My 6th Birthday

On my 6th birthday, my family went to Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. While there we stayed in a motel. I am not sure why my parents let me walk around alone. But I did.

At the motel, I was SO excited to tell everyone that it was my birthday. When I didn’t see anybody in the walkways to tell, I started knocking on doors, all the doors. When people opened their doors, this blue-eyed cute boy said, “Hi! I’m six.”

They were so impressed and excited about my birthday that some of them gave me money—one lady even gave me two dollars. It was a pretty good gig. I couldn’t understand why there were some people that didn’t open their doors to hear my news. But, I really don’t understand why I didn’t keep up the practice for several years, on a daily basis.

So, if I come by your place tonight, please have the cash in hand. It needs to be in twenty dollar bills—you know, inflation and all.

Happy Birthday to Me!

I Said the Darndest Things

Here are some of the things I said as a little guy, as recorded by my father--

2 Years Old:
Whenever Brent (younger brother) would cry, Erik would eye is mother to see if she were responding, and then he would say,” Not crying. He's happy!"

Whenever his father called him "Son," Erik would respond with, "No, Erik!"

Whenever he blesses the food, he blesses the "table, the fork and spoon, Santa Claus" and anything else he can think of.

3 Years Old:
About Babies-"Do babies get dirty in their mommies' tummies?" When explained to him that Heavenly Father protects babies by putting them inside sacks, he asked if, "Heavenly Father puts tape on the sacks to keep them shut?"

At Family Home Evening, Erik ha to sing "his" Easter bunny song: "The Easter Bunny brings candy and an Easter basket." He had a similar but longer song about the Easter Chickie.

Up until now, when we have told Erik that he shouldn't be doing this or that or that he should be doing something else because he is almost 4, he tells us he's not "4 yet. Only 3."

Daddy was very upset with Erik because he wouldn't stop doing something. I told him "N-O, no more!" He said, "N-O, doesn't spell no more." He was right and he had won again.

4 Years Old:
When mom asked Erik to put away some toys, he said, "But I am only 4 years old--I don't understand."

While we were vacationing in Fall River, Erik told a lady who was smoking that we don't smoke. She asked, "Why not?" He said, "Because we know better."

Erik was in the corner eating a piece of candy. He said that Brent gave it to him, "Brent's learning to share."

Erik said, "I wish I were some kind of ketchup so I wouldn't have to eat this."

Erik didn't want to finish dinner so daddy told him that he had to at least finish a pear. He asked mommy, and mommy said, "That's right because Daddy's the head of the house." Erik said, “But Mommy's the head of the kitchen and that means the food."

Shot Through the Heart

As Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching, a remembrance stirs of a love gone wrong, the day I knew my true love would never be mine.

I was in 2nd Grade, and my true love's name was Cheryl. Cheryl Archer. One morning the teacher asked me and another kid to carry a board down to the office. It so big that it took 2 of us to carry it.

Well, as my friend and I were carrying this thing down to the office, we were laughing and joking around. We got to laughing so hard that I fell on my butt and peed in my pants. I had to go back to class and get help.

Now, the rule in my class was that if I wanted to get the teacher's attention, I had to walk to her desk, tap her on the shoulder, and wait for her to respond. So I walked all the way in front of the class, tapped her on the shoulder, and then whispered in her ear, “Ms. Archer, I peed in my pants”.


At that moment, right then, I knew that the brunette love of my life, my teacher Ms. Cheryl Archer, would never marry a boy who peed in his pants. She would never be mine.

And so, I may have been young to have found my true love, but the loss felt like a shot through the heart.


Happy Valentine's Day.

To Build a Fire - Part 2

When I was 11 years old, my dad taught me how to make popcorn without a popcorn popper. You put some oil in a pot and you put the kernels in. You cover the pot so the oil heats up faster and doesn’t splatter. Almost every day, I made popcorn.

This day was like every other. I started the popcorn and went into my Dad’s room for just a second, but something really interesting was on TV. (I used to get sidetracked a lot as a kid…okay, so I still do.) About 30 minutes later, after the show ended, I walked by the kitchen and saw the pot. I said to myself, “Oops, I left it on a bit long. At least I know it’s done.”

I lifted the lid off the pot and a flame about 2 feet high jumped out. I really wasn’t expecting that, so I picked up the pot and quickly ran outside and threw it on a dirt area (there should have been grass, but this was Texas, folks). I threw dirt on the pot and the fire went out.

Looking back, I’m rather impressed that, as an 11-year old, I knew enough to not stick the pot under the faucet and pour water on it. I was so scared that my dad was going to be mad about the pot (it was completely charred black), that I spent the next 2 or 3 hours scrubbing that thing. There wasn’t enough Comet in the world (nor strength in my arms) for that…and I didn’t know about SOS brillo pads at that point in my life. When my dad came home, with my head hanging low and nervousness in my voice, I told him what happened. To my surprise, he wasn’t angry. He was actually quite impressed that I acted rationally by taking the pot outside and throwing dirt on it.

