she buoyed us up with a positive attitude, a sense of humor, her crazy version of disco dancing, and she loved us… she saved us, each and every one.

The last words in her biography are a perfect example of her lighter side and her amazing love: “When I’m lyin’ in my grave, and all my bones are rotten, read this history then I’ll know that I am not forgotten. ‘cuz… My soul will be in heaven, just a-smilin’ down at you. You’ll not be forgotten, I’ll still be lovin’ you.”

To the best mother a boy could hope for, Happy Mothers Day Mom. And when Fathers Day comes, I will say Happy Fathers Day Mom, your the best dad this boy ever had.

Lance Earl of Rockland is a firearms trainer specializing in advanced defensive training. Complete details are available at www.dallypost.com.

Perfect game is perfectly boring

By Mike Murphy

Ah, you can tell baseball season is well under way by the crack of the bat and the splat of tobacco juice on the dugout floor.

This past week a sports network has been honoring past perfect games thrown by pitchers.  A perfect game is one in which one team gets no hits, no walks, no base runners, etc.—in other words, nothing happens.  Worse yet, it takes about 90 minutes for that nothing to happen.  Meanwhile, a fan sits wondering why he spent $40 for a ticket, $10 for a beer, and $5 to purchase a hot dog containing a wienie the size of a green bean and for which he could not get any condiments because by the time he finds the dispensers which are located in the restroom some kid has squirted out all the ketchup trying to draw a funny face on the table.

Some baseball experts refer to the perfect game as “a defensive gem” while some fans refer to it as “an offensive dud.”  At the conclusion of a perfect game, the winning pitcher is mobbed by his teammates in celebration whereas the losing team’s players should be mobbed and held hostage while their fans demand a refund because they just witnessed a bunch of guys who earned about $10,000 per inning and couldn’t get one hit!

Of course I played in lots of perfect games during my little league baseball career since we were a bunch of dweebs who were perfectly awful and only joined the team to get a “Burzinsky’s Meat Market” tee shirt.  We were so inept that if we accidently won a game our coach would ask us afterwards, “What went wrong?”

It got so bad that we had to find a new sponsor every summer.  Believe it or not, during one of our frequent blowout losses, our Danish Dairy sponsor was so embarrassed he walked onto the field and made us hand over our tee shirts during the fourth inning, so we finished the game as “skins.”  It was nice having a sponsor like Danish Dairy because if we won they gave us cold bottles of chocolate milk.  But a sponsor like Ajax Flea Collars wasn’t so great, although I must admit I personally experienced less itching by mid-season.

I wasn’t such a great player myself.  Whenever I was preparing to bat, my teammate ahead of me was intentionally walked every time.  I’m sure that today, this would be considered some form of psychological bullying.  While most players warmed up by taking practice swings, I was down on my knees praying, burning incense, and filling out my will.

When batting, I was so afraid of the ball that I would wear a catcher’s mask, chest protector, and shin guards.  All I could think about was, “Why does this guy want to kill me?”  My coach would always give me the same signal: he would shake his head side-to-side and clutch his throat which I eventually figured out meant “Don’t choke.”  But it didn’t matter because I would bunt no matter the situation.

I once tried pitching.  However I did have some control issues.  My last season, I set a league record for hit batsmen—in the on-deck circle!  Over time I did develop a decent fastball and somewhat of a curve ball, but there was one pitch that I could never master—the strike.

Over the years, I played about every position, possibly because I was so versatile or, possibly, because I was lousy at all of them.  The one spot I never tried was catcher.  Our team’s catcher was so mean that he had to wear his catcher’s mask 24/7, sort of like a dog muzzle.  Back then you could always spot the boy who played little league catcher because he was the only kid on the team with a beard.

Kids playing little league ball today show up for games sucking on fancy water bottles filled with an assortment of expensive energy drinks.  Their parents sit in the stands with coolers full of high-fiber, gluten-free, antioxidant packed snacks like soy crisps, raw asparagus with hummus dip, and bamboo shoots.  At our games, we just hoped that the park’s water fountain was working, and even then we first had to scoop out nasty stuff that the ‘greasers’ and ’hoods’ had hacked into it.

