Wednesday, January 27, 2021

Just a Dog: Dad and Wilbur

Dad and Wilbur in the front yard.


My father is the reason I love dogs so much. Well, perhaps not the only reason, but a huge contributing factor. We had several dogs as I grew up, and some of them were mine, but others were definitely my fathers. We didn’t always have dogs growing up, but the ones we had very memorable for different reasons. Two of the most memorable were his, one was his protector, the other was something else. I think the two that my father owned that had the largest impact on my life were these two. But there was another one that I barely remember, but I still somehow loved it. That dog had a profound effect on me as well and colored how I would see the animals. His name was Wilbur.

I should tell you a little about my dad. He was born in Kansas on December 11th, 1939. The youngest of four children. My grandfather moved the family to Utah while my dad was little to take a job working at Kennicott Copper’s plant as an electrician. He soon had enough money to buy a farm on the eastern side of the state in a region called the Uintah Basin. This farm of about 400 acres in rural eastern Utah is where my father grew up. They raised sheep, hay, and had horses and a few heads of cattle. He rode his horse to grade school, which doubled as a church house for those in the area. The school expelled him from high school and never went back and instead entered the workforce. 

Dad worked many jobs throughout his young adulthood, especially after meeting my mom. At the ages of 19 and 16, they got married and started having kids. The oldest was my sister Debbie, who recently passed away, then my brother Jim JR. They would have three more daughters, and after a long gap, one more son. Me.

My father helped construct the Flaming Gorge Dam and was one of the last people to travel through the valleys, gulches, and draws before they filled with water. He worked on the farm, harvesting the hay, caring for the cattle, and maintaining the equipment. In the late 60s, my grandparents were fortunate enough to have money coming in from mineral rights that they owned. They used the money to buy new equipment, pay off a new house. My father learned to use the equipment and learned its quirks.

Dad and Wilbur in his chair.


Dad loved horses, old cars, hunting, and he loved to be out in the wilderness. And at 28, he broke his back while hunting near home. It crippled him for the rest of his life, but he kept right on working. Despite the pain, despite the anguish, he worked almost till the day he died in 1995. After he broke his back, no jobs would hire him, and so he did odd jobs, scrapping metal and cutting wood were two of the most common ones. 

But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I came along in 1977; unexpected. Dad was mostly helping with the farm at that point and my siblings were all in high school or near highschool age. In fact, within a couple of years, my brother would marry and have his first kid on the way. So my oldest sisters and sister-in-law raised me as much as my mother did. 

We also had a dog. Or at least the family did. Wilbur was his name, and he was pretty amazing, at least what I remember of him was. Wilbur was a Boston Terrier and I can remember running and playing with that dog. Petting him (nicely) and cuddling with him. My memory is foggy about him, and I’m stretching back to my earliest memories. But the fact I can remember him, and that it was a positive experience left a deep impression on me and how I would come to view dogs. 

 I know that Wilbur died, but I don’t remember why or how and remember being very sad about his death though. His death seemed to happen around the same time as my grandfather’s death, but I do not know which death occurred first. I know that I didn’t quite understand what happened in either case. 

The pictures included are of my father with Wilbur, and though I’d like to think he was my dog, he was clearly my dad’s dog. Dad really loved that dog, and you can tell. This is the world I came into: loving parents, supportive and loving siblings, and a man that loved dogs as my father. 

Next, I’ll talk more about my father, and about one of the most amazing dogs I’ve ever known: One Gallon. 


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Monday, October 26, 2020

 

Just a Dog: Introduction

I’ve loved dogs since I first realized what they were, four-legged loyal companions that were silly, dump, and just lovely creatures that were both protectors and friends. As I get older my love for them increases, to the point now where I feel the need to become more active in the pet community and make strides to both understand them better and volunteer my time to help them. My experience is my own, though similar to folks that live in rural areas no doubt. There’s something unpolished about the treatment of dogs in rural communities. Many people don’t give them the respect they deserve, though it depends on the person. 

This is the first of a series of essays about dogs, my dogs, and my family’s dogs through the years, and other dogs too. It’s also about my memories of my parents and my siblings. It’s going to be full of memories half-remember.  Full of love, guilt, sadness, and joy. It’s also a memorial to two of the best, most affectionate dogs I’ve ever owned, and it’s a catharsis for losing them. A way for me to carry on.

