The River

Work has been a little stressful lately. The winds of change are starting to blow, and I am not sure where we'll end up when the winds die down. The uncertainty is a little unnerving. I am not one to lose sleep, but the last few nights were miserable as I tossed and turned, thinking about my fluid future and dreaming of worst-case scenarios. Life will throw us plenty of curve balls, and I guess the trick is learning how to hit em.

I have a few tricks up my sleeve when it comes to facing the hard times. So far, these methods haven't failed me. First, I believe in prayer. I believe that I have a loving Father in Heaven that not only cares about me, but wants me to be happy. He knows me and knows what is best for me. By communicating with Him, I can receive direction and comfort. 

Temple attendance is another trick I employ when I have a particular stress or worry in my life.

The Temple has a way of refocusing me, and letting me know that life is full of wonderful things, but the most important things are my family, honoring the Priesthood that I hold, obedience, and my relationship with my Savior. The temporal things in life are temporary, while the spiritual things in life are eternal. This perspective has always been a huge stress relief. Why spend time worrying about things that are temporary? "But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." 

Lastly, fly fishing has a way of completely refocusing my mind.

I have the tendency to perseverate. If it's work, play, football, music, or a new toy or hobby, my mind can be completely fixated where I think of little else. It's almost like mental paralysis. A day on the river can somehow channel that energy into fishing. And when the fishing is done, my mind is wonderfully clear. I am so lucky that my wife knows and understands me. 

Yesterday she sent me out the door, and I was at the river by noon. I planned on fishing until dark. The drive to the river is a little over an hour, and usually I am filled with anticipation for the fishing ahead, but yesterday, I was more worried about work. I got to the river and rigged up, and all of the stress took a back seat when I saw a big ol' fish come up and chomp on a fly. Then I saw him again. And again. And again. I tied on a size 20 Caddidge and served it up a few feet in front of him. As it drifted closer, I saw him come up and take a good, hard look at my fly, and then go back down. Not to be deterred, I tried again, but with the same result: he came, he looked, and he snubbed. I decided to try one more time. Like any good salesman, I thought to myself, "no" doesn't mean "no," it really means "not right now." So I cast to him one more time. The drift was perfect, the fly lazily meandering with the slow current. I waited. I watched. My breath shallow, my eyes fixed on that tiny fly, I saw my fish approach. This time was different; his actions swift, he aggressively devoured my fly like it would be his last. He started to go back down, still not realizing his mistake, until I set the hook! The fight was on! He angrily jumped, darted, dove, and hid. He violently shook his head, trying to free himself from the hook that held him captive. But it was no use. Soon, his energy spent, he came towards me like a disobedient child, eyes full of regret.

I think we can all identify with this little fish. How many times have I pursued something that turned out to be detrimental? I have been fooled more times than I care to admit. With the hook now out of his mouth, I hold him in the water a little longer and admire his beauty. He's large, and is probably a well respected fish in his community. I think he must be embarrassed, and is probably thinking to himself, "How could I be so dumb?" We look at each other for a few more seconds, and then I gently release him. He swims away, probably cursing me and thanking me under his breath.

Back at the truck,  I kneel and thank my Heavenly Father for a wonderful day enjoying his creations. I also repent for using a choice word or two after falling in the river, only a few minutes earlier. 

Headed home, I realized that it didn't make sense to worry about work any more. I don't worry about getting struck by lightning, hit by a bus, a cardiac arrest, or any other calamity that could possibly befall me. Those things are out of my control, just like my current work situation. 

"Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your Heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?" 

Last night I slept like a baby. 

Words of Weirdness

I would describe myself as a passionate person. I have a passion for food, cologne, cheese, sports, nature, family, literature, guns, knives, soda, watches, and I could go on. In fact, I rattled off, lets see…eleven, that's right, eleven different categories of passion in my life in all of about fifteen seconds. How can a person have so many interests? While I enjoy a litany of hobbies, at times I become frustrated because I don't have the time or money to pursue them all to a suitable level. Maybe a perfect world would be one where I could spend my days doing things I'm highly passionate about, like sampling various cheeses as I fly fish. It seems like my little brother Joe has expressed the same sentiment in his ever-vigilant support of communism. That is another blog for another day.

Does this aforementioned passion make me eccentric? It seems like the non-passionate folk are always describing truly passionate people as being eccentric. Eccentric- (adjective) deviating from the recognized or customary character, practice, etc.; erratic; peculiar; odd. This definition is straight from Webster's. In short, to be eccentric is to be weird. Sounds about right. As a child, the word weird followed me around like stink follows a bum. In the third grade Joe and I used to travel the neighborhood in our coonskin caps. I wore mine everywhere, school included. It didn't take long before kids started calling me Davy Crocket. That, paired with the fact that I didn't mind eating bugs (grandma Loi once told me that ants were full of protein, so naturally…), I guess the kids in my school had a pretty legitimate case against me. Coonskin caps went out of style after the Confederates beat the Rebels in 1865, and eating bugs? Not normal. While I was in the MTC, I was approached by a fellow missionary-in-training who enthusiastically proclaimed, "David Carter!? I remember you from Driggs! You used to wear a coonskin cap to school!" It seems I made an impression, and unfortunately, I couldn't recall this fellow from anywhere. Perhaps being weird merits being remembered. I would argue that to be remembered for being weird is better than being entirely forgotten. Or is it?

