Beaver Mountain

Last weekend I joined Merritt and his friend Daryl on a cross-country skiing trip on Beaver Mountain. Actually, we were guiding a couple of scout troops who had signed up for the overnight trip, which covered about three miles backcountry to a rustic lodge, followed by a backcountry tour in the morning and a return trip after Saturday's lunch.

I'd never been to this part of the state, and found the mountain incredibly beautiful. There was about a foot of new snow, and more fell softly as we skied in Friday night. Come Saturday the sky was clear and blue, and the sun sparkled off the fresh blanket of snow in the meadows. The snow hung heavily on the spruce branches, which made our meanderings through the woods quiet and serene.

This is a beautiful world that we live in, although it is easy to miss so much of it for lack of effort. I count as one of the great blessings of my life the appreciation and enjoyment of the wilderness.

No More Peas

When I was a child, we would make up our own games. I spent hundreds of hours rolling dice and keeping statistics for a baseball card game I invented. And my friend Randy and I had a daily ritual of setting up action figures and plastic army men at each end of our hallway, then rolling balls down the wooden floor to see who could wipe out the other side's army first. And every spring we would get out our marbles and make rings in the dirt and compete in games of our invention, along the way winning and losing fortunes measured in Steelies, Cats-eyes and Bumblebees.

We made a lot of our own stuff back then, like horns out of cardboard tubes, waxed paper and rubber bands. And along the way we learned about the physics of our creations, as Christmas wrapping rolls were too big, toilet paper rolls too small (and revolting) but paper towel rolls just right for a fine baritone riff.

The most memorable toy of my early childhood was a wooden rifle that my foster father, Ross Toomer, had cut on his table saw, sanded down, and painted black and silver. It was an individualized plaything, customized for my size, age and tastes, and thus it became a crucial part of my identity. Many nefarious characters met their fate by that gun, as I crouched behind the peonies in my backyard, sneaking up on the enemies that were alarmingly prevalent in my suburban Bloomington neighborhood.

But as we got older, imaginary battles were not nearly as exciting as those fought with functional weapons and live ammunition. And thus our highest level of ingenuity was reserved for our personal armory, which would reflect upon the bearer as not only a matter of pride, but also, at times, one of personal preservation. Most of us had clothespin guns that when strung with a fat rubber band would inflict just enough pain from medium range to make things interesting, particularly with the feared neck-hit. We also had sling shots, which were difficult to make well, but when properly crafted and with the right piece of innertube and a smooth rock could wound a bird or kill a mouse with a lucky shot; or with a small green apple could strike a friend with sufficient force to set off a battle of raging intensity. We looked forward to Christmas for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that my mother traditionally put out a nut bowl, which provided perfectly sized ammunition for a well-designed slingshot.

But of all the childhood ordnance, the most common was the pea shooter, which was, I suppose, the equivalent of the Old West sidearm. You could buy a pea shooter at any store for 25 cents, although occasionially you'd run across a fat straw that worked about as well. Pea shooters were extremely accurate, had impressive range, were noiseless and easy to conceal: Basically, the perfect elementary school accessory. You could shoot tiny paper balls, or when feeling nasty, spitwads. But as might be expected, the most effective ammo was peas. In those days, every mom made pea soup and every kitchen had dried peas. We'd put a handful in our corduroys before school and be ready for a full-scale battle at recess. But for the more intrepid boys there was an almost overwhelming temptation for occasional sniper action during class, where a surprise shot from an unseen corner of the room could, with the right combination of accuracy and lung-power, cause even the biggest bully to holler out in pain in the middle of one of Miss Mlodzik's endless soliloquys on fractions.

I haven't seen a pea shooter for years. I suppose they were done in by modern gadgets with LCD screens and microchips, but maybe more so by a dearth of dried peas, which have been replaced in most kitchens by sanitized versions of pea soup packaged in a cup, to be filled with water and heated in a microwave; a dietary shift which has resulted in tragic and unintended consequences for today's young boys.

