Day after Thanksgiving

What happens in Wal-Mart at midnight? For most nights of the year, shady characters and college students are the lone few that roam the aisles. But a few days ago, things got a little crazy. Actually, it wasn't a little crazy, it was WAY CRAZY. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and Christmas Spirit was about to be unleashed with the doorbuster deals in every Wal-Mart and Target store in the country. Black Friday -- the name that inspires moms and obsessive shoppers to stand in mile-long lines in sub-zero weather. My mom is no exception. And just to join in on the adventure, most of the Metcalf family stuffs themselves in the car too. The first stop this year was Wal-Mart. At midnight.

There weren't any parking spots available when we rolled up at 11:55. The door busters were busted, every deal snatched up thirty seconds after midnight. So we left with absolutely nothing. Onward to the next Wal-Mart. After an hour at this one, all we came out with was a pair of socks and a stomach ache from eating McDonalds (just a little advice -- don't eat a quarter pounder with cheese at 1:00 am, it doesn't usually sit well in the tummy). When we left, it was 2:00 am, and all we had to show for our sacrifice of sleep and our struggles to get through the front door -- a stinkin pair of socks. Black friday indeed.

Goal #12 - Looking Both Ways Before Crossing the Street

The first couple of weeks, Tanner had a hard time remembering what to do. We would walk to the edge of the street, and I would wait for him to look both ways. Instead he just stood next to me, his eyes only moving to look up at my face and laugh at my silly expression. Finally I'd shift from Goofy to Mr. Party Pooper -- pointing both ways to help Tanner understand. But he simply giggled, slapping my shoulder with a soft hand. "Tanner, what do we need to do before we cross the street?" I would ask kindly, pleading with him in my mind to move his eyes to either side of the road. Sometimes he would. But those first couple of weeks, we stood there until snack time. Tanner was probably wondering why I was acting so weird. I was just wondering what he was wondering. And there we stood as minutes fell down into the gutter.

I found out this summer that patience pays. The last day of work, Tanner and I stood at the street's edge, and I looked across to behold the Promised Land -- the playground with Tanner's green slide. I looked at Tanner, hoping that he would fulfill his goal. Almost casually, Tanner threw his finger to point to one side of the street as his eyes followed. "Car," he said. Then he pointed to the other side. "Car," he repeated. I wanted to jump for joy, scream out in celebration. Tanner had gotten the goal. We did celebrate -- walking across the street to the green slide was good enough for the both of us.

Caked in Color

Heavy leaves fall from a branch's cradle, crashing down to the concrete path in front of me. My eyes move down, watching the little leaf defy gravity as it floats through fall air. I want to jump up and catch the falling leaves, want to roll around in the piles, soaking my clothes with the smell of barn red and burnt orange. I still can't adequately describe that smell, the smell that makes my lips curve into a simple smile, thoughts of past autumns floating down from the trees into my head. Thoughts of diving into the slip-and-slide of mud to find myself caked in color, leaves stuffing my ears and falling out my shorts. Thoughts of stabbing hard skin of pumpkins, following the stencil my mom got from a website to carve the perfect werewolf. Thoughts of home, of watching Spongebob Squarepants with my sister because it was getting too cold to do anything outside, of watching my dog run around in the back as he tried to escape the leaf rakes, of the warmth of chocolate chips oozing out the sides of newly baked cookies. Then I watched the leaf touch the ground, kissing grey earth. As I walked by, a cool breeze kicked up the tiny leaf, twisting it around and around until it escaped my view.