We played our ball games in a rough neighborhood with a very high crime rate.  In fact, if during a game someone “stole a base” we would have a delay until it could be replaced.  If a fan would inadvertently shout “Kill the ump!” we would all hit the deck expecting a shot to ring out any second.

So, fans, root, root, root for the home team—unless they lose a perfect game.

Mike Murphy lives in Pocatello. He teaches high school English and is a member of the adjunct faculty at Idaho State University. He plans to retire as soon as he pays off his 1994 Dodge van.

A bicycle for a little girl

By Daris Howard

Six-year-old Emily showed up at our house because she was hungry and didn’t know where else to go. Her step father had told her to always be out of the house before daylight and to never come home before dark. From then on, through that summer, she showed up for breakfast by 6:30, and was waiting when Henton, the young man I worked with, and I came home for lunch or dinner. I always made lots of food so she would have plenty.
I was 20 years old, and Emily became like a little sister. On my off days she would help me work on my bicycle. She learned what each wrench was called in my small tool set, and would happily hand it to me when I asked.
One morning she came dragging a little bicycle into the driveway. “A friend of mine found this bike and said I could have it,” she said. “Can you help me fix it?”
I knew that more likely her friend had stolen it, and, finding it didn’t work, knew he couldn’t sell it. It was kind of an ugly bike, with some painted bears on it, but to Emily it was the most beautiful bike in the world.
I checked it out. “Emily,” I said, “this bike is going to need two new tubes, one new tire tread, and some new pedals.” I walked to the other side, “It looks like it could use a new seat, and…”
I stopped as I caught sight of Emily and saw tears forming in her eyes. “It would cost too *#&@ much to fix, huh?” she asked.
I looked at this sweet, rough little girl. She had little to look forward to in life. I couldn’t be the one to disappoint her.
“You really like this bike, don’t you?” I asked.
She nodded. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t cost that much,” I lied. “It will just take some time.”
Her tears turned to a smile as she talked about how exciting it would be to have her own bike. Henton and I took her with us, and I carried the bike to a little bike shop. When Mr. Johnson, the store owner, priced all the parts I would need, I knew it was going to really be hard on my budget. Feeding Emily had more than doubled my food bill.
“I can buy half of them now, and the other half next month,” I told him. “Which ones are most important?”
Mr. Johnson, who was old enough to be Emily’s grandfather, paused and looked at her. “Aren’t you the little girl who is always in here looking at bikes?” Emily nodded. “Is this going to be your bike?” Again she nodded. He smiled and turned to me, “You know, the shop ain’t that busy right now. You just pay for half of them, I’ll donate the other half, and I’ll fix it up for free.”
I nodded my agreement, and Emily ran to him and gave him a big hug. The old man smiled. “I’d say a hug is darned good pay.”
I paid my part, and a few days later we took Emily to the store to pick up her bike. Her happiness when she rode it was pay enough for all of us. As we left the store, Emily turned to me. “Is Mr. Johnson one of the angels you told me about that God has here that helps people?”
I nodded. “I’m sure he is, Emily. There are lots of them all around us.”
Emily rode her bike everywhere after that, and everyone loved her and watched out for her. One Saturday, as she ate dinner with us, she was unusually quiet. “What’s the matter, Emily?” I asked.
“You go to church every Sunday and learn about God, don’t you?” she asked. I nodded, so she continued. “Do you think God would let me come to church, too?”
“Of course He would,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to become an angel and help people, too,” she replied
“You don’t have to go to church to be an angel or to help people,” I said.
Emily said she still wanted to go, so I turned to Henton. “I think it’s time we go to 423 Elm Street and have a visit with Emily’s step dad.”

Daris Howard, award-winning syndicated columnist, playwright and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com. Howard lives in the Rexburg area and is a mathematics professor at Brigham Young University-Idaho.

Jimmy Stocker – Father, Husband, Racer.

