A
few weeks back I bumped into an old fire chief and his sweet wife in the bike
store. Conveniently, this sweet couple are the parents of a girl I used to date
back in high school. It’s been over a decade since I’ve seen either of them.
Cue
sudden rush of emotions.
For
full effect, download “Walk Home” by Thomas Newman and play at maximum volume
throughout the duration of this post.
They
say it takes a village to raise a child. Well, at least I think that’s what
Hilary Clinton said somewhere in a best-selling novel a few years back. The
phrase is cliché and overused, but the bottom line is no matter what family we
come from, the biological parents are not the only people responsible for a boy
turning into a man. Go ahead and nod your head in agreement with me on that
last statement, because you know just as well as I do that there’s a list of
honorable Moms and Dads floating around your history somewhere. Moms and Dads you meet in random bike shops, like the Ritchies.
Kids,
I know you’ve heard my claims that the village of Southern Utah is the place
that helped me become a man. With that being said, there is no way I will ever
forget the village that took care of me as a boy. That village was a place I’m
not known in my professional career for praising very often, but at the same
time, it is where I truly came into my own, with the help of quite a few people
along the way.
As
an A.D.D. driven creature playing with pogs and watching Saturday morning
cartoons, you could say I was a “special” kind of kid. And I don’t mean special
as in, “this-kid’s-gonna-go-far-because-of-his-ability-to-solve-calculus-problems-in-Spanish”,
I mean special as in
“why-is-that-drooling-weirdo-putting-grape-jelly-on-his-pizza?” I was out of
control, unorthodox, and had pop culture icons like Jim Carrey and David Spade
influence my annoying social skills. I was a rambunctious monster, and luckily,
my childhood was postmarked with outstanding people such as the Ritchies, who
came in to make sure I didn’t go too far off the deep end.
There
are a quite a few parents I owe credit for voluntarily raising me over the
years. On the south side of my house I had the Nelsons, who were kind enough to
let me shovel off the basketball court in their own backyard and shoot hoops
night after night. On the other side were the Willards, the classic next-door neighbor
couple who were some of the best personal chaperones and guest cooks you could
find. I had Larry and Kathy Mower, the former teaching me the art of detailing
a car, the latter showing me the secret to decorating a cake. There was my
former employer, Bruce Foust, a man that taught me the skill of keeping up a
yard. And Pat Patterson, a wise sage who I stole bits and pieces from the way
he delivered a speech.
I
am grateful to have had these people in my life. I'm grateful for the Chuggs
being patient with me as I exchanged blows with their son Cody over the years.
I'm grateful for Darren Albright for not throwing me into traffic after I accidentally
burnt a hole in the front seat of his car with a cigarette lighter. I'm
grateful to Deanne Sheridan for teaching me how to play the piano. I'm grateful
to Kim Robinson and Brad Ostler for being the best scoutmasters west of the
Mississippi, and not torching my friends and I when we scratched the words
"Kim Sucks" all over White Canyon. I'm grateful to Chris and Kathy
Davis for being the hug I needed the night my Dad passed away.
The
list could go on and on, I know that. But since our modern day attention span
can only focus on blogposts that are under four minutes in length, I have to
keep it short. One thing I will say is that I am grateful for the number of
parents that put up with me over the years, and had the patience to not lose
their sanity as life came our way. If I didn’t have them to keep me in line,
who knows where I would be at this point?
As
I stood in the bike shop with my old girlfriend’s parents, we talked, we
laughed, we caught up on old times, we hugged in the aisle and then went our
separate ways. Who knows when I’ll see them again? In fact, who knows if there
will ever be another lucky coincidence that will have me meet up with any of my
proxy parents again in a bike shop? It's been almost 12 years since I left Roy
as an immature, foolish, naïve, six-foot-four punk, and not a day goes by I
don’t thank the big man upstairs for blessing me with the collage of parents
that raised me.
And
maybe, in the years ahead, I’ll be lucky enough to bump into a few more of them
while standing in line at random bike shops.
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