Boy Scouts

The Ernestina Vargas Remedy

Sometime around the halfway point of our time in Higley several moms in our neighborhood had a major breakthrough and came to a consensus on a major scientific formula.  This formula helped to explain why housework in Higley was significantly more stressful and time consuming than in neighboring communities.  Everyone on Fairview lane knew that things took longer to clean and became dirty again more quickly than in some of the more suburban neighborhoods.  The equation is as follow:

([(n)(w)( a )] + [(n)(w)(d)] + c ) x (h)(t) = total stress level measured in mg/cm3 

Where n = number of kids in the family; w = average willingness of the kids to help out where the rating 0 = always willing and 10 = never willing; a = the gross weight of all farm animals owned; d = distance from front of the house to the dirt road; c = the average number of hours required for the parents' church callings; h = area of the house in square feet; and t = the gross weight in pounds of toys and books owned.

Our house had an average rating of 64.5 billion (0r 142 kg/cm3 of internal pressure).  That was bad.  The Payne's rating fluctuated around 68 to 73 billion.  Clearly the moms were stressed and ready to explode at any minute .

The moms began looking into a solution.  Changing the 'n' was a difficult proposition.  Most of the times the 'n's kept coming back.  And sending an 'n' to a neighbors house only magnified the results of their equation.

Changing the 'w' was a time intensive proposition and didn't yield results quickly enough.  However, an interesting theory on getting the 'w' to absolute zero was much talked about.  If only the children could be absolutely willing to help out, the stress would disappear entirely.  Theoretically.

Getting rid of any 'a' was one of the most popular ideas as many of the moms never saw a net benefit of the objects represented by the 'a'.  Most were willing to buy their own milk, eggs, etc. at market prices to drop the 'a' by a few hundred or thousand pounds.  However, the 'a' proved harder to reduce than originally thought.  The 'a' was a key factor in other formulas that were crucial in balancing other formulas such as the "Then why are we living on 2 1/2 acres?" formula and the "That IS our year's supply!" formula.  Though the discussions often returned to reducing the overall 'a', not many were successful in rebalancing the other formulas making use of 'a', and so most attempts were abandoned.

Though 'd' was more like a constant in most homes, many moms were intensely satisfied when the 'd' factor was mostly eliminated due to the paving of the road in mid 1996. 

Any efforts to reduce the 'c' were abandoned after several inspirational talks and testimonies given at church. 

The 'h' was viewed as a constant, and 't' often fluctuated with the success of neighborhood yardsales and birthdays and Christmases.  

The mothers of Fairview lane had given up almost all hope of decreasing the overall stress until one of them discovered a new agent name Ernestina Vargas.  Ernestina could be introduced into the home once a week and effectively replaced the (c)(w) interaction and replaced it with just a (w) at a rating of  0.15!  Eureka!  Ernestina was brought into many homes on a weekly basis.  She was a miracle cure!  Ernestina could decrease stress levels by by 95% in within 8 hours of introducing her into the home.  Ernestina quickly became a highly sought after agent and an informal schedule for the introduction of Ernestina into the homes was arranged.  

Many homes enjoyed a decrease in the overall stress level of the mothers which had unintended benefits.  The frequency of "But my room is already clean!" and the attendant "Sure, you can go play" interchanges increased.  Some mothers even found they could increase their 'c' without noticable effects.  

After a couple of weeks after introducing the Ernestina agent, several households noticed a startling phenomena.  A new condition informally call the "Have you seen my _____?" began to occur with alarming frequency.  This often decreased the households average punctuality factor as measured in minutes late to school and the relative comfort of the pew/chairs the family sat on for Sunday meetings.  A study of the interplay between the Ernestina agent and the related phenomena was undertaken and several months later several households reduced the frequency of their use of the Ernestina Agent.  Stress levels increased, but were maintained at manageable levels.  Additionally, the "Have you seen my _____?" occurrences decreased leading many to believe that there was a direct correlation between the two events.  

In the end, many households enjoyed an overall decrease in stress as the number of 'c' and 't' naturally decreased and the 'a' was eventually lessened.  The 'w' even improved (got lower) over time and many households were able to discontinue the use of Ernestina altogether.  Though no formal studies have been undertaken, no lasting side effects from using the Ernestina agent have been reported.

Crazy Cow

There were a couple things that made our farm look more like a non-profit organization than an enterprising venture - one of them was a painfully obvious lack of farm equipment. We didn't own a tractor. Of any kind. Whatsoever. In fact, the one thing that made regular appearances at our home that even closely resembled a tractor was the old Subaru that my dad drove for several years - only a close inspection would have revealed that such a homely looking car wasn't held together by super-glue and baling wire.