By Martin Hackworth

QTL is the amount of quality time that you have left to do what you want to do with those you care most about. I’ve been on a QTL tear lately – traveling with my family, riding motorcycles and reacquainting myself with my collection of guitars. Heck – I even just mounted a rigid fork on my 22-year old mountain bike so that I can start pedaling with my friends. The thing about QTL is the “L” part of it. There is only so much. Last week, on a dusty road in the middle of the Baja Peninsula, my friend Jimmy Stocker ran out of QTL. Jimmy was a good guy, and I and many others are going to miss him a lot.

I met Jimmy through MotorcycleJazz.com. He popped up a few years ago on the Tour of Idaho discussion board. Jimmy was a straight-shooting freethinker and I couldn’t help but like him based on the really funny stuff he posted on our forum. Years of bitter experience have made me wary of putting too much stock into what a person is like just based on what they put up on some website (even one as morally edifying as our own). I was a bit reluctant when Jimmy, who lived up north in the panhandle but had family in Boise, wanted to hook up to ride over in Grandview. Nonetheless, I agreed to meet Jimmy one Sunday in the desert south of Boise. I was late arriving, and it took a while to find Jimmy, but when he rode up and took his helmet off to greet me, flashing his trademark man ain’t this the shazz grin, I knew that he was going to be a permanent feature in our orbit. Jimmy was one of those kind of guys you just know rocks after about two minutes.

Jimmy was all about three things, his family (wife Dawna and young son Jesse), motorcycles and anything else that could be manipulated to produce fun. There is a YouTube video of Jimmy walking into his shop and finding Jesse working on a motorcycle, cranking up the radio, and the two of them putting on an air guitar show (to Mississippi Queen, no less) with Dawna as the audience. I used to watch this video and laugh out loud. Now it’s like a dagger in the heart, understanding what Jesse and Dawna must be going through knowing that Jimmy isn’t coming through that door again.
Though Jimmy had been into motorcycles and hot rods forever, he started racing, in earnest, just last year. I was with him at his first desert race last spring and he was smitten. Jimmy used to chat me up on Facebook really late at night and I sprayed my computer screen with beverage more than once over the funny stuff that he’d come up with on the fly. He was just full of enthusiasm. He’d been to Baja and Vegas to Reno and many other events supporting other racers, but was eager to start racing on his own. He once told me that he’d visited Baja a long time ago and fallen under the spell of desert. Not everyone gets this. But if you do, you know what it means.

Jimmy became the fifth person to completely finish the Tour of Idaho last August – finishing the 1400-mile, seven day epic with a separated shoulder (day two) and a bike that was beyond thrashed. He was out the same week as me and when we occasionally crossed paths I was amazed that either he or his bike was still capable of forward motion. If you look up tough in the dictionary, it’s Jimmy waving at you.

Jimmy really wanted to compete in Baja, and after the Tour of Idaho he spent months preparing for the 2013 Mexican 1000. I have never seen anyone more pumped for an event. He had a support team of friends lined up, and Dawna was going with him for his Baja racing debut. The rest of us were monitoring his SPOT beacon and the daily NORRA (National Off Road Racing Association) updates. Last Monday the emergency beacon message went out that you don’t want to get. It was my wife’s birthday, and I took her out to dinner like everything was good, but inside I was dreading what might be waiting when I got home. I got the news in the early hours of the next day. Collision with a trophy truck. Jimmy was gone.

Now is the time that I’m supposed to say that at least Jimmy passed on doing what he loved. But that doesn’t do a thing for Jesse and Dawna. So I’ll say, instead, Jesse – you are far better off having had Jimmy for your dad for part of your life than you would have been with most anyone else for a full term. Dawna, I’m just really sorry. That’s all I’ve got.

In all hairball endeavors the highs are really high and the lows are really low. The latter is right now. So long, friend.

For more go to http://www.motorcyclejazz.com/Jimmy_Stocker.htm

Award-winning columnist Martin Hackworth of Pocatello is a physicist and the editor of MotorcycleJazz.com.