I’m not an expert on dogs. I know as much as a dog owner should, like what foods should and shouldn’t go into their wildly temperamental tummies. How to treat them when their hackles are up. I’ve learned the hard way how to handle fighting dogs. If I get something wrong, well, I’m not an expert, I’m using limited knowledge and perhaps haven’t come across the correct information. 

For a long time, I’d hear the maxim, “it’s sad, but remember it’s just a dog”, hence the title of this series of essays. To some folks, they are just dogs and don’t deserve consideration. But they aren’t just dogs to me, nor many people. It’s because they are dogs that I love so much. 

One more thing before I end this intro, as I progress through it you’ll see little mention of my mother owning dogs, growing up my siblings were out of the house and the dogs were my father’s or mine (or both making them family dogs). My mother claimed no dogs as her own. She rarely showed particular affection for many of the dogs. She told me once that she’d lost a pet (a cat; I believe) as a young girl and didn’t like the feeling and the grief that came from it. But you’ll see as we progress through the essays she grew attached to the dogs, despite her best efforts not too. And at the end of her life, she became remarkably tenderhearted. So while she’s never given ownership, she’s always there and helping to take care of the dogs, just as she took care of the family. 

This introduction is also a bit of an outline of what to expect in future installments. To begin with, I’m going to talk about my father and two dogs significant in his life, or at least as I saw it. Then I’m going to talk about my grandmother and the two dogs that she had while I was growing up. Then I’ll move onto the dogs that were family dogs, or my dogs until I left home. Through all of this, there will be stories of my sibling’s dogs, memories of growing up, and reflections of life here in the middle of nowhere Utah. This is going to be a long series, so I hope you’ll bear with me. The goal is to release an essay a week until, well, I’m finished. But this week I’m going to make an exception and you’ll get the first installment in a few days. I hope you enjoy it. 

Monday, August 10, 2020

Eulogy for my sister, Debbie Stanton.

 Deborah Joe Stanton was not rich. She did not have a lot of stuff. She wasn’t a figure in the community, nor was she famous. She struggled with mental health issues most of her life and physical health issues later in life. But despite all of that, she had something that is not always freely given and is not always deserved: Love. She loved everybody, even those that she didn’t like. She had a warmth and kindness that few people do.

She loved her parents, who preceded her in death. She loved all her siblings, and when they married,  their spouses. She loved her nieces and nephews and when they grew up and married and had kids; she loved them as too.  Most of all loved her children. She took great joy in them, in their interests, in their passions, in their wins, and their losses. She was protective, sometimes more than she should be. But it was always well-intentioned. She loved her babies, and that’s what they were to her; her babies.

But honestly, we were all her babies. She helped raise many of us. Aunt Debbie, Debbie, Dee-Bra! Grandma Debbie. So many of us grew up with her watching over us. Making sure we happy and safe. Being sad when we fought with each other or were mean. She had nieces and nephews at her house all the time, and she was happy to let them stay. When her siblings, or friends, needed to get away for the afternoon, or the evening, or the weekend, she was there at her door and her arms open wide.  She’d make sure you were full, comfortable, and safe. That’s who and what Debbie was.


Almost all of us have memories of staying at Debbie’s house. That stayed true even as we all grew up and had kids of our own. We knew we could count on her because she loved us, and she loved our children, and like when we were young she wanted us to be warm, content, happy and loved.

Love that is so freely and sincerely given has become rare. Debbie never seemed to run out. She had so much of it she seemed to burst sometimes. When you find somebody who has so much love and gives it out so freely, it never seems like it will run out.  

But that isn’t true. It does run out eventually. And when it does, you realize just how much love that person gave. Debbie gave a lot. More than almost everybody I know. Now that she’s gone we can all feel that gap in our hearts that was filled with her love. It makes us gasp for its absence. But breathe deep and remember her and the times you had talked to her, playing at her house, spending time with her and you’ll feel it again. And you’ll smile because the love is still there.


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Wednesday, July 25, 2018

This is it.

So this is it?

