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Utah

Just Kiddin’

By / Family History / 1 Comment
stacks of money

“Babe, Babe, stop. Put the phone down.”

“Why? I need to call somebody!”

Eddy grabbed the phone from my hand. He was in hysterics. Barely able to speak through obnoxious laughter.

“What are you doing? I need to call somebody!”

“No”, Eddy said, composing himself. He knew I would regret dialing the Human Resources department at Hill Air Force Base. “You can’t quit your job. It was a joke. You didn’t win.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “What? But the numbers match.”

For one minute – 60 blissful seconds, I floated on a cloud of reprieve. I was free. Free from embarrassment. Free from guilt. Free from a 10-year marital mistake, which left me floundering in a sea of red.

I was a newlywed, yet still married to my past. The debt I owed had been a miraculous conception, as I had no part in creating it, but the law said I was responsible. I hated that I brought unfinished business into my new life.

“I just need enough to pay off these bills,” I told my new beau as I climbed into the passenger seat of our Chevrolet Silverado. Our state didn’t have a lottery; we had to embark on a one-hour journey to Idaho, where, I was certain I would purchase the winning ticket.

“Okay, Babe, if you say so,” Eddy smiled.

Traffic was heavy. Utahans headed North on Interstate 15 – all seeking a piece of Idaho’s $125 million bounty. The scene resembled a story I learned in Ms. Brown’s Oklahoma History class – the Oklahoma Land Rush.

According to the Internet, I informed Eddy as I marked the bubbles on my lotto card, the most common numbers drawn were 2, 15, 33, 34, 54, and 67. “Okay, babe.” Eddy’s smile was beginning to irritate me. Where was his faith?

The idea to deceive me struck Eddy on our return from Idaho somewhere between the town of Logan, Utah, and our home on Hill Air Force Base. I talked of nothing more than my winning ticket. The suffocating excitement that pervaded the truck cab fueled Eddy’s plan. Engrossed in his plot, he wouldn’t remember driving home, an eerie feeling, he later acknowledged, as we pulled into the driveway.

Three hours later, my life changed.

The prank was locked and loaded, ready to fire with one click of the refresh button.

At exactly 7:00 p.m., I sprinted upstairs to log on to the Idaho lottery website.

“All ya gotta do is click the refresh button,” Eddy instructed. That was more like it – finally, he was showing some support.

The refresh tested my patience. I was reminded of a time I waited for a tardy passenger bus in the middle of a Florida monsoon. “Hurry up already!” I yelled. “Why is our Internet so slow?” Eddy didn’t answer. I was unaware he had tip-toed out of the bedroom, into the hall.

My saucer-sized eyeballs were fixated on the monitor; my body became tense as my left index finger traced the numbers on the screen. The first two numbers matched. The third number matched. “Shut up!” I screamed.

I felt a shockwave of anticipation and a blinding flash of hope when the fourth number also corresponded with my ticket. I continued to scream, “Shut up!”

To this day, I do not understand my choice of vernacular during such excitement. Who, exactly, did I want to ‘shut up’?

The fifth identical number caused me to rise from my leather chair.

The sixth number, the one that controls the jackpot, ushered in a tidal wave of hysteria.

“Shut up! Hey Babe, we won! We freakin’ won the lottery! Holy crap, I need to call somebody,” I squealed, reaching for the cordless phone.

Eddy came rushing into the bedroom. He hadn’t been far; he witnessed the whole spectacle from our neighboring bathroom. He was all smiles, but for an entirely different reason. He wasn’t smiling because he was a millionaire.

You see, Eddy was a gifted web designer. His talent included the ability to mimic websites. Three hours earlier, he copied my numbers into a fake Idaho State Lottery website, to which he developed. It looked real, thus creating the illusion that mine were the winning numbers. Gifts and talents should be used for good, not evil, just sayin’.

“Babe, Babe, stop. Put the phone down.”

“Why? I need to call somebody!”

“No”, you can’t quit your job. It was a joke. You didn’t win.”

And just like that, I went from being poor, to rich, then back to poor. All within 60 seconds.

As far as jokes go, this was, by far, one of the best. Yes, I eventually paid off that pesky debt. Yes, Eddy and I are still married, though he was in the dog house for a while after the prank. But, I am happy to report, a few years later, I played those same numbers, and guess what? I actually won the Idaho State Lottery!

Just kiddin’.