Leaving Layla

Angelica formally moved to Phoenix this week, where Ryan has been awaiting her presence. They closed on their house and now begin a new phase of their lives which I expect will be very good for them. The immediate tragedy to all of this was, of course, that she took Layla with her. We had all come to depend on the presence of that delightful child. Every morning she and I would spend time together, smiling and laughing, and I would read her books and bounce her on my knee and fly her through the air and it would be such a lovely way to start my day that I never wanted to go to work. And of course Mother could hardly stay away from her when she was at home. She would forgo her studies to sing songs and change her diaper and I suppose Layla cost her at least 2/10ths on her GPA, which was more than a fair trade.

She is a sweet and darling child and a pleasure to be around. Babies can be nice that way (although you probably couldn't convince Merritt and Stacie of that right now), sharing a magic innocence with those around them, spreading a peaceful testimony that there are corners in the world where smiles can warm the soul and coos melt even the hardest heart.

We will see Layla again before long, but I doubt that it will ever be the same as those weeks when we shared a house and blended our routines into an extended family. This has happened for thousands of years, and still does in most countries. But ours is a transient society and like I did a generation ago we are often inclined to allow our careers to dictate our geography, rather than the other way around.

I am by no means qualified to judge these events, and even if I were, I couldn't tell right from wrong. But I know this, that we will miss Layla (and her parents) when she is gone, but that the reunions will be all the sweeter. And life will go on and relationships will find their way into something of value. Time alone will do her business and things won't stay the same. Memories will continue to be made no matter what, but let me take the time occasionally to cherish those that are now so pleasantly fresh upon my mind, and look forward to the time when I will see my granddaughter again.

All in the Family

We had the whole family together this weekend. Zach and Julie were here from Los Angeles. Ryan came up from Phoenix. Merritt and Stacie stuck around for the weekend. Courtney came by twice (once with Truman) and Brandon was here for a few hours on Saturday.

We didn't do much. Ate too much. Played a lot of games. Watched movies. Talked. We also took family pictures on Saturday. Really nothing eventful. But it was fun (for me, at least) and satisfying (again, for me). I love all of them, but as important, I like every one. When we were together there was no contention. We are an opinionated, outgoing and competitive lot, but somehow we manage to overlook each other's flaws for the sake of the family organism as a whole. We are bees in a hive, buzzing around rather sweetly, our stingers tucked away safely.

There are two grandchildren now, and things seem to revolve around them. Certainly it limits our range of motion in activities. But they are harbingers of a new era, a signal that the old is getting old, and the new will soon be arriving en masse, and that in the not-too-distant future power will shift to those in the middle. I don't mind any of this, and am happy to be both an active participant in this ancient play, as well as a bemused spectator at the proceedings (sometimes with eyes closed, but listening intently to the quiet rustling of the winds of change).

It is gratifying to look over my creations and see that they are good, and understand a little about the eternities. And sometimes I ache inside, and sometimes I am warmed from within, both natural results of the heart turning toward the children. Some day I will walk into the sunset. I would like to depart both satisfied and not, but with wisdom in my satchel, waving quietly to my posterity.

Super Bowl 2007

That Great American Institution, the Super Bowl, took place tonight. Like many Americans (and millions of others around the world) we gathered with friends and family and watched the game and the commercials and ate more food than any of us needed and generally had a good time.

I am a football fan and have always enjoyed the game. But more than that, I appreciate the Super Bowl as a magnetic entertainment event, gathering humans into groups like so many metal shavings, some on one side and some polar opposites. We clump together into huddled masses, fans and neophytes alike, attracted by this unseen social force. And if we're fan enough to care, then all is better when our team wins, yet all is eventually forgiven when we lose. In any event, the stakes--being emotionally invested in the result--improves the game.

And after it is done, we go to work and talk about the game and the commercials and who we were with and we relive our social experience and are glad that football was invented and that we are Americans and have TV's.