Paris-Travelers for Dummies (a fictional piece)

The rain slapped the sidewalk, with deafening noise that sounded like thousands of clicking tongues. A taxi flashed by, waving hello with a tidal wave of gutter water. The splash consumed my brand new scooter that sat parked on the side of the road, turning the shiny red to a sickly brown. It was brand, spanking new. I stood outside of the pastry shop with steam beginning to swirl around my head, twisting with the breath that fumed out my mouth. This was typical of my first month in France. I haphazardly jumped on a plane, leaving behind monotonous employment and a blank apartment room. Some may call it a mid-life crisis, and I'd probably agree. But you would sympathize with my reasoning. My entire life, the one thing that repeatedly eluded my grasp was a relationship. With a female. I was horrible with words. "So.... um.... er....." -- such was the extent of my vocabulary around women. I found high school most humiliating. Every school dance, I made the feeble trip over to the unfortunate drama queen's locker. "So.... er.... you and me.... the dance.... ya?" I grew accustomed to fragmented hearing in my right ear due to the locker slamming. Rejection has irritated me worse than a sunburn on my back when I lay down to sleep. And it never goes away. So I moved to France, the love capital of the world. I even bought a scooter to fit amongst the egocentric crowds. "Scooters boost your ego," says Paris-Travelers for Dummies. But that book doesn't say a word about a muddy scooter that won't start. It doesn't say how to fight depression while standing alone in a rain storm, wondering about luck, fate, karma, and whatever else has caused my life to stink like gutter water.

How to save 12 bucks

MIKE: "Man, I really need a haircut."
BEN: "Hey Mom left me with all the haircuttin stuff."
MIKE: "Really? Do you think you could give me a haircut?"
BEN: "You sure you want me to do it?"
MIKE: "Ya it shouldn't be too hard. It's just a buzz cut, but I have it just a little longer on the top."
-Silence follows, and Ben looks worried-
MIKE: "Come on, bro, it should be a synch."
BEN: "Ya you're probably right, I'll do it. But don't get too mad at me if something goes wrong."
-Mike smiles-
MIKE: Don't worry, nothin should go wrong.
-Switch scenes to apartment bathroom. Ben is holding hair-trimmer, standing over Mike, who sits in a chair in front of the bathroom mirror. Ben looks nervous-
BEN: "Ok, I'm going to start."
MIKE: "Sounds like a plan."
-Ben continues to look at Mike's head of hair without using the hair-trimmer. The hair-trimmer is now starting to shake in Ben's hand, and his nervous look is now amplified-
BEN: "I'm going to start on the bottom, alright?"
MIKE: "Ya that's good. But the trimmer's gotta actually touch my hair for it to cut. You know that right?"
-Ben gulps and nods, then touches the very tips of the hair and jumps back afraid-
MIKE: "Maybe I should just have Supercuts do the job this time."
BEN: "No, no, no, you don't have to spend 12 bucks on a buzz cut. I can do this."
-Ben continues to mutter, "I can do this," under his breath as he proceeds to cut the hair. Ben quickly gives the haircut, and Mike looks stunned as he views his hair-
MIKE: Wow, it actually looks really good. Thanks, bro."
-Ben makes a smug grin-
BEN: "Ya know, I think I'll just do one last trimming job before I'm done."
MIKE: "Wow, I should be payin for this."
BEN: "(proud chuckle) Oh, it's really no big deal. I always felt I'd make it big as a hair-stylist. I just never-
-Silence-
MIKE: "What's wrong?"
-Silence as Ben gulps and turns white-
BEN: "(after silence) I don't want you to get angry, but the hair on the back of your head isn't exactly... um, how should I phrase this... er, the back of your head isn't... completely.... symmetrical... anymore."
MIKE: "What is that supposed to mean?"
-Ben lip begins to quiver-
BEN: "It means that I took out a huge chunk of hair on the left side of your head!"
-Ben begins to cry. Mike gives surprised look as he examines the missing patch of hair on the back left of his head. The Mike smiles-
MIKE: "It kinda looks like a gotta scar. It's actually kind of cool."
BEN: "(through sniffles) Really?"
MIKE: "Ya, don't worry about it. I'll just tell everyone I got in a huge fight."
BEN: "(laughs through tears) That's pretty cool, I guess."
-Mike stands up and brushes off the hair that sticks to his shirt. Then him and Ben leave set as they discuss what the made-up story should be -- how big the fight was and how the scar on the back of Mike's head was made. Mike closes the door. The door opens again, Mike's head appears to examine the missing patch of hair one last time. Mike takes a deep breath and smiles, then closes the door-