Now that I’ve been a firefighter, Eagle Scout, and every other form of pyromaniac, I wish I had known that all I needed to do was put the lid back on the pot to cut off the oxygen source and kill the flame.

To Build a Fire

My wife loves the fact that she has a baby boy. Secretly, I think she is hopes that all our kids are boys…but of course, we’ll be thrilled with whatever other children come our way. Every time I do something that she says is gross, immature, I remind her that this is what boys do. For example, every boy picks his scabs. I don’t know why…there’s just an innate propensity that drives us to do stupid things. Another example, I must have been about 13 years old . . .

I knew you could light gasoline with a match. And I knew you could light things on fire with a magnifying glass, but I wasn’t sure if you could light gasoline with a magnifying glass. So I got a cup of gasoline, went out on my neighborhood street and tried some experiments.

First, were some peripheral experiments. I threw a lit match into the cup of gasoline. Well the match just went out. I repeated the experiment 2 or 3 times and each time it just went out. So I realized that all those TV shows where people throw a lighted match into a “pool” of gasoline and an explosion occurs, really doesn’t happen.

I then poured gas onto the street and threw a match at it. That didn’t work either. I found out that I had to hold the match to the gasoline to get it to light. Next, I tried lighting the gasoline with a magnifying glass. It worked!

Since my experiment to throw a match into a “pool” of gas didn’t work, I wondered how much gas was too much gas to sustain a fire. I dumped half the cup of gas on my “street fire” and it went out immediately. So I lit the street again, but this time I attempted to hold the cup over the fire and pour it ever so slowly. Turns out, that does sustain the fire. Unfortunately, I didn’t think that one all the way through. Fire tends to rise…right up the waterfall of gasoline and into the cup. Well, this startled me and that’s when I dropped the cup, making a nice splash of gasoline and fire. That’s when I learned how bad burning hair smells. Not to worry, I only burned off my part of my eyebrows…and they grew back.

I don’t think I ever told this story to my parents. Oh well, too late now.

I think Sheila is now scared to have any more boys.

1-411

Once, when I was in band camp…

No seriously, I always wanted to start a story like that.

When I was 11 years old, my Dad and I lived in Westlake Hills (Austin, TX) near a creek. I was a latch key kid so after school I would come home and go explore the creek by our house with a friend of mine. Since Texas used to be completely under water millions of years ago, there are tons of fossils everywhere.

After one such recent excursion, I mentioned to my friend that it would be neat to have a job where I could find fossils and cool rocks all day. We got into a discussion about what that job would be called. We both were at a loss for what those people are called. So when we got home, I decided to figure it out. I knew that you could call 1-411 to get information. I said, well this is information I need. So I called. The conversation went like this:

A nice operator lady answered the phone.

Operator: What city please?

I was a bit taken back. I didn’t know how to answer her…I just wasn’t expecting such a stupid question when all I needed was the answer to my question about rock scientists.

Erik: Well, I live in Austin…but I’m not quite sure what that has to do with anything.

Operator: What listing?

I really didn’t know how to answer that question, so I just launched in with my question.

Erik: I have a question…My friend I and want to know what a person who studies rocks and fossils is called.

I think the operator was a bit taken back because she said, “This is information.”

Erik: I know, we want this information. We were just having a discussion and we don’t know the answer.

Operator: suspiciously Is this for a school paper or a test?

Erik: No, we just want to know.

Operator: It’s a geologist.

Erik: Thanks.

Operator: In the future, you might try calling a library.

Erik: Why? I don’t want to read a book about it. I just needed to know that piece of information.

Operator: This is information about phone numbers.

Erik: Oh, I didn’t know that. Thanks for letting me know. I think she might be wrong…because *everybody* knows you dial "0" to get the operator.

Operator: Have a nice day.

Erik: Thank you. You, too.

Road Rash

Never stop being a kid...life seems to get boring when you do.

I was just reading a blog by a friend who is 27 years old and sometimes skates with some kids where he lives. This made me think of an experience I had back when I was in high school...

When I was 15 years old, I used to skateboard with a grown-up (mid to late 20s)...but he was just cool...age didn't matter. He showed me how to hang on to the back of a car on my skateboard (you know...like Back to the Future). I decided to hang on to the back of his SUV (I thought he knew I was back there).

Turns out he was late to an appointment, so he took off like a bat out of #@&!. With his radio blasting, he couldn't hear me yelling. I was too afraid to let go because I had speed wobbles and was afraid of possible oncoming traffic. At about 40 mph, my little wheels just couldn't go any faster and the board slipped out from under me.

As I was flying through the air, I kept thinking "Wow, this is how I'm going to die". As I hit the ground and slid UP the street, all I could think of was "Huh, I didn't die...Dang, my new Jams (shorts) are going to be totally ripped." Well, I didn't die and my shorts didn't rip...but my legs and arms did. When I went into my Dad's room to show him my broken arm and ripped up arms and legs, he made me wait until he was done reading the paper before we went to the hospital because it was such a stupid thing to do.

Yeah, those were good times!!