The Littlest Con Artist

Last Saturday I was on my way home from work when my cell phone rang. Now my most called numbers have distinctive rings so I know who it is before I look (mainly so I can prepare myself for the boss's call). The ring that penetrated my ears was the sound of a pinball machine going crazy. It could only be one number "The Hurricane." As many of you might know, I refer to my brother's family as The Hurricane. I love getting calls from them because usually the kids want to tell me about something that happened to them. This particular day I was completely unprepared for the conversation. My brother was on the other line and told me my niece, The Bam, had a question for me. Being naive, I thought it was going to be something about how awesome I think I am. The Bam says hello and immediately dives into her question. I can hear my brother in the background coaching her on. The conversation went something like this "Uncle Clinty, my school is having a walk-a-thon and I'm going to walk (whispering in the background How far Dad?) I'm going to walk a mile and a half. Will you sponsor me? Grandma already gave me (whispering again How much Dad?) Grandma already gave me 25 dollars." Brilliant. There is no way I could refuse that offer and no way I could give less than Grandma. I replied,"Okay Bam, what if I give you another 25 dollars?" She said,"That is okay but I need it really soon! (whispering in the background But Dad I don't want to talk to him anymore)" My brother gets on,"Well I guess she's done." What a sucker I am. The check was in the mail that very day. She played my like a fiddle. My only question is, isn't a mile and a half a pretty good distance for a kindergartner? Plus isn't the school starting a little young getting the kids out pedaling sunshine and rainbows? Well I'm a proud donor to The Bam's Hillcrest Elementary Walk-a -Thon. I just hope in the future she doesn't call up asking for my right leg, because sure enough two days later you will see me hobbling around with a 2X4 duct taped to my leg muttering to myself, "Why on earth does a first grader need my leg for show and tell."

Things My Mom Taught Me

I've decided to follow up my last post with the co-most influential person in my life my Mom. Whenever I did something usually my parents fought over who "had" to claim me: the Bakers or the Bowens. Both genetic lines are pretty full "short bus" DNA so I think its a toss up. My brother looks like a Bowen and both my sisters look like Bakers but I'm some genetic mutant with no specific look from one particular side. So I guess what I'm saying is both my parents are to blame for this outcome.

The majority of things my mom taught me can be summed up in a quote she often said before I left the house with my friends, "Don't embarrass me!" She knew I wouldn't get into real trouble but there was a high chance that she would hear on Sunday from somebody that they saw me Friday night putting a teacher's kid's bikes on the roof or sleeping on top of the high school auditorium. True on both accounts. My mother taught me patience. I didn't learn it but she taught it constantly. She always told me patience was a virtue, so I always claimed to be unvirtuous. She had the patience of a saint. From putting up with me trying to stick 50 grapes in my mouth at the dinner table or watching me fake vomit over the sight of lamb stroganoff. My mom taught be the quickest route to the hospital. She chauffeured me for a broken nose (church ball), gashed leg (Cadillac in the snake river), gashed head (trampoline under clothes line, WWF with dad), and even a broken ear drum (a Q Tip with a vendetta). She even put up with me doing a header into the filing cabinet at the doctor's office while there for my brother. My mom usually doesn't do well with blood, but when it comes to her kids (especially me), she is Hercules. My mom always taught me to eat my vegetables. Once again I didn't learn but she was quite the teacher. I remember one time I wouldn't eat my green beans so she said I couldn't leave the table until I did so I decided to play chicken. An hour later, I choked down cold green beans because she called my bluff. I think that is where I get my stubbornness.

I don't know if most homes are like this, but if Dad got mad, we could handle that. If Mom got mad, your life was about to suffer drastic consequences. But my mom is definitely the glue that held us all together and often times kept us stuck to the wall after "doing something embarrassing."

Things My Dad Taught Me

We all have things our dads taught us that we don't realize or appreciate until years later (unless you are one of the Menendez brothers). The other day I caught myself doing something that I specifically learned from my dad not directly but in a subconscious way. I needed to clean my shower, so what better way to do that than when I'm actually in the shower. You aren't worried about getting wet so you can really focus on the job. My dad does this all the time. He will get in the shower and instantly yell for the Tilex so we would jump to because that meant we wouldn't have to clean it later. Between him and my mom I've inherited a real ocd complex about cleaning things. Once I realized why I was cleaning the shower in the shower, I started to think about other things I learned from my dad not in lessons but in everyday situations. For example, during the summer the pothole crew would patch every mile in the county. They would usually stop at the church in the shade for lunch (our church is a mile from the house out in the country). If my dad saw them resting there, he would stop at Farmer's Corner on the way back from a parts run and buy a bunch of Pepsi. When he pulled up to the crew, and handed out the icy libations, the crew would tear up (well maybe not tear up but they enjoyed it). After a few of these exchanges, I asked my dad the rational behind it. He told me to observe the miles around the house and shop. Sure enough, we had the best patched roads in the county. I think my dad is some kind of genius (don't tell him I said that). He did the same thing for us and the hired help. Two or three afternoons a week, we could count on some cold beverages showing up. After throwing it back, we had a sense of obligation to really put our nose to the grindstone. Diabolical thinking. My dad always tried to work along side us and the hired help doing the crappy jobs to show that the job needed to be done and he wasn't above the fray. It worked, Now I always try to put some time in doing the butt jobs to show everybody we are all on the same level (not technically but emotionally?). Seriously my dad might be some kind of Freudian Master Jedi. I'm sure my dad isn't proud of this but he taught all of us kids how to swear. Just ask my littlest sister about days in the beet field. My dad wasn't a huge swearer and rarely swears in his old age but he taught us very important combinations of swear words and everyday objects that really opened my mind to all the glorious possibilities. This lesson can also be attributed to any of the old timers in the neighborhood since I've heard swear words over the pulpit.
I'm sure there are thousands of other little things that I don't remember or fully appreciate yet ie.. if you aren't going to do a job right don't do it at all. This never made sense to me because not doing the job at all never seemed to be an option. It sure would have saved me a lot of time and energy. But I digress. My dad has the patience of a saint once you realize he is the local employment agency when it comes to 12-17 year old white kids from the ward. But I suppose if he wasn't institutionalized trying to raise me and my siblings (mainly me), the man can probably handle anything.