The funny thing is, I never really minded if kids thought I was weird. I was pretty comfortable in my own skin. I still am. I have a long and colorful history of doing absolutely bizarre things that even I can't explain. Maybe that's part of my genetic make-up. Weirdness. I wonder if I will pass this on to my offspring? 

The "weird" things is, when I sat down today I had no intentions of writing a blog post about my absurdities. I was planning on writing about my guitars and my love for that wonderful instrument. I struggled for fifteen minutes before these words of weirdness came flowing through my fingertips. 

To end this unexplainable, meaningless rant, I'll pose a question: what is normal? Is it the exact opposite of me? An uninspired, disinterested pessimist who sees the world only for it's failings while recognizing none of it's beauties? Or is normal somewhere in between? Perhaps it's all relative and our perceptions of normality and obscurity are entirely based on our own particular frame of reference. While admitting that I am surely weird to some, I am entirely normal to myself. Who do I think is weird? I better not say. But if I had to guess, I'm sure they think I'm every bit as strange. 

Thankful

I've been feeling very reflective lately. Maybe it has something to do with the current stage of life I'm in. I've never been in a better stage. I feel so blessed, because up to this point, I can honestly say that life has only gotten better as I've lived it. It's not that I haven't had trials and troubles. But I have my best friend to tackle them with. What more could anyone ask for?

Throw in the fact that I get to see this kid every day and it's clear:

I won the lottery.

 Blessed and thankful.

My First Love

With BYU kicking off the 2012 season tomorrow, there are few things that occupy more of my mind. I have this obsession for BYU football that could be described as unhealthy at best, manic at worst. I lose sleep the night before game-day, as thoughts of triumph and heartbreak swirl in my head. If BYU wins, I'm on this fabulous high that could rival that of an illegal substance. If they lose, it takes me a few days to snap out of the funk that sets in. All this, coming from a person that has no affiliation with the school that the football team represents. 

What on earth is wrong with me? 

I don't ask this rhetorically. I truly would like to know why I am the way I am. 

While the attempt to answer this question is futile (I'm sure I need the help of a certified professional for an accurate diagnoses) I decided I would take a close look at my life and find out why. Why does BYU's success on the football field dictate my sense of well-being? Why do I passionately defend and support an institution that I have never attended? Why can't I just live my life like so many others who couldn't give a flying fart about BYU? 

Maybe the answer lies in my past somewhere. My dad used to take my little brother Joe and I to BYU games when we were little kids. I remember my dad trying to explain the different vernacular that goes along with the game. "Second-and-three means that the offense only has to move the ball three more yards before they get four more chances, and they are on their second try." I'm sure it sounded something like that. Sooner or later I'd lose interest, so Joe and I would go explore the stadium. In doing so we made friends with an officer on the field in the Northwest end zone. His name was Chris and he had a gun and a mustache. He must have liked the company, for Joe and I would go down and hang out with him game after game. One time we were down talking to Chris and James Dye returned a kickoff to our end zone. I can still remember him making guys miss as he sprinted up the field, crowd roaring. He became my favorite player. Later in my childhood, we passed LaVelle Edwards in the stadium that was named after him. My dad asked him if he would stop and take a picture with Joe and I. He was so nice. He stopped and put an arm on my shoulder and an arm on Joe's and smiled his trademark smile. I wish I had that photo. 

                                       James Dye                                               LaVelle Edwards

As I got older and gained more knowledge, my appreciation for BYU (and sports in general) grew. By the time I was in junior high, I was a blue-blooded, full fledged cougar. In 7th grade I had a royal blue JanSport back pack. At some point in the year I took "white-out" and painted a big, white Y on the blue fabric of the bag. Later in the year I watched a kid take my pack, throw it in the garbage can, and pour soda all over it. He was wearing Utah gear. As I retrieved my wet, sticky bag from the garbage can, a small group of kids stood laughing and pointing. Utes...

Three years later I attended a BYU vs. Hawaii game. I had a fifty dollar bet that BYU would win. Late in the fourth quarter, an anti-mormon referee (I'm joking here) called back a BYU touchdown due to holding. That touchdown would have put BYU ahead. In my outrage I hurled the plastic water bottle I was holding at the ref. He ducked. Minutes later I was hand-cuffed with officer Lemon reading me my Miranda rights. BYU lost the game and I got a court date and a juvenile record to boot.  