Without the use of a tractor, several of the tasks on the farm which would have been expedited by such an implement were drawn out over several tedious hours! One such task was that of fertilizing the pastures. While the animals provided ample amounts of "fertilizer," they could never seem to get it evenly distributed, or even in the areas where we wanted it to go. Our experiments in this regard resulted in a front yard of yellow-green grass, speckled with the occasional clump of dark-green extremely tall grass. That is probably a good explanation for why we didn't win Better Homes and Garden's "Best Front Lawn" award that year.

Short a tractor, and dismayed with the bovine blotches -- we had to turn to other technology. We had a seed/fertilizer disseminating devise that one would strap over your shoulder, with a sack that would hold about 20-30 lbs of fertilizer. You would walk around the area you intended to fertilize with that device digging the flesh of your hip, while cranking the lever that spun the spreader-wheel, flinging the seeds or fertilizer in all directions. Now, while we Taylors consider ourselves to be determined and intrepid, I don't think even one of us relished the opportunity to shoulder that contraption while fertilizing 2.5 acres of land.

One year in particular was memorable when this task was assigned to John, Quinn and I. We weren't interested in spending an entire day at the job. We sought a way to "speed things up" a little. Luck, and inspiration were with us that day - and it didn't take long for the light-bulb to turn on when we spied my parent's '92 hatch-back Ford Explorer. We could load the fertilizer bags in the back, one would drive, another would hold the spreader, and a third would crank the handle. Satisfied we had found a way to free up our entire afternoon, we drove the Explorer out into the pasture, loaded up with the fertilizer. The ride was bumpy, but bearable, as we knew that we were saving a great deal of time. The animals had never seen anything like the Ford in their pasture, and were keen to keep their distance -- all but one of them.

One of the heifers we kept (but never quite broke to a halter), was just curious enough to follow us at a safe distance. We paid little attention to her until as John was cornering to make another sweep down the pasture, he accidentally bump one of the knobs on the side of the steering wheel column, turning on the wind-shield wipers. As luck would have it, John's turn took us on a course directly for that heifer. Quinn and I were facing the rear and had lost site of her, but the next thing we knew John had stopped the Explorer in a fit of laughter - something neither of us expected while engaging in the drudgery of fertilizing. Our curiosity piqued - we both turned quickly to see what gave John such a good reason to laugh. Heaven knows what had gotten into the heifer's mind, but there she was, doing her best impression of a caffeinated and epileptic break-dancer trying to get away from the Explorer. Quinn and I both gave each other a look that said "Yup, now we've seen it all."

About 20 feet away, she stopped to have a look in our direction again. John wasted no time at all, he flipped on the wind-shield wipers again, and she was off again, busting moves that a contortionist would be proud to claim as intellectual property, leaving deposits all along the way that would soon become clumps of dark-green extremely tall grass.

Being taught by our father to use the scientific method, we had to see this hypothesis to it's conclusion. I forget how long we terrorized that poor heifer, but by the end of the day it was a toss up as to which set of muscles were the most sore -- my arms from lifting fertilizer bags and cranking that handle, or my abdominal muscles from uncontrollable laughter!

To this day, I am curious if our results can be duplicated by further experimentation. I don't know when I'll have the opportunity to drive a truck through pasture full of cows, but if I do... there will be no question what my first instinct will be!

From the House of Payne

I'm posting this on behalf of Katie (Payne) Dew:

Those are funny stories and I still remember both of them!! And even to this day, EVERYTIME I use that toilet, I always think of a bottle rocket shooting from underneath the door. It scared the crap out of me! Good thing I was already on the toilet!! I was so mad at you guys! That thing was inches from hitting me, I'm surprised it didn't! You guys would've been goners if it did!! Hahaha!! Good times at the old House of Payne!! Thanks for sharing!

Here's an oldie but a goodie:

Once again, date night...no parents. Us Payne girls got bored of our Barbies and dolls (and each other) pretty quickly. Especially while the parents were gone, that gave us a lot of freedom. I remember one night going down to the stocked up storage room with year supply of everything and taking about 20 rolls of toilet paper (which happened more than just this one night). We wanted to fake out the neighbors and make them think a serial toilet paperist was on the loose and getting all the neighbors, so we got the Taylor's, Carpenter's, Dillavou's...and our own house! Who would toilet paper their own house? Yea, I know...we would! We thought we were so clever and that no one would figure out who this serial toilet paperist was, so we were quite surprised when everyone knew it was us naughty Payne girls! We loved toilet papering! I think we went almost every weekend in the summers after night time swimming. I remember toilet papering the Taylor's house so many times in a row one summer that Laird got so mad at us! He made us clean it up and got emotional as he gave us a lecture about not toilet papering his house anymore. Sorry Laird!!! We were so naughty!!