Quality Time Left

By Martin Hackworth

One day you are going to be dead a long time. – The Bruise Brothers.

My son, JR, is a NFL football fanatic. We catch a lot of football games at home and on the radio on our way to and from weekends in the hills during NFL season. This fall we are planning on going to see the 49′ers play a home game during their last season in Candlestick park. At this very moment JR’s in the other room watching the NFL draft, comparing it with his own mock draft. That’s dedication.

One of the football related shows that we like to watch is A Football Life. Recently we saw an episode featuring former NFL coach Jimmy Johnson. I like Jimmy Johnson a lot more after watching his profile on this program. Not because of his coaching success with the Cowboys, but because of how and why he left the game. One day it occurred to Johnson that he’d missed a lot of time with his wife and sons – time that, in the end, Superbowl wins don’t do a thing to make up for. Johnson said that one day it occurred to him that his “quality time left” with his family was only going to grow shorter with the passing of time. That’s when he made the call to walk away from the game and make the most of his QTL. That’s the ticket alright. I’d definitely throw back a few beers with Johnson – whom I now consider to be a genuine sage.

Not everyone is as fortunate as a former NFL coach in terms of calling their own shots, but we all have the ability to wring out what QTL we can manage. Although Johnson articulated the concept much better that I, something akin to QTL has been on my mind ever since JR was born 10 years ago. At some point I began to care a lot more about spending quality time with my family and friends than politics, advancement, jihad or making a boatload of money. My family and I are surrounded by the best people that good wishes are capable of conjuring. I intend to make the most out of our situation for as long as it lasts. It may not be Ozzie and Harriet, but I’ll take it.

QTL is the reason that JR and I spend weekends out in the desert in our toy hauler. It’s the reason that we are saving to go see the 49′ers in October. It’s the reason for Mondays with the boys and Thai food at the SandTrap. It’s the reason for weekly date night with my beautiful wife. It’s the reason that Journal Editor Ian Fennell and I get together Wednesdays to discuss the state of the world. It’s the reason for shooting the breeze at the Redwing store and for Thursday afternoon dirt bike rides. It’s the reason for morning coffee at Mocha Madness and taking the long way home after work on the Ducati. It’s the reason for reading a great book or newspaper article, and relaxing on the porch with music.

QTL involves making the most of what you have and of being aware of your good fortune. It also means thinking about all of the things that got you were you are today. Along that line, I recently gathered the entire family to read and discuss a remarkable piece, “A Cowards Way,” written by fellow Journal columnist Lance Earl. This article may be found at http://www.lanceearl.com/le/index.php . Mr. Earl has produced one of the finest columns I have ever read with this wonderfully wrought, very personal testimonial on confession and redemption. Crafted from plain words and simple but expressive language, Mr. Earl’s column is, in my opinion, everything that good writing is all about. I commend him for it. It was a great use of our QTL.

QTL also dictates things that you ignore (as you can) because they are a waste of time. The maladroit punditry, for instance, of a certain partisan wag who seems bent because you will not friend them on Facebook or respond to their weird and inappropriate emails sent to your work address (the claim that someone who is not a friend thinks of you every time they ride a dirt bike is more than vaguely disturbing). To avoid wasting QTL one would be better off dismissing this as the obsessive behavior of a nut. Yet that would be tantamount to implying that this specious, illogical, and misinformed columnist and financial services provider is equally inept and tenuous at everything else as well. And that, friends, is bad karma. Come to think of it though, the last time that I saw this certain financial/history/political science genius, he was was on the phone with his wife trying to find out how to retrieve keys locked in the car. It wasn’t even a very good car. Hell, I’d have just broken a window.

Nah, better to let it go. QTL.

Award-winning columnist Martin Hackworth of Pocatello is a physicist and the editor of MotorcycleJazz.com.