~Viv

The Original Ice Castle

By / Childhood Memories, Travel / 4 Comments
Ice Castle

One of my favorite winter attractions is the magical Ice Castles that come alive every January in the small, Swiss-themed town of Midway, Utah. Built on an acre of land, Ice Castles attracts thousands of curious visitors, all looking to unleash child-like imagination and get lost in a whirlwind of fantasy.

Ice Castles are constructed from hundreds of thousands of hand-placed icicles, ice blocks and frozen walls. Inside, custom caves, walkways, tunnels, mazes, and slides encourage hours of icy play and exploration. At night, colorful lights, synchronized to music from Disney’s Frozen, bounce off the glistening interior and add to the enchanting experience. Without fail, every visit to this winter wonderland takes me back to my childhood. Long before Ice Castles rose to fame in 2011, my sister, Vicki, and I were celebrities in our hometown of Chickasha for building our own icy fortress.

According to weather records, Oklahoma averages a measly two inches of snowfall a year. Winter precipitation, if any, typically shows up in the form of freezing rain, but in January 1977, Chickasha residents woke up to a lot of both.

“I hope they cancel school,” Vicki said while our mom placed our General Electric radio on the kitchen table and fiddled with the tuner knob. We didn’t have email or text messaging back then; the quickest way to get local news and learn of school closings was to tune into the KWCO-KXXK radio show. I agreed with my big sister; playing in the snow was far better than going to school.

The man in the radio read through the list of school closings in alphabetical order, however, he had already passed the “Cs” by the time we tuned in. Disappointed, Vicki and I had to wait for the next commercial break to hear if “Chickasha Public Schools” made the list. Our mom went about her morning routine of preparing cups of hot tea, cold milk, and buttery toast. We still needed to eat our breakfast and get ready for school, she told us, just in case.

As I munched on strawberry jelly toast and listened to Paul Simon sing “50 Ways to Leave your Lover”, I got lost in the busy wallpaper staring back at me. It didn’t match our brownish-gold kitchen carpet or aluminum table with floral-padded chairs. Instead, it portrayed a colorful pattern of coffee pots, cups, and muffins. I thought the muffins were funny and took pleasure in seeing how many of them I could count. At age five, I was still learning big numbers, so my ability to get very far, numerically, was limited.

“Here we go!” Vicki said, turning up the volume. Suddenly, I snapped out of my wallpaper trance and joined my sister in leaning towards the radio as if our hoovering bodies would somehow affect the announcement. One-by-one, the radio man recited school closures – again in alphabetical order. Finally, he said it: “Chickasha Public Schools are closed today.”

Hallelujah! Vicki and I wasted no time putting on our coat, hat, boots, and mittens. Even our mom bundled up to join us, though her mission was to de-ice the driveway, steps, and sidewalk.

I don’t remember who came up with the idea to build the fort, but it seemed like the appropriate thing to do with the growing collection of excavated ice chunks. Using a shovel, our mom chipped away at the slippery surfaces while Vicki and I hauled the two-inch ice blocks to the front yard.

One-by-one, we stacked the chunks on top of each other. When I could no longer reach the top, I handed the blocks to Vicki, who used her tippy toes until our fort reached an astounding six feet. With little daylight left, I quickly formed a snowman and rolled his body center stage so he could stand guard and protect our fort from evening intruders.

As days passed and temperatures rose, our lovely masterpiece and snowman started to melt. It was sad to watch them slowly dissipate after so much work – in a matter of days, our fort and snowman would be gone forever – or would they?

I don’t remember his name, but we had a neighbor who worked for the Chickasha Daily Express (now known as the Express-Star) newspaper. He drove by our house on Virginia Avenue every day on his way to work. Unbeknownst to us, he snapped a picture of our fort the morning after it was built. What a surprise it was to us to see our fort among the top stories in the Sunday newspaper!

The caption read: ICE FORT, followed by a cute introduction to our kitty, Snowflakes, whose timing was perfect; she was a great photo-bomber. Our mom cut out the photo and story and placed it on the refrigerator. Our hard work, innovation, and creativity had been showcased to the entire town – it was a proud moment for our little family.

What’s even better than memories are the old photographs that accompany them. Below is the newspaper clipping featuring our ice fort; forty-five years later, it still stands.

Share in the comments below of a time when you built a fort. Was it inside or outside? What materials did you use? Never built a fort? Well, it’s not too late! Build one today and post a picture in the MemoryBlogger Forum!