Harassing the Payne Girls

My good friend Dan from Higley is working in DC for three weeks, and we had him over for church and dinner a couple of Sunday’s ago. In the car driving him back to the Metro station the girls asked me to tell them a story from when I was young. I recalled a time when Dan and I gave the neighbor girls a satisfying scare:

Dan and I met in the fifth grade. His family moved into our neighborhood in Higley the summer before our freshman year of high school. We lived across the street from each other and often spent evening and weekend hours hanging out when we had time. During the summers we would often join up with the other neighbors (most often the Payne family) to hang out and play outdoor games. The Payne kids closest to our age were girls, and as boys are wont to tease girls, we found several ways to harass them.

One weekend night Dan and I learned that the Payne girls were home alone with their younger brother. Sandee, Katie, Kristy, Kelly, Mike, and Kerri were home and their older brothers were out with friends and their parents were out on a date. With parents gone the Payne girls were confined to the house, and Dan and I had to find something else to keep us busy.

The Payne girls liked to watch scary movies when their parents were out, and we knew that they could get pretty jumpy. You could tell when this was the case as every light in the house would be burning, lighting up the yard a little from the glow. One of these nights we decided to play some pranks.

Dan and I dressed in dark clothes so we could hide in the shadows. We snuck to the front door and rang the doorbell. We’d bolt from the porch and hide around the side of the house before someone could answer the door. This worked for only a couple of times. Pretty soon all of the floodlights outside the house were on and it became trickier to get to the door without being seen through a window. But, after a little while the girls would get tired of watching and would go back to their movies believing they must have chased us off. We would wait for this moment and then hit the doorbell again. Finally, whichever girl would come to the door would yank it open and yell something like “I know you’re out there Ben and Dan!” and the game lost its charm.

This last time while we were hiding on the side of the house after ringing the doorbell we noticed the circuit breaker box on the wall. We knew if we could cut the lights the game could go on. We pulled at the cover and it swung open with a little effort. But which circuit connected to the outside lights. Wait a minute! Why stop with the outside lights!?

It wasn’t too hard to find the master switch as they were always at the top in the middle of circuit breaker boxes. We grinned in the moonlight as one of us cut the power to the entire house. Three or four screams rang out in the night from the Payne’s basement and various rooms in the house. We left the power off for a good minute as we snickered to ourselves. This was good for another time or two until we say a neighbor’s door open and close and someone came walking over with a flashlight. We figured the Payne girls had gotten too scared and called a neighbor to come check it out. Dan and I barely got away unseen.

The next weekend we decided we should repeat our little game at the Payne’s, only this time, we’d go straight for the circuit breaker box. When we got there we were extremely disappointed to find a lock in the circuit breaker box lid. We looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders and walked back to my house to cook up our next plan.

I asked Dan if he remembered any stories that involved the both of us and he reminded me of the following story:

One summer around the Fourth of July Dan and some of the other neighbors had gotten a hold of some bottle rockets and other smaller fireworks. We all met at the Payne’s house one night to rollerblade and skateboard on their cement driveway to music from the radio. The Payne’s were one of the few families in the neighborhood with a cement driveway at the time, and they also had floodlights that allowed for its use at night.

This must have been another night that the Payne’s parents were out, as I don’t think we would have been lighting off fireworks on their driveway otherwise. So, we set off several bottle rockets and some black cats and skated around with sparklers. That got boring quickly so we started to look for ways to make it more interesting. It didn’t take us long to start aiming the bottle rockets using pipes and empty bottles.

The Payne family had built a bathroom onto their garage that opened only to the garage. This was handy for when you needed to ‘go’ but weren’t allowed in the house (like when the parents weren’t home). It was also the closest bathroom to the driveway. Katie Payne ducked into the bathroom at the point when our drive for new and inventive ways to light off bottle rockets was at its peak. It was when Katie shut the door to the bathroom (still in rollerblades) that we noticed the 1” gap between the bathroom door and the floor.