This is what all those dreams and aspirations have led me to. Fat, morose, jaded. Working a job I can only tolerate, making not quite enough money to get by and living with a woman I hate as much as I love.

This is it.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. But I'm not sure I ever really knew what I wanted out of life. It's like that equation X then ? = profit. I started out with a big X. I was going to be a composer. I lost my way. I've talked about it before. It's lame. It's my own fault. The thing is, even if I hadn't lost my passion and my drive and my direction, there's still that "?". What the hell was it supposed to be?

I honestly don't know.

Was it success? Maybe? Though I think that would be "profit". I don't know what it was.

I'd never imagined myself married. Not really. Not like my peers. Not like all of the people around me that I interact daily with. I don't grok it like I should. I understand the idea of committing yourself to somebody, but other than crushes, infatuation and some lust, the women I've been in relationships with have been sort of accidental on my part. And even when I have strong feelings for them, there's never a desire for marriage.

Kids? Yes and no. I don't want kids really. But part of me is sad that it's never likely to happen now. I suppose it's the faint desire to see my genes pass on to another generation. I'm not likely to be remembered once I'm gone. So having some kids, and grandkids to tell stories about me after the fact would be one way to be remembered.

It's not to be. She can't have children. And honestly, we're not mentally prepared for them, for different reasons. She's able to fawn over the nieces and nephews, which is quickly making her their favorite aunt. So it works out.

So I don't know. I don't know what I expected. Once I walked away from music, really that was it. Even dabbling in theater for a while was just hanging out to that which I was no longer able to give my all to.

I guess I have the podcasting.
If only I were better at it.

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Monday, July 23, 2018

10 Years

It's been 10 years. 

It's been 10 years since I left Logan to come back to Roosevelt, and my, have things changed. Many... not for the better. Some... are pretty good. 

When I left Logan the plan was to get out of debt, and then move to... well ostensibly Salt Lake City, but some place not the Uintah Basin. 

When I first arrived the job I had hoped for fell through. 

The first job I got, sucked. It was full of tweekers, and the hours were not good. 

The job I ended up with was a good job. Stocking shelves at a grocery store. Good steady work, and I was given some responsibility by the end. But any physical ailment put me out for days or weeks at time there. After that happened a couple of different times over the course of the three years I worked there, I bit the bullet and found an office job. 

The office job was for an oil company doing data entry, verifying sales tickets, and a few random tasks that fell to us in that department. It lasted 3 years, almost to the day I started it (just over actually) before I was laid off. The company still exists, and is doing alright but only has about a 10th of the employees it did when I got hired on. 

I'm back to the grocery store. My official title is "Online Manager" but really I'm a delivery boy. I fulfill the orders and maintain customer satisfaction for the stores online shopping program. It's my principle duty. It's one I'm good at, keeping the customers happy. But it tends to be a pretty draining job. Which has negative effects on all of the other duties I have at the store. I'm not looking for other work. If I could convince them to work me four 10 hour shifts instead of 5 eights, then it would be perfect. Well, not perfect, but better. But that's not likely. If something comes along that's better, I will take it. 

I've had a surgery on a hernia since I've been back. 
I've recovered, it was seven years ago. 

I'm still fat. Well, fatter. Fortunately the job keeps me a tiny bit active. If only I could change my eating habits in a meaningful way. I'd lose weight. I did at one point about a year ago. Then I abandoned it, and have put it all back on, plus a little extra. Losing weight would be beneficial, not just for my health, but for getting in and out of my tiny little car. 

I have had probably the best dog I'll ever own since I've been back. A black lab puppy that I only had for six months. It's none of the dogs I currently have. Don't tell them. I do love them. 

I've also had the second best dog, and one of the sweetest dogs I'll likely ever own since I've been back. She's sleeping on the floor in front of me. 

My mother passed away. 
That's some shit. 
It'll be five years this November. It's one of the reasons I haven't moved. 
Her passing has pretty much anchored me here. She'd already given me the house: Twenty years ago she added my name to the deed. I always thought she'd live till she was at least eighty. Maybe ninety. She barely made it passed seventy. It's hard to believe of the 10 years I've been back in the Uintah Basin she's been gone for half of it. 