Climbing Up to Fall Back Down

My breath wheezed like a broken air conditioner. Liquid drops formed on my forehead, arms, and back, and combined forces in my armpits to create a sweat stain. Mouth open, eyes foward, teeth clenched -- riding my bike up this hill was no easy task. With every heave downwards on the pedal, I realized that I had to do it again to keep moving. Muscles tightened like a belt after Thanksgiving dinner. Both lungs and my heart battled to see who could pump faster. My throat pleaded for a glass of water.  But I kept going, forcing my limbs to climb up that hill.
Finally I made it to the top. The relief felt like walking into home's door to escape the snowstorm. I could pedal now without any pain; my muscles could relax. Soon the hill began to slant in the opposite direction, and I floated down the hill. Wind met my face and patted me on the cheek. Tired eyes drooped as I accelerated without any effort. Faster and faster I went; the gravity that had pulled at my shoelaces before now shoved me downwards. My eyes were wide now, and the thrill of the roller coaster ride or the high speed car ride began to pump through my veins. The ride was exhilerating. As the ground began to once again level out, I let out a whoop, proclaiming my joy.

Excerpt From "Climbing Up to the Eagle's Nest" (a memoir about scouting)

Camp Morrison was located in the shadow of the Sawtooth Mountains near McCall, Idaho. Planted in the middle of dense forest next to the frigid waters of Payette Lake, this camp was a Launchpad for scouting. I arrived on that first day, wearing my favorite blue baseball hat, ready to earn as many merit badges as possible. My first few days were dedicated to hitting the bright red target at the archery range. I had never used a bow and arrow in my life. When I walked up to the line to shoot, I shook like a leaf, nervous that I’d stick my arrow in the eye of the instructor. But with the encouraging shouts from Dad (along with buckets of luck) I hit the bulls-eye on my first shot. Even the archery instructor let his jaw drop. Arrogance dripped out my ears as I began to pull the next arrow back, looking to once again dazzle my fellow scouts with another perfect hit. But this time the arrow sailed like a wounded duck. It didn’t even stick into the soft mesh of the target; it just bounced off and fell lamely to the ground. Heat rushed to my cheeks. This was going to be harder than I thought.

Signs of Fall

Football games on TV. Stressing about the first day of class. My mom's birthday. "The ALL NEW Pumpkin Smoothie" advertisement at Jamba Juice. Memories of getting lost in a maze of corn. Postseason baseball. The sudden realization that the leaves changed color. The sudden realization that the leaves needed to be raked up. Shorter days. Stony nights. A breath of air that smells like picked apples. Apples that came from a tree now leafless.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
-Thomas Jefferson

This summer I worked with children that had developmental disorders. They were different. Some could use complete sentences and put puzzles together. But some couldn't even walk to the puzzle table. A few of them could write their name. The rest I had to use a guiding grip to form the letters. There was one boy that screamed how much he hated me, how much he wanted to get away from me and go home. There was the other boy that I held in my arms on the last day, patting him on the back as he said, "I miss you." Any observer would tell me these kids were different, that they wouldn't fit into society. But as I built lego towers with these kids, I built my own opinion. An opinion that mirrors Jefferson's.
Yes, I understand that they are not like most people. Yes, I understand that they may not fit into society. I understand that physically, they were created differently. I understand all of these things. But I also understand that their creation runs deeper. The same being that Jefferson spoke of, the Creator that endows us our rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness -- this Creator created these kids. He created their Spirits. And following this life, when I wander in whatever state and whatever place that comes after, I will see these kids. I believe that my eyes will behold something similar, something equal to myself. As we meet, embrace, laugh, and cry, we will realize how equal we truly our. We were created by God, even as His children, all with an equal potential to become like our Creator. And we will probably laugh when we remember how it started -- with the colorful blocks of a lego tower creation.

Dear Dog

Dear Andee,