Dan and I quickly placed a bottle rocket just outside the door on the ground, aimed it under the door, lit it, and backed up laughing. The bottle rocket shot in the bathroom with a “SHOOOOOP” which was followed by a scream, a BANG!, and then silence. We were falling over each other in laughter on the driveway, but after another minute we got a little curious. “Katie. Are you okay in there?” Silence. Finally, two or three minutes later Katie flung back the door and shot daggers at us with her eyes. She turned and skated to the door to the house, went inside, and wasn’t seen for the rest of the evening.

After we figured the coast was clear, Dan and I went over to the bathroom to look for any signs of damage. On the back wall about six inches off the ground and about six inches to the right of the toilet was a black blast mark on the drywall about 4 inches in diameter. This set us to laughing again as we skated around the driveway another time or two. I don’t think the mark on the wall was ever explained to the Payne parents. No one wanted to admit to setting off fireworks without parents around. Even with the unspoken pact of secrecy binding us together, it took the passing of a little more than a week before Katie started talking to us again.

Laird's Lullabies

Last night Britta asked me to sing her a song as she was going to sleep.  I anticipated her asking for a new song (which is a hard request to follow night after night) and began thinking of something I’d never sung her before.  My mind cast back on the days when I was young and my father used to sing to me.  I started chuckling to myself as some of the words came back to me.  It was one of those moments when the uniqueness of my upbringing was again confirmed to me. 

I started singing, a little shakily, a song I remember my dad singing that used to send us into fits of laughter.  Britta got a couple of chuckles out of it too, tired as she was.  Ultimately, I had to call my dad to fill in the gaps in my memory.  He was more than happy to oblige and gave an impromptu recital while I put him on speaker phone while the girls drifted off to sleep.  I thought I should capture these songs in writing to help me remember them and to draw out whatever memories you might have.

 

Cheers!

 

 

Johnny Roebeck

There was a little Dutch boy whose name was Johnny Roebeck.

He liked to dine on sausages and sauerkraut and speck.

One day he invented a terrible machine.

Now all the neighbors’ cats and dogs will never more be seen.

 

Chorus:

O, Mr. & Mrs. Johnny Roebeck how could you be so mean.

I told you you’d be sorry for inventing that machine.

Now all the neighbors cats and dogs will never more be seen.

They’ll all be turned to sausages in Johnny Roebeck’s machine.

 

One day the little Dutch boy came walking in the store.

He bought a pound of sausages and laid them on the floor.

He started into whistle, he whistled up a tune,

And all the little sausages went dancing around the room.

 

[Chorus]

 

One day the darn thing busted, it just plain wouldn’t go,

So Johnny Roebeck stuck in his neck to see what made it so.

His wife was having a nightmare while walking in her sleep.

She gave the crank a heck of a yank, and Johnny Roebeck was meat.

 

O, Mr. & Mrs. Johnny Roebeck how could you be so mean.

I told you you’d be sorry for inventing that machine.

Now all the neighbors cats and dogs will never more be seen.

They’ve all been turned to sausages in Johnny Roebeck’s machine.

 

 

Alice, Where Are You Going?

Alice, where are you going?

Upstairs to take a bath.

Alice, with legs like toothpicks

And a neck like a giraffe-afe-afe-afe-afe-afe-afe-afe

 

Alice turned off the water.

Alice pulled out the plug.

Goodness gracious, what a shame!

There goes Alice down the drain!

Glub. Glub. Glub.

 

 

I Had a Little Chicken

Oh… I… had a little chicken and she wouldn’t lay an egg,

So I poured hot water up and down her leg.

And the little chicken hollered and the little chicken begged,

And that little chicken laid for me a hard boiled egg.

 

 

The Battle Cry of Freedom

Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow.

Shouting out the battle cry of free-ee-dom.

And every where that Mary went the lamb was sure to go.

Shouting out the battle cry of free-ee-dom.

Hoo-rah for the Mary!

Hoo-rah for the lamb!

Hoo-rah for the teacher who didn’t give a particle if

All the lambs in Idaho went marching of to school.

Shouting out the battle cry of free-ee-dom!

 

Mary had a little goat whose skin was black as ink.

Shouting out the battle cry of free-ee-dom.

He chewed the paper off the walls and spit it in the sink.

Shouting out the battle cry of free-ee-dom.

Hoo-rah for the Mary!

Hoo-rah for the goat!

Hoo-rah for the teacher who didn’t give a particle if

All the goats in Idaho went marching of to school.

Shouting out the battle cry of free-ee-dom!

'Building Character', or, The Great Milk Wars

You can't live on a farm without building some character. It's in the bylaws. There are many methods to achieve this, but Dad chose cows. Cows are perfect for this endeavor, because they are simple. There are only three laws that govern the phenomenon that is cow, but this is not a treatise on the psychology of cows. I am not the leading bovine expert either.