No public benefit emerges from this game--but there is social utility nonetheless, and gatherings like this can be good for the soul, if a bit hard on the waistline. Colts 29, Bears 17.

Prospice

I'm in a poetry groove lately. The other night again I finished work in the wee hours and sat down in the big chair with every intention of falling asleep quickly. But I picked up a book of poetry and before long I was furiously memorizing Prospice, by Robert Browning. An hour later I finally drifted to sleep, my lips unintelligibly repeating the stanzas. The next day I kept repeating it, until it was mine--a companion for life.


Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat,
the mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form
Yet the strong man must go.
For the journey is done, and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight 'ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter; so,--one fight more,
The best and the last.
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,
And bade me slip past.
No! Let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,
The heroes of old.
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave;
The black minute's at end,
And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend, shall change,
Shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
'O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!

Poetry is so personal and so subjective. "Prospice" is to look forward. Browning wrote this poem a few months after the death of his dearly beloved Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And yes, he is looking forward to seeing her again. In many ways, that is his reward. But it's important to him that he die well--with courage and honor. Maybe to deserve to be in her presence. But I think, perhaps, more because it is part of his being a real man.

Does he fear Death? Well, yes. Like a man would fear a harsh storm in the night, like he would fear an enemy sentinel, like a warrior fears battle, or a condemned man the firing squad. But like a good sailor, we will head out into the storm, wtih the fog in his throat and the mist in his face; he will walk past the sentinel; he will fight the last battle and face his executioners without a blindfold.

He does this because he has overcome his fear of death. That is duty and honor--to discipline yourself to do what is right no matter the challenge. He has put it in perspective. If this world is a test, then surely this is the final passage, and to live life well is to die well too. Is it painful? Well, yes, but instead of running from the pain, embrace it heroically. Death is the price we pay for life, and until we meet our death, we are in arrears, and in fact we will never clear the balance without an honorable death, that is, the measure of our lives will be found wanting.

And then, as the light expires, everything changes. Our existence is transformed from temporal travails to a celestial existence, the apex of which is to be reunited with the love of his earthly life. How beautifully, emotionally, hopefully and lovingly he describes this passage, where Elizabeth waits on the other side. Read it deliberately:

And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave
Shal dwindle ... shall blend ... shall change ...
Shall become first a peace out of pain ...

Then a light ...

Then thy breast ...

'O thy soul of my soul ... I shall see thee again!
And with God be the rest.


The last line is interesting.

I think--that now we will spend the rest of eternity together with God.
But maybe--I have passed my earthly test well, and judgment is in God's hands?
I have been given my reward (to be with my love), and let God turn his attention to everyone else?

Enough rambling--really steam-of-consciousness and excruciatingly long for a blog. Learning a poem is a beautiful thing.

Leaving Las Vegas

Having spent most of the week in Las Vegas at the Consumer Electronics Show, I am most happy to be leaving. Las Vegas is a metaphor for the very worst of our society, the lowest of our inclinations, and the basest misuse of our achievements.

For one thing, I am always taken aback by the unabashed marketing of sex, which is invasively pervasive. It is as if the rules of common decency have been proudly suspended. Near-naked women adorn the sides of building and busses, each sex show flaunting itself as grander than the rest, each "gentlemen's club" promising a more fulfilling night of fantasy. And alas, the entire service industry seems to have been caught up in the spirit of promiscuity, the restaurants and casinos filled with silicone-enhanced women eager to be tipped by half-drunk revellers with the fantasy of fulfillment in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other.

And of course there is the gambling, which is where the real money is lost and made (by the gamblers and the casinos, respectively). If P.T. Barnum was right and there is a sucker born every minute, then that explains the steady stream of hopefuls sitting thoughtfully at the blackjack tables and mindlessly at the slots. Pushed to explain, they would grudgingly acknowledge that the odds are stacked against them. Even those with skill and smarts would admit that for all their wiles at best they improve their chances to something less than 50-50. But in the name of entertainment, there are always those ready to spend their hard-earned money for the outrageous possibility that in the final tally they will beat the house.