Original Ice Castle

ICE FORT – This cat stands guard at an ice fortress in the 100 block of Virginia. With all the ice storms, thaws and more ice, it was easy to chip these blocks and pile them up for the brick style fort. A lone snowman stands sentry duty inside the half circle.  Chickasha Daily Express, 1977

~Viv

Pure Bread

By / Spirituality and Faith / 8 Comments
Loaf of bread symbolizes spiritual gift of daily bread

It was nothing more than a simple loaf of bread, but its message was powerfully unique to each of us. For the downtrodden, homeless man, it symbolized hope and life. For me, it represented humility and submission. Worlds apart, he and I, yet as we sat on a cold bench in downtown Ogden, we became one. The only difference between us was the gift we would receive.

Gift exchange was a fun tradition in our Utah neighborhood. Days before Christmas, our front porch became a breeding ground for homemade treats, tins of cookies, chocolates, and bags of caramel popcorn. One afternoon, I came home to a beautifully wrapped loaf of bread. The tag identified it as one of Great Harvest’s holiday staples: orange marmalade swirl. I smiled as I picked it up and carried it to the kitchen to join the rest of the treats. Such a lovely tradition, however, the number of treats always surpassed my husband’s and my ability to consume them. I never told anyone, but every year, I set aside a few goodies for us, then took the rest to the James V. Hansen Federal Building, where I shared the bounty with my co-workers.

Located on the corner of Grant Avenue and Historic 25th Street, the “Federal Building” was home to thousands of employees serving in multiple agencies. Parking around the six-story building was strictly reserved for visitors; therefore, us Feds parked across the street. Not a big deal, it was a short walk in the spring and summer, but in the fall and winter, when daylight hours were few, the walk seemed longer. I dreaded it.

Lampposts along the street and throughout the parking lot were intended to shed light on the darkened city block. Their illumination, however, produced a shadowy-infused ambiance. This created opportunity for ill-intended street occupants to engage in inappropriate behavior. As I walked to and from my car in the early morning and evening hours, I was accosted by men who emerged from the shadows. Some wanted money, others wanted sex. Refusal of either resulted in verbal attacks of profanity. It was an ongoing ritual; one that hadn’t broken any laws. I learned to simply ignore it, which is why I crossed the street without so much as a glance at the downtrodden man on the bench.

Clutching my purse and the loaf of marmalade bread, I hurried passed him and entered the safe confines of the Federal Building. My stomach was churning. By the time I made it to my office on the fourth floor, I was sweating profusely. As I took off my coat and mittens, I stared at the loaf of bread I placed on my desk. My heart began to pound wildly as these words entered my conscious: “Give him the bread.”

“No,” I said aloud to nobody in particular. I was not going to place myself in an awkward or potentially dangerous situation. Besides, I had already taken off my coat; I was not going back outside.

“Give him the bread.”

The prompting became stronger the longer I resisted. I could not concentrate. I could not get my heartrate down, nor could I stop sweating. After about 10 minutes, I reluctantly submitted. I put on my coat and mittens, grabbed the loaf of bread, and headed outside.

His head was tilted down, but he wasn’t asleep. I hadn’t noticed before, but he was an older man. His long gray hair was curly and stuck out from underneath a red crochet hat. He had on a waist-length black coat and brown boots. Looking at this man, my heartrate settled down. My stomach stopped churning. My fear immediately subsided.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Vivian. Would you like some orange marmalade bread?”

Instead of looking up and accepting my gift, he shook his head ‘no’ and continued to stare at the ground.

“Do you not like orange marmalade?” I asked, sitting down beside him. Again, he shook his head, still refusing to look at me. “Me neither,” I confessed.

He had nothing to say to me and I didn’t know what else to say to him. I was confused at the prompting. Why go through all of this just for him to refuse my gift? We sat in silence for a few minutes before I stood up to leave.

“Well, I better get inside so I won’t get into trouble,” I said. He still would not look at me.

“I hope you have a blessed day. Merry Christmas.” As I turned to walk away, the man yelled at me. “Hey, get back here!”

From the tone of his voice, I expected confrontation. I cautiously turned around and for the first time, I saw his face. Tears were rolling down his rosy cheeks into his untrimmed beard. His expression softened. “Thank you,” he said. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

I nodded and smiled. Now I understood.

It was just a loaf of bread, pure and simple, and though neither he nor I consumed any of it that cold December morning, it nourished and filled our bodies. It was never my gift to give to a homeless man. Rather, it was a special gift intended for both he and I. It was never about the bread.

~Viv

Give us today our daily bread…
Matthew 6:11

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