No, this is about the chore of milking. We all loved it. Going out to milk was almost as fun as singing the sunbeam song after eating 4 candies! Especially in AZ, in the summer, when it was 110º with the flies buzzing around to create a breeze to keep you chilled. What we wouldn't give for just one more time playing dodge-the-quick-tail-or-take-it-in-the-face, a true gentleman's game of timing, courage, and hitting the cow in the flanks with all your strength. I was so into this chore, I had a special pair of milking jeans that never came in the house. Light blue bell bottom beauties they were. Over time, they became less blue and took on more of the hue of cows, their great mentor and exemplar.

Wait, not even 15 years can change our feeling about milking that much! Let me get it right. Dad took it early on, but one day, I grew old enough to be a slave, and Doug Carpenter came over to teach me how to milk cows. He gave an inspiring pep talk about the job, including, as I recall, an account of his own personal vision of hell, which was "a herd of cows that needed him to milk them 24 hours a day for eternity." With these happy thoughts in mind, I sat down to build some character.

A trance like state arose, and it went slow. Too slow. So out was sent a brother to help, presumably he who protested less efficiently. Good intention on the parents part, but see, with 2 boys, each takes a side. And it doesn't take long to see the likeness between a squirt gun and the milking process. On those days, the milk production seemed lower, as noted by the bucket weighing. That was another reason I used my lucky milking jeans, even in 110º weather. See, water evaporates. Milk gets sticky when it dries. Eew. You wouldn't think there would be much call for aiming the business end of a cow without a clear view of your target, but surely this is great training for artillery, where you cannot see your target either.

I don't know if there was a clear winner declared, or whether there was just a cease fire, but I do know that no one has challenged me in all the years since. You decide. The cats, however, were spoilsports. They just stuck their faces out and caught the stream in their mouths. Spooky and Chessie, you should have won a cat show for that (Who says you can't train a cat?). Curiously, none of us owns a cow at present, nor have we any plans to. Guess we built enough character. Maybe the next generation will need a booster shot of chores. I have just the pep talk for them, it did wonders for me!

Rodeo in the East Orchard

2.5 acres may have seemed small compared to for-profit farm outfits, but we certainly new how to pack variety into small spaces. I recall, growing up, that I was near bored out of my mind in class when the teacher wanted to "educate" us about farm animals -- I had the whole menagerie at home! Chickens, geese, ducks, cows, cats, and perhaps the most notable in this story, sheep.

Animals came and went at our home, but they always seemed to be soon replaced by others. While they called our spit of land home, they often became endeared to us by their peculiar characteristics. There were times when they earned their names for their deeds, and others when they signed their own death-warrants for their iniquities (Mom, I don't think there is any question about who needs to fill in the blank here). One thing that I observed is that there were varying levels of "IQ" from species to species. The geese were probably the most astute, and cognitive -- and sheep seemed to have the mental capacity of algae. The rest were sprinkled somewhere in between.

Sheep had two uses on our farm. 1)Mowing the grass in the orchards. 2) Pooping (alright, maybe we can lend some dignity to it by calling it 'fertilizing'). Perhaps the occasional lark of pointing out the deficiencies in our farm fences. Aside from adding some variety to our barnyard of sorts, I had trouble figuring out exactly why they had become a fixture on the farm. I made it my duty to make sure that no animal on our farm felt disused or unprofitable. I set out to find gainful employment for them. (Early exploration in this field involved a BB gun, as I recall).

Fortunately for both parties, I had recently learned the skillful use of a Lariat. Any farmer who owns animals who can out-run him should have one, and know how to use it. During this same time, it had become painfully apparent to Alan Thatcher and I, that our bicycles had gone out of vogue. We were in need of a stylish steed, and what could be more stylish and comfortable than Wool? Alan Thatcher's reckless disregard for safety, combined with my bored imagination was akin to pouring gas on a fire. Sooner, rather than later, we were both in the east orchard where the sheep were kept at the time, I was anxiously holding my Lariat, Thatcher keeping a lookout for any onlookers. For an animal as smart as a clump of Algae, they sure seemed to figure out in rapid fashion that they were going to end up with the short end of the stick! My determination was stronger than theirs, and Thatcher's determination seemed to be stronger than that -- even (as I would come to find out) stronger than blunt objects that were rapidly closing in on him.