But perhaps the most repulsive aspect to Sin City is the thin veneer of false glamour that has been laquered on in thick, gaudy brushstrokes to every element of the experience. It is the artistic equivalent of painting by numbers; the aesthetic sensibility of velvet likenesses of Elvis and wild horses. Walking through the hallways of even the most prestigious hotels I am embarassed by the clumsy monuments to cheap decadence made by crafty artisans at union wages.

So my favorite time in Las Vegas is the moment I say good-bye, turning in my hotel room keycard with the scantily-clad dancer and putting behind me the images of tawdry hucksters counting their money under the neon lights of Gomorrah.

On Coleridge

I've been working very long hours lately, and have found relaxation in reading poetry. A few days ago at 3 a.m. I started reading Coleridge, thinking it would probably put me to sleep. Instead, for the first time in my life I read his most famous work: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and found it extraordinary in its compelling story line, lyrical verse and haunting imagery. I highly recommend it.

In the process, I learned that the poem has been the source for a number of commonplace expressions, including "an albatross around the neck," the line: "Water, water all around, nor but a drop to drink" (often misquoted), and the phrase: "a sadder but wiser man." Most surprising, I learned that the same poetic structure and cadence was, quite appropriately, used in the theme song of Gilligan's Island.

One stanza stood out, and I memorized it:

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk with fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

This was the dawn of romantic poetry, and he has certainly added a lilting flourish to an experience I suspect we all have known. He was also an opium addict, and perhaps that illuminates the stanza more insightfully.

I was also amused by this little epigram from Coleridge:

Sir I admit your general rule
That every poet is a fool.
But you yourself may serve to show it
That every fool is not a poet.

He would have scored big in a poetry slam.

Absolutions and Resolutions

We have come not to praise last year's resolutions, but to bury them. Their spirits have left their bodies and we will see them later on, perhaps on Judgment Day. It is now time to turn our attention to matters of relevance: today, and tomorrow.

I like goals, and I like resolutions. But they are mates of different sorts. Resolutions are completely within my control. Resolutions, whether great or small, are individual battles: My Will vs. The Seven Deadly Sins, or sometimes opponents with a less distinguished pedigree. It was not difficult to quit playing Free Cell a few years ago, and I dispatched that minor villain in short order, but Gluttony is less like a weekend scrimmage and more of an ongoing rivalry. We are scheduled to meet again this afternoon, his bowl of Chocolate Fudge Swirl met by my determined resolve not to replace all of my pairs of pants in 2007.

Goals are less tangible things, involving a combination of effort, ability, and generally at least a small helping of good fortune. I have a goal to publish a work of fiction. Whether this is possible I do not know, for I have not mustered the effort necessary to succeed. When I do, then I will look to tag-team with Lady Luck. (Seneca said "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.")

I will set my goals this week, as I have for the past 20 years. And I will resolve to do a few things as well. And every so often I will sneak a peek at both lists, to see who is ahead, me or my opponent.

Nary Christmas

It wasn't a very satisfying Christmas. Work was a major distraction. We didn't have a very spiritual Christmas Eve. And our family struggled to gather together at one time. But I think I could have gotten over all of those things were it not for the one missing ingredient: I didn't serve. Oh, we tried to do a few things. I bought a couple of gifts, but never really got into it. Lanee and I made almond bark, and the family visited some families to pass out the candy and do a little presentation. I bought a recent widow a book of poetry. And that was it. No real sacrifice. No sustained effort. Not much interest in brightening lives. And a Christmas virtually lost.

It is easy to decry the destructive forces of commercialism in Christmas. It's obvious that we have completely lost the meanings of the symbols we take from the attic every December to decorate our houses. And it's all too convenient to complain about the hustle and bustle every year, and Christmas sneaking up on us, like it does to everyone, every year.

It's easy to sing the carols without being touched. To wrap the gifts as a matter of course. To substitute funny Christmas movies for thoughtful ones.