So on that note... I have a house. I don't have the money it takes to maintain a house. But I have it. And it needs a lot of work. Work I can't afford really to have done. It's something I guess, that needs addressed. And soon. 

I've got a lady. I've had lady's before. One of which I'm still quite fond of. But this lady has been with me five years. We have fun. Some of the same interests. Though I think she feigns it sometimes. She's still here. I'm not sure why. I'm not mean, or abusive. But I'm neglectful, and that surely has to wear a person. 

I've got a podcast. Something that Tom and I played with the idea of back in like 2004, I now do it some what regularly. It's not "successful". I'm not sure it ever will be. I think i'm lacking something fundamental from it really taking off, and I wish I knew what it was. Drive? Maybe. Energy? Perhaps. Passion? Entirely feasible. I have, and John and I have, and John has, other projects that we want to do. It's a matter of doing them. Maybe we'll find what's missing. Maybe we'll do this another three years and then give up. Maybe.....

So it's been 10 years. 
I've lost two of the guys I gamed with, was good friends with. One in 2011, the other last year in 2017. Another I'm estranged from politically. But it's 2018, that's normal. It's not easy being liberal in the Basin, but it's getting harder and harder as the days and weeks go by. It's been 10 years, and I don't see an end in sight. I'm almost where I was emotionally/mentally in Logan when I left. But this time there's not a light at the end of the tunnel. It turns out the light last time was just a train. 

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Tuesday, February 20, 2018

A Good Guy with a Gun

I have a friend -an acquaintance really but he was once a friend- from school who I see in the store I work at from time to time. Nearly each time I see him he has a holster and a gun on his hip. He's a nice guy, we chat and exchange pleasantries now and then. We had stopped hanging out about the end of elementary school and ran in different circles in high-school, but are on pleasant terms now as adults. He has a wife and two kids, both getting close to high-school age. I'm not entirely sure what he's done with his life. I know he moved to the southern part of the state where he met his wife, then moved back to our home town a few years before I did. I know he struggles with a private business. I don't however have any knowledge of military or law enforcement service. That isn't important, but maybe it is, as it may or may not reveal the insistence he has on openly carrying a gun.
He's not the only one. There are a few customers, all men, who come into the store with a gun holstered on their hip. There's one black man that occasionally comes into the store with an open carry, of all the ones I've seen, he perhaps makes the most sense given the rural, predominantly white region we live in. Though most people aren't overtly racist, and wouldn't consider themselves such, they still have a yoke of bigotry around their necks, even if they don't recognize it.

As for my friend, I haven't asked him why he carries the gun. I don't need to honestly. He would likely give me one of two stock answers: for protection against wildlife, which is valid if he finds himself in an area where rattlesnakes and cougars are frequent, or as a deterrent for those that would use violence against him and his loved ones. There is probably in fact a bit of both reasons I'm sure.
I'm not sure how he'd respond if violence were to break out suddenly. He may have had to deal with such violence many times through his life. But just as likely not. I haven't quizzed him about that any more than I have quizzed him about his reasons for the gun. I can say that the thought of him carrying the gun and responding to an armed assailant gives me little comfort.
He's not in shape, though in better shape than me. (At least he looks like he may be able to run a few dozen yards more than me before he gets winded and kills over.) That's small comfort when confronted with violence. The gun as a deterrent is of little comfort to all those unarmed individuals caught in the crossfire. I suppose one could point out that if we, too, had guns then we wouldn't be as defenseless. Maybe not, but we may be just as likely targets.
If an armed man were to appear with intent to kill in the same area with me and my gun carrying friend I think it's quite likely that he would be dead. I think it's likely I would  be too. But if I were somebody with the aim of taking out a lot of people and was observant enough to notice a man (or woman) with a gun holstered on their hip they'd be my first target. But I could be wrong. He may be something of a quick draw. He may be calm, cool and collected. Hell, I've never been in that situation, so I might be as well. But not likely.
Between him and the three to four other semi-frequent customers that come in openly carrying fire-arms, I see it at least once a week. Usually twice a week. Usually him. It's his preferred store, which is fantastic in a way because we like repeat customers. In other places around the country the other customers would be put off by this (and I'm sure there are some that are in our store) but in my store, in my home town it's not a big deal.
For all his good intent, and the need of a security blanket that can kill I'm not sure how much of a deterrent he'd really be. I'm not sure how much of a deadly liability he'd actually be.