Within minutes, we had our first test subject ready, and I allowed Thatcher to have the honor of the maiden voyage -- this honor was extended frequently when I wasn't entirely sure that the outcome of a given escapade would be in my best interest. Without a saddle, a bridle, or reins, bareback was the only option, and the thick outer coat of wool seemed as good a place as any to hold on for dear life. Free of the lasso's restraint, the sheep was off like a shot, and I was surprised and morbidly fascinated to find that Thatcher was still on-board! Too late, I realized that I had forgotten to account for obstacles that might present a challenge to us as riders -- namely the cages made of iron T-posts, and metal farm-mesh fencing. To the sheep's eternal credit, it made a B-line for the nearest fruit-tree cage and before Thatcher could grasp the nature of the imminent danger, brought about Thatcher's involuntary and un-graceful dismount to the rear. While strained laughter may not have been the most appropriate response, it was greatly cathartic!

After a few more test-rides we were convinced that bicycles were very much still in vogue, and we could find more worthy endeavors for his reckless abandon, and my bored imagination. Higley was just the place for the two of us - and had I stayed there for a few years more, there would be much, MUCH more to write about!

Nickname Onomastics

The unfortunate thing about nicknames is that you don't get to choose your own. Sure, you can try to get your friends to call you something cool like..."Chaz", but these kind of nicknames never really stick. [Except when your friends decide to mock you because you picked a ridiculous nickname for yourself (like "Chaz")]. This was proven once recently when I tried to give myself the name "Murgatriod" during our last laser tag outing. Fumbling with the phonics of my new nickname I penned "Mergatroid" on my registration. When laser packs were being assigned "Megatroid" got pack #7.

In contrast, a nickname with real staying power is usually bestowed by those that proport to be your friends. The nickname is often born from some episode in which you've distinguished yourself (usually in a not-so-famous way) or due to some unfortunate play on your name. I cannot adequately describe how much I loathe the marketers of Bengay for deciding on this particular name for their product.

It's not uncommon for an individual to answer to more than one nickname at a time. In second grade I was known by my classmates as "Bean" (again, due to another unfortunate mispelling incident) while my brothers affectionately called me "Admiral Nanny" (I'll let Jon or Allison address this one). Quinn was "Qwanbee" or "Qwan" and "Quinnafred". Alan was "Gloworm" and "Bagel" (Big-Al).

(I know this isn't really finished, but I just had another idea for a blog entry and this entry kind of got away from me already....)

Pickle Wars

Most major conflicts can trace their origins back to a key event. World War I can be traced back to the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria while visiting Sarajevo with his wife. The American Civil War began when the newly seceded Confederacy attacked a US military installation at Fort Sumter in South Carolina.

But some conflicts have no clear beginnings. Day after day minor retaliations escalate until you find yourself caught up in events that sweep you along with them. Though I'm not really clear on how the pickle war started, I vividly remember some of the battles which were fought

The lines were drawn between Jon and I shortly after I relocated my bedroom to the basement room next to his. Allison had left for college and with that departure Jon was deprived of a confidante and trusted ally. I unfortunately had been lumped with my younger siblings into the "young and naive" crowd.

Despite sharing a wall, a bathroom, and the satisfaction of being granted our own rooms in the basement, Jon and I found plenty of reasons to try each others' patience. At some point, physical retaliation was proved to have too high of a cost. First, we were starting to have more draws in our matches, and that meant that Mom had plenty of time to catch us at it and sentence us to cruel and unusual punishment (i.e. spending time with each other doing what the other wanted).

At some point it dawned on me that I could still make Jon's life miserable without laying a finger on him. I'm sure my young face twisted in a devious smile as I pondered how to best make him uncomfortable and cover my tracks. I let the thought simmer for several days in the back of my mind. I had almost forgotten this thought until one day while standing in the pantry rummaging for any leftover snacks I happened upon a jar of sweet pickles. I had learned a couple of years previous that I didn't like the taste of sweet pickles, but sometimes I would open a jar to smell and reconfirm these things. You know something like this:

BEN: (opening the refrigerator to browse): Horseradish? Ugh, disgusting. What does a horse radish look like anyway? I think I remember this stuff being spicy and hot, but maybe that was just my imagination. I think I'll taste it again to make sure. (sticking the tip of his tongue into the jar) Ugh! Ow, that burns my tongue! Yeah, that stuff is definitely gross. (Puts lid back on jar and replaces jar in refrigerator)

So, that day I smelled the sweet pickles again just to see if it still made me want to wretch. After my previous experiences had been confirmed, the timer in my head pinged to let me know that the pot simmering in the back of my mind was done. (Heh, heh, heh.) If the smell of sweet pickles could make me want to wretch, they could certainly make other people feel the same way.