But the one act that overpowers them all is when we give of ourselves for the sake of others; when our hearts are filled with love and compassion, and our hands are busy trying to make a difference. That is Christmas pure and undefiled, and without it nothing else matters.

It would be painful to have to wait until next year for redemption. Fortunately, only the holiday is confined to December. With that thought, I'm hanging a lovely Christmas ornament in my closet that I will see every morning and every night, to remind me that giving is also a beautiful thing, and that the spirit of Christmas can be all year long, even without the bells and tinsel.

Cha-Ching!

After a month of soliciting and selling, convincing and cajoling, presenting and pleading, and grunting and groveling, we put our financing in place for our retail expansion. Money was wired to us yeterday, and we wired it out to display manufacturers, who wired it to China, who probably started parsing it out to the millions of workers who make stuff over there, to the tune of a few dollars a day.

I suppose I should celebrate, but I never do. It is both a blessing and curse. I breathe deeply for a few minutes, smile about a milestone reached, then immediately begin worrying about what needs to be done next to ward off disaster. I've never been able to enjoy any success for very long. But the bitterness of my failures is a taste that lingers on forever. As a result, I'm not driven by the trappings of success, but rather by the fear of failure.

We're all driven by different things. I've grown comfortable with my motivations and doubt that they will change. I wear them like an old pair of shoes--scuffed tops and worn heels, but they are comfortable and fit me well.

Merritt James

Our second grandchild announced himself to the world this morning. Mom, Sam and I were in the waiting room while Merritt and Stacie finished a long night of labor. He is a handsome little guy (6 lbs. 14 oz.) with lots of dark hair. They named him Merritt James, but plan to call him James.

There is something very mellowing about the birth of a new child--at least, once the birth is concluded! Everyone is softened. We dim the lights and speak in hushed tones. And we gently pass the child from person to person, and stand in line to get our touch of love, as if something magical will rub off on us.

Merritt and Stacie will be wonderful parents and I look forward to watching young James explore this brave new world, and the strange creatures in it. Yesterday I only had one grandchild, who I love with all my heart. But today I have a second who I love just as much. That's the thing about love--you can give all you want without running out.

Christmas Ditty

Last night we visited families in our neighborhood with this message:

'Twas a week before Christmas
And all through our Stake
We thought we'd find out
Just who was awake.

Perhaps you were nestled
All snug in your bed;
And the sound of the doorbell
Brought nothing but dread.

And when you discretely
Glanced from the curtain
And saw it was us,
Well you groaned, I am certain.

Maybe our visit here
Should be explained.
Don't think for a minute
You'll be entertained.

We had visions of caroling--
Our own little choir.
But calling us singers
Would make you a liar.

We considered performing
A play in three acts.
But as thespians go
We're a sad bunch of hacks.

It's not like we're visiting
The entire ward--
Just those that we thought
Might be home and be bored.

So let's get to the point,
Let's get right to the facts:
We wanted to come by
And bring you some snacks.

'Cause a week before Christmas
is a time that is right
To give you our love
On this cold snowy night.

And to bring you some sweets
And a bit of good cheer;
And wish Merry Christmas
And Happy New Year!

Money-Raising Part III

It's not that I'm obsessed with money-raising, but it's been such a big part of my life recently. Today I went to a Speed-Pitching Luncheon, and presented our business to 10 different angel investor groups in rapid succession. There's something a little bit demeaning about summing up your business in five minutes, a little like an obituary, except no one asks nasty questions after you are dead.

The concept was modeled after Speed-Dating gatherings, which have become quite the rage of late. But they did not exist when I was in season. We had Bridgemans, which served great chocolate malts, and a roller skating rink and big parks and hockey games and a five-mile stretch of beach called Park Point. If you couldn't meet a girl in one of these places, you were probably better off single. I doubt that I would have been a good speed dater. I think I'm more of an acquired taste.