Honestly though, for the five or six individuals that open carry in the store, there are at least twice that many who are carrying concealed. That's no comfort either.
In fact that's a bigger concern. If violence were to break out then yes, my open carry friend would be a target. But if he managed to get his gun unholstered and up then he may be a target to some well meaning concealed carrying individual who doesn't know who he is, or if he was the active shooter initially.
That's a fun thought. Or terrifying.
Like a series of dominoes. Each open carry and concealed carry individual bringing their weapons to bear on each other because nobody knows for sure who's the bad guy or who the "good" guy is. I'm fairly sure in this scenario several of the good guys are going to be injured, or killed. The scenario can't really play out in my head in a way where innocent by-standers aren't injured in a firefight. But in his head I'm sure such a scenario plays out differently. I'm sure its the same with all the folks who have concealed guns as well. Though it's not realistic.

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Tuesday, December 12, 2017

in the shadow of death.

This one hurts.

I've lost a lot of folks over the years. Lisle and Brian were painful. I still feel the sting of my mothers loss each and every day, like a fresh cut on the skin. But Jason Sims? Feels like a stab to the gut.
I'm not sure why.
Jason was somebody born with the hand of Death on his shoulder from day one. His heart, and his lung were precipitously weak, and everyone who knew him well knew that one day the health problems he was born with would eventually kill him.
One day it did.
It doesn't make it hurt any less.

Jason was one of the most amicable people I've ever known. He almost never seemed perturbed by things. He was never quick to ridicule or insult, but when asked his thoughts about something he was willing and able to offer them, so you knew exactly what he thought. He was almost always cheerful, and easy going, and that served him well as he floated from one social group to another effortlessly. When he was with me, he was an unabashed geek. Dice box in hand. Folders with D and D characters carefully placed. He loved playing Dungeons and Dragons, and there was no embarrassment for him. He understood that other folks he spent time with wouldn't get it, but he also knew that those of us he gamed with were not interested in his other pursuits. He loved the rodeo. And he had friends whos interest never overlapped his geekiness, that loved that too. They, like us, took him as he was because he, unlike so many of us, never passed judgement on a person for what they liked. Or if he did, he kept it to himself, which makes him a better person than I ever will be. Jason wasn't perfect though. He was, at times, lacking self awareness of his actions. This was, like all everything about him, without malice, but it did occur.

Jason was one other thing aside from a geek, a sports fan, a rodeo spectator: he was a grandpa. When Jason and Melinda married, nearly 7 years ago most people had their doubts. A lot of people, myself included (to my shame), didn't think seriously of it. I don't know what trials their marriage went through he never spoke about any incident in anger or jest, but I do know that it lasted those 7 years. I also know that Jason took very seriously the family that married into. All of Melinda's children were grown, and a few had children of their own when they were married (they all do now). Jason loved those kids. He made time for them. The grandkids were very important to him, I saw it time and time again. He'd laughingly tell me stories of something that they did or said, he'd rearrange plans so he could make it to birthdays, or little programs they were involved in.

Jason wasn't perfect. No one is. But I know that he was a better friend to me than I ever was to him. I know that he'd text me occasionally, out of the blue if we hadn't seen each other for a while to see what I was up to, and how I was doing. I know he always seemed to enjoy spending time in my company, and was typically eager to come hang out, whether for gaming or just in general as long as he had no other plans. I know he wasn't perfect, but I also know that he never expected anybody else to be perfect either, just to accept him as he was. And he'd do likewise. I know that I'm going to miss him. I'm going to miss seeing him at work when he's came in to grab some groceries, or prescriptions. I know that I'm going to miss him at my game table. I'm know that I'm going to miss that exuberant giggle when he finds something funny. And his explanation to new people when they asked why he was blue.

I knew Jason Sims would eventually be taken from us because of his health issues. But it never seemed liked it was ever going to be anytime soon. I'm glad I knew him. I'm glad I knew him as long as I did. I'm sad I didn't know him better, because I feel like he knew me.

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