I tucked the jar of pickles into a basket of laundry and headed back to the basement. As I passed mom in the kitchen she eyed me suspiciously. I gave her my best "I'm going to be a helper today" smile and trotted off without looking back. I'm sure she was calculating how many twinkies and fruit roll-ups I had fit into the laundry basket under the pile of clothes.

I ditched the basket of clothes in my room and stashed the jar of sweet pickles in my closet. Then I waited until I knew Jon would be out of his room for a couple of minutes. When I heard his footsteps heading up the stairs I fished out a pickle from the jar and tiptoed to his room. My eyes darted around the room looking for a place to hide the pickle. It couldn't be obvious, and it had to be somewhere that he wouldn't think to look. And someplace that he would visit frequently. My eyes had just caught on the model of a factory that Jon had built with my father when I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Remembering there was a small hole in the bottom to insert a light bulb, I quickly grabbed the model and jammed the pickle inside. Setting the model on the shelf I had just enough time to dig through his folded clothes on the shelves and pretend I was searching for a lost trove of snacks when Jon walked in the room.

"Hey! What are you doing?! Get out of here!!"

I made an immature face and bolted from the room.

It was several weeks before I stashed the next pickle. This time I stuck it inside a folded pair of athletic socks. It was only days until he discovered this one. I'm sure it was obvious who had planted the pickle because I soon found pickles showing up in my drawers and closet. Eventually the conflict ended. Not because of a lack of places to stash pickles, but Mom simply never bought another jar. One day I found a partially empty tuna can on top of a shelf high up in my closet. I quickly threw my white flag in surrender. I marched to Jon's room and flashed him the tuna can. "I'm through. I don't want tuna in my room." Jon smiled at me deviously as he took another bite of his dry chocolate cake mix, and grimaced as I dumped the tuna, can and all into his trash can.

It wasn't until years later when we were looking through some of Jon's things that I noticed the model of the factory still on his closet shelf. I picked it up and turned it around and heard something rattling around inside. I peered through the hole and started laughing when I recognized the shriveled lump. "What?!" Jon demanded and grabbed the model from my hands. When he too saw the initial deposit that had touched of the war, he dropped the model and promptly left the room. Seconds later I could hear Jon's voice echoing from the stairs: "Mom? Do we have any tuna?!"

Hijinks on the stairwell

For some reason, I’m reminiscing about the hijinks that happened in transit from upstair to downstairs. I recall tray-surfing (not that I ever participated) and almost-daily leaps onto the landing from basement-bound Taylors, with the apparent goal of using the plywood landing as a bass drum. One day I had just finished a relatively peaceful descent only to have Jon (aka Spiderman) leap downward at me from his perch high up in the doorway. He had wedged himself up high by bracing his feet against the door jambs (he MUST have been wearing sneakers) and lying in wait like a spider waiting for prey. I can’t recall what I said, probably because I was startled speechless (well done, Spider-boy!). I think afterward Jon said, “ow, that hurt my feet, landing on the hard floor” and I probably told him he deserved it. I also recall that Mom stood at the top of the stairs and held the waistband of my just-washed jeans, while I held the leg hems and let my weight stretch out the wet denim a tiny fraction of an inch. Back then, I was desperate to keep my jeans from becoming high-waters, but my legs were just growing too fast, and we didn’t have the clothing budget to seek out longer and longer jeans. We probably only gained a tenth of an inch, but we kept trying. The most annoying thing that ever traveled down the stairs was sound. Specifically, the rousing strains of Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” in the still morning hours, snaking its way into sleeping ears and waking us more efficiently than parental coaxing (or parental growling). Mom’s devious behavior won our surly attendance at the breakfast table (without her wasting any time nudging Jon and me repeatedly), but I can now offer grudging admiration at the efficacy of her solution. I’ve met other parents who employed the same technique, and we should be grateful Mom didn’t pool resources with them and give us polkas at high volume. Or Senegalese drum jams, or Jamaican steel pan calypso!

Raiders of the Lost Pantry

One of the most useful skills ever perfected in the Taylor house in Higley was how to carry off a successful raid of the pantry without alerting the parents. A successful raid could mean a stash of snacks to satisfy an entire week of late night munchies. Even more, it meant bargaining power with the other siblings. But with power came danger. Once your secret was out, the others had a bargaining chip that had to be quickly countered by equally condemning blackmail, otherwise you were sure to be thrown under the proverbial bus at any moment.