Today's Observation: There is nothing more dangerous than a venture capitalist that made money as an entrepreneur selling a business. Now he thinks he's an expert at everything. He was probably awfully lucky, but is convinced it's because he was smarter than everyone else. Do not let these people on your board!

Today's Commitment: If I ever make enough money to be an angel investor I will not be a jerk and will treat people with respect.

Today's Conclusion: Still broke.

All Night Long

I pulled an all-nighter last night. It's been a while since I've done that, and I'm not exactly sure why I did. Maybe to try to trick myself into believing that I'm still young. But I was working at the office and experiencing this highly productive surge of energy and the night grew long and my to-do list grew short and then it was morning. So I grabbed some breakfast, worked out and came home to start my day normally, except for the fact my body kept reminding me that something very strange was going on. And my mind kept deserting me. And all of this has dashed my delusions of the limitless energy of an eternal youth.

Nevertheless, I like the idea of working all night. It screams of passion and dedication. It waves a flag of commitment above and beyond mortals who have chosen paths normal and sane. Yet there is a foolishness to the proposition that can only be attributed to a thirst for excellence, and a hunger for more better faster. There is a chaos in the act that appeals to the anarchist in me, as I pose chin-out in counter-cyclical defiance to the laws of commerce or physics.

I won't be young forever, even in my own mind. But if I am nimble old age can not creep up on me. And then one day I will pass that portal, with a bowed head and creaking knees, in the middle of the night, while the watchman sleeps.

Money Raising: Part II

So there we were, Lee, Matt and me, having an investment discussion with a guy who has made quite a bit of money, and is now in the business of giving short-term loans at usurious interest rates. It's not pretty, but it may be our best option to fund our retail deal.

But here's the thing--this guy likes us and believes in our product. He wants to help. But he knows how onerous his terms are. So he doesn't really want us to take it. He's like a friendly loan shark.

And here's the other thing--he looked miserable. He's making lots of money, but agonizes over possibly making a deal that might not be more lucrative than the last. He looks pained, like a man wrestling with his conscience. We all may be broke and sacrificing paychecks, but I think we sleep well, and we were smiling and comfortable. We all commented that it looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

Investing in us is a moral decision for him. He's known that for some time, as he almost invested a year ago. It doesn't matter nearly as much to us as it does to him, because he is wracked with guilt over choosing money over his desire to help.

Everything in life has a price tag. But wealth is often the worst value.

Raising Money

There are few things so inherently demeaning as raising money. Oh, it's one thing when times are good (OK, like they are now) and you have a great story to tell (I thought we did). Then it's shooting ducks on the pond, as we used to say. But generally the process of fund-raising is a relentless task, filled with endless rejections and excruciating frustration.

One annoying reality is that most people with money to invest think they are brilliant. They made their money because they were smarter than the other guys. And now, in 45 minutes, they can drill down to the very essence of your business and understand the secrets which have eluded the principals for the five years they have labored long and hard to build it. Their reasons for investing in A or rejecting B often can't stand up to any scrutiny but their own. But frankly, they are absolutely entitled to their opinion. It's their money, and how they evaluate investments is their inalienable right.

We have been out pounding on doors now for over a month. We are doubling our volume organically, have a major retail account in hand for 2007 (that will give us another 600% growth), very good momentum, no more legal entanglements and a management team that has, by most accounts, pulled off the seemingly impossible. And we haven't been able to put the cash together to fund the retail expansion.

Admittedly it's not all glitter and fairy dust. Our balance sheet suffered from litigation expenses and we have very tight timing on the raise. (I'm convinced that if we didn't need the money now, we could put together a very nice VC round in March or April.) We're stuck as a "tweener." We don't have time to raise an institutional round, but we need more money than private investors are typically comfortable with.

This is a long sob story, recorded for posterity perhaps. But it is what it is. I have become an organ grinder, playing my heart out on the busy streets of commerce, but my monkey keeps returning with an empty cup.