I have seen the light

By Martin Hackworth

Recently I had an epiphany. Just like Jake Blues in the Triple Rock Church I saw the light. Jesus H. Tap Dancing Christ, I saw the light. After decades of deriding boutique motorcycles as slow, ill-handling, expensive garage furniture, I finally found one that all of the reason and experience in the world could not resist. We are talking genuine love at first sight here. Just like that moment you finally swore off high-maintenance hotties for the last time, and the most beautiful woman you ever saw came strolling by in a black dress with a 10,000-watt smile. Ohh baby was I smitten. That’s how I became the owner of a black and white, 90-degree desmodue, Marelli-injected, trellis framed, Marchesini-shod, dry-clutch Monster S2R1000. Yep – that’s how I became a Ducatista.  Sorry if you thought that this was a tease for another well-known big twin, but even I have my standards.
I’ve been riding motorcycles for a while and have sampled offerings from BMW, Honda, Yamaha, KTM, Husaberg, Husqvarna, Buell, Harley Davidson, Kawasaki, Ducati, Suzuki, Triumph, Aprilia, MV Agusta, Moto Guzzi and more. I always favored Japanese fours and parallel twins for their no-nonsense engineering and bulletproof reliability. In terms of pure engineering prowess, reliability and bang for the buck, it’s a Honda-Yamaha world. Years ago, during a brief flirtation with road racing I rode the wheels off a Yamaha FZR400. The abuse that little bike took, pinging the rev-limiter in 120-degree temps, gearbox rowed like a galley slave, was nothing short of amazing. Even though the bodywork is now toast and the rear sub-frame is bent like a pretzel (as the result of an unfortunate racing get off) the Fizzer still starts right up. I get a little misty every time I walk by it in the shop.
For many years I was a member of the Willow Springs Motorcycle Club, in Rosamond CA. Once during a race weekend we decided to take off early on Saturday and head into the hills near the track for a street bike ride. A buddy of mine had a beautiful Ducati 851 – the first modern Ducati Superbike. He rode my Honda 954 and I rode his Duc up Spud Canyon and through the hills above Santa Clarita and Aqua Dulce. The 851 was a revelation. I had never considered how a motorcycle that wasn’t particularly fast and lacked laser-like focus on racing performance (by modern standards) could be a thing of beauty. I remember coming down out of the mountains right around sunset that evening and stopping beside the road in the high desert on Avenue D in Lancaster to watch the last of the sun. I think that the seeds of my eventual swoon were sewn at that moment.
Later I worked for a motorcycle magazine in Los Angeles and rode wonderful exotic motorcycles in various shootouts and performance evaluations. Hard corps stuff. I remember trying to sufficiently warm the rear tire of a Yamaha R1 for a quarter-mile run during a shootout at the now defunct Los Angeles County Raceway one night as snow flurries fell. Though my bias toward the performance end of the motorcycling spectrum grew during this period, mostly as the result of a lot of free track time, I never forgot how great it was flog that old-school, completely relaxed 851 for a day. It was the one rebellious atom vibrating furiously in the back of my brain the whole of the time.
With time things change. I am now old and creaky enough that rock hard seats, rearsets that push my knees up into my chin and really low clip on handlebars just won’t do – no matter how much horsepower they are attached to. So while casting about for an old guy bike, I had to divorce myself from my beloved high-strung Japanese thoroughbreds and consider the rest of the two-wheeled spectrum. I briefly considered the new Honda VFR, a classic over the hill racer ride, but it had AARP written all over it. On that account, my understanding is that getting junk mail from AARP doesn’t make you old, but opening it does.
So while casting about on eBay for a street bike, something with superbike bars, a comfy seat, reasonable ergonomics and lots of torque, I came across a beautiful Monster S2R1000 located just a few hundred miles away – and the bids for it were all pretty low. A week later she was mine, and it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. The fact that the Duc is a bit down on horsepower doesn’t mean a damn thing to me because it’s an absolute beauty to behold and to ride. Besides, I’m not a racer anymore – a fact that I’m finally down with. And if I’d have know that earlier that beauty is as cool as speed, it might not have taken so long.

Award-winning columnist Martin Hackworth of Pocatello is a physicist and the editor of MotorcycleJazz.com.