Despite the risks associated with carrying of a raid, the lure finally became too great when SAMs club opened in Gilbert and mom started buying lunch snacks in bulk. Once the boxes of snickers and crunch bars, fruit rollups, and CapriSun juice packets passed the threshold of the house, each of our hands began slinking its way towards the pantry door. Mom and Dad must have noticed that an invisible tractor beam in the pantry had been turned on because a hook and eye latch was installed at about 7 feet above the ground in short order. With most of us too short to reach the latch, we had to wait until we could catch the door unlocked. We sat salivating in our rooms.

Of course we dragged chairs from the kitchen table and stacked overturned trash bins on top of the chairs to reach the last few crucial inches.  As soon as the latch had been compromised, a swarm of boys would soon be at the pantry door.  Without bothering to ensure that the coast was clear we would tear into whatever high-calorie, sugary snack was most consumable at the moment.  Usually we would try not to stare into another's eyes as we stood there munching on chocolate bars as the sugar-deprivation shakes subsided.  Mom was soon aware of our secretive activities.  Several times she caught us red handed as we just stood there munching while chocolate melted in our mouths and our hands.  We were moths drawn to the flame with no hope of escape!

I'm convinced that Mom kept tabs on most of our pantry comings and goings, as most of the time it was obvious when a heist had been undertaken.  There would be a significant number of candy bars or twinkies missing without the associated wrappers-in-the-trash-can evidence.  When the supply of candy bars were cut short we resorted to containers of frosting and starlight mints. 

Necessity (aka our collective bottomless stomachs) was the mother of our invention, and the objects of our pantry raids became more varied.  Some of the new pilfered items were not so noticeable.  I remember one day catching Jon tucking a tupperware container back into a cupboard on his headboard.  Waiting until he had left his room I went in to investigate.  What I found was a chocolate pudding or cake mix that had been emptied into the tupperware and a chocolate encrusted spoon for shoveling.  From the looks of it, the cake mix had probably lasted a full week and it was less than half gone, probably on account of the lack of fresh milk in the basement.

After a while, the novelty of raiding the pantry wore off.  Looking back it seemed to coincide with when Mom threw in the towel and discontinued chocolate bars and the other snacks from her weekly grocery supply runs.  And eventually even the latch didn't slow us down when we became tall enough to reach it without the aid of a chair.  However, there would still be times when two or three of us would crowd the walk-in pantry and stare longingly at the empty shelves where the treats had been while we munched on what was available.  "Sure miss those snickers," Quinn would say as he crunched some raw spaghetti noodles over an over.  "Yeah, me too," I'd mutter while carelessly letting some uncooked cracked wheat drop to the floor.  "I loved the frosting on those Hostess cupcakes."  Suddenly, Jon's eyes would perk up and he'd dash past us out of the pantry and head down the stairs.  Quinn and I would glance knowingly at each other.  We'd count to five and then slink off after John.  Blackmail was out at this point but we still harbored hopes of catching him uncovering a stash of forgotten good.

Higley Hijinks - open season!

From the American Heritage Dictionary:

high jinks or hi·jinks (hī'jĭnks') pl.n. : Playful, often noisy and rowdy activity, usually involving mischievous pranks.


For a while now I've wanted to create a family blog where we could capture and re-live all of the fun family memories that made us who we are. Before you can have blogging, you need a blog and you need a web address.

In coming up with a name for a family blog where everyone from our extended family could post, I considered names that included words describing the Taylor gorillas, etc., but I didn't want to leave out all of the non-gorillas. I hoped to create a broader base which included the entire extended family, but how do you describe us all? Is there one adjective or phrase that captures who we are? We can't all be grouped under something like "Laird's Legacy" (for obvious reasons :-P). Even something as generic as "The Taylors" leaves out our Brandt and Shorty relations. I quickly realized that I wasn't ready to do something on so grand a scale. Instead I contented myself with something centering around our immediate family's experiences. [I'll defer a more expansive treatment of our family's experiences to another, more ambitious and capable person.]

With the scope of this project sufficiently limited, the title just popped out of my head fully formed. Higley Hijinks may seem somewhat narrow and exclusive for a title, and it's probably a bit dated in both time and location. However, when considering the entire Taylor family experience, Higley is our foundation, and it seemed fitting that it was part of the title (and space on the web). So, each of you have been enabled with the ability to post to this blog, and I hope you all do! I look forward to documenting and reading everyone's accounts of the shenanigans that took place while we lived under the same roof as well as the current hijinks that are a result of the people we became.

So, with this opening post, I declare it open season for Higley Hijinks!!!