If we can't fund this retail deal it will blow up in our faces. Our reputation will be shot. And all that we have fought and sacrificed for will be lost. Our success will be our failure. Life is full of ironies, both comic and tragic. But this is only money, and not funny enough to tell at parties, or tragic enough for sympathy cards. Maybe if I could teach the monkey to dance ...

Football Rivalry

BYU beat the University of Utah football team 33-31 yesterday at Rice-Eccles stadium. It was the culmination of a magical season for BYU, and especially senior quarterback John Beck. And it ended another annual "Rivalry Week" between the two schools, which got too heated, too personal, too vituperative, venemous and vindictive.

Angelica and I went to the game and we were fortunate to sit amongst BYU fans, and a few Ute backers that were very nice. In contrast, the line to the men's room (which was interminably long) was over-populated by Ute fans who drank too much beer during the first two quarters, leaving them with full bladders and empty heads.

The Utah fans in front of me also said that last year at BYU they were treated very rudely, so it goes both ways.

We ought to somehow rise above these primitive instincts. We are no longer warrior-tribes that must rise to a feverish pitch for battle; or nomadic hunters who require courage to fill the bellies of our women and children. No, we are a pampered society with too much time on our hands, and too little good sense to know how to use it. So we dress in red and blue and gratify ourselves by cheering the home team to victory, or wallowing in its defeat.

Next year I am going to the game in Provo. I am going to wear blue, and I am going to make it a point to do something nice for Utah fans.

Thankfully

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I like that it doesn't require a lot of preparation, other than cooking for the day. I like that it's always a four-day holiday weekend--the only one of the year. I like the big traditional meal. I like that it involves football. And I especially like the simple and unappreciated idea of remembering all the things we have to be thankful for.

Maybe it's because of these reasons that Thanksgiving has become a major event in our home. Because I like the holiday so much, we try to share it with family and friends. This year we played our traditional Turkey Bowl in our new ward. Rodger Pickett and his daughters were in town, spent Wednesday night with us and played football Thursday morning. Then the customary big dinner with family and friends from Park City and Salt Lake. Followed by lots of games, including something of a Settlers of Cataan marathon. And of course football. And then, as has become another tradition, officially starting the Christmas season by watching the movie Mixed Nuts.

None of these activities are particularly meaningful by themselves. But over time, they become important traditions for our family, anchors to our past that help define us, that give us something to look forward to, that give relevance to our gathering together.

I'm thankful for these traditions. I'm thankful for Thanksgiving. And I'm thankful for family and friends that make them enjoyable and meaningful.

Viva la County!

In 2005 I served on an advisory committee for Summit County to consider a change in our form of government. The seven of us met approximately twice a month for a year, in addition to various public hearings, research interviews and the like. After a year, we recommended a substantial change to our government structure, going from a three-person commission to a five-person council, and hiring a County Manager to assume all executive responsibilities, reporting to the Council.

The current County Commission approved the measure for the ballot this year, and on election day, despite strong opposition from current county employees, voters narrowly passed the recommendation. How narrow? The difference was only 236 votes out of nearly 11,000 cast.

I've always been attracted to politics, and even though I am no longer a Summit County citizen I was asked to serve on the Summit Steps Forward committee to help get the measure passed. I wrote numerous letters to the editor (from myself, and for others), manned a booth at the Farmers Market, did a radio interview and call-in, wrote emails, helped with publicity, etc.

And here's the gratifying thing--what I did mattered. Not just serving on the committee, which anyone could have done. But rather, getting actively involved in the political process. Volunteering. Serving. In fact, the vote was so close, that I suspect that there were hundreds of people who did something in support of the measure that turned out to make a crucial difference.

It's very easy in elections to assume that your efforts are lost in the tidal wave of the majority. And perhaps that is often the case, although I'm sure that someone's contribution is pivotal. But in this case, everyone who raised his or her voice may have provided the deciding call.

We throw our pebbles in the water and hope that in a sea of calm the ripples dance to distant shores.