On my mission I enjoyed two years of peace. Luckily I missed two very bad years for BYU football. I remember my dad writing me and telling me about the games. Usually we lost. It was so strange because I didn't care. At all. I could tell that my dad cared, but I couldn't have cared less. It was odd. However, it all came flooding back when I stepped into LaVelle Edwards stadium after my two-year absence. I was finally home. 

Maybe I deeply care about BYU football because it's a very real part of who I am. I cherish those memories, and have so many more I could share. Memories of BYU pulling off the impossible. Memories of Joe and I taking a bus to the game when I was in the 4th grade. Maybe I love BYU because I want to believe there's more of those moments still to come. Justin Meier, Brad Barth and I agreed as kids that when we grew up, we'd live next-door to each other and we'd take our kids to BYU games, just like our dads did with us. Whatever the case may be, I'm glad I am the way I am. They say you never forget your first love. Maybe BYU was mine. 

Dylan

I recently acquired some music that was long overdue. As a self proclaimed Bob Dylan fan, I am reluctant to admit my collection of his music is sadly sparse, containing merely his greatest hits and a few bootleg records. What Bob Dylan fan only has his greatest hits?

The iPod generation takes a different approach to music than the generations before. When Dylan released records, you couldn't pick and choose from the most played and popular songs, download them, and consider yourself a Dylan fan because you have a few tunes on your iPod. You purchased big black vinyl records or cassette tapes, and you listened to the entire album. By so doing, you would come to know an artist and his music on a different level than the causal listener of today.

I developed a fascination with Bob Dylan when I was in high school. My dad introduced me to his music; I vividly remember listening to Mr. Tambourine Man as we were driving through the desert on the way home from a family backpacking trip. The line "I ain't sleepy and there is no place I'm going to" seemed to be about me, as I wasn't sleepy and it felt like we were aimlessly wandering through the barren Utah desert.

At sixteen, I learned how to play the guitar, and the first song my dad taught me was Blowin' in the Wind. That song will always remind me of my dad.

At seventeen, a few of my buddies and I learned that Dylan would be playing at Deer Valley. When tickets went on sale, Eric and Brady bought tickets. I was broke, and the concert soon sold out. I went with them to Deer Valley with a few dollars in my pocket in the hopes that I could scalp a ticket, to no avail. As a last resort, I got inline with my friends and formulated a plan to sneak in. When I got to the turn-style, I handed the man a ticket receipt. "This is a receipt," he said. "It is?" I then explained that I must have grabbed the receipt, thinking it was my ticket (the two looked similar). "Sorry," he said, "you need a ticket." An opportunity to see a legend play, and you're not going to let me in? He called his manager. With the ticket receipt in hand, the manager asked, "What is your name?" Brady Dunn, I confidently responded. At this point in the conversation, I realized I was in trouble. The receipt contained Brady's address, phone number, all kinds of information that I didn't have memorized. "What's your address?" he prodded. I stuttered and stammered my way through a story full of holes, but before I could finish, he said, "I'm just going to pretend that you're not full of BS and let you in." I owe that guy.

The next few blog posts will be reviews of the following albums: Bob Dylan, The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, The Times They Are A-Changin', Another Side of Bob Dylan, Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde, and John Wesley Harding.

Root Beer: Second Attempt

After careful consideration and slight ingredient adjustments, I have created a root beer worth drinking. In fact, I don't know if there is anything I would change about this brew. It is equipped with a thick, frothy head; it comes on sweet and has an aftertaste that is not quite bitter, with ever-so slight hints of licorice; smooth, creamy, and enticing, I believe this brew could hold it's own in a taste test against premium and established beverages. That being said, parents tend to think their kids are flawless, and there is no doubt this mentality is at work here. I would appreciate an unbiased opinion regarding the quality and taste of Carter's Classic Root Beer. 

Any takers?

Root Beer: First Attempt

The results are in regarding my first attempt at brewing root beer: good, not great. I will enjoy the remaining bottles, but have concluded that I have a long way to go in the brewing world. The carbonation was fine, though I think my next batch I will use the Red Star Champaign Yeast, as the carbonation from the ale yeast I used this time around wasn't quite as good.  I'm not sold on the root beer extract I used, as it over-powered everything else I had going on in there. For my next batch I'm going to increase the malt and decrease the extract and see what results that change will yield. Kelli is ever-supportive and said she really enjoyed it. That speaks to the level of her love for me more than anything else! 

 His and Hers Glasses

You can see there is virtually no head (the frothy bubbles that typically reside at the top of a gourmet beverage), which I would like to try and remedy. The color is fine, though cloudy, which may be a turn-off for some. 

I'm happy with my first attempt. For me, the fun part is the creativity, and if it takes me ten years to create the perfect root beer, than I can look forward to ten years of being creative and learning what works and what doesn't work along the way. I'm really enjoying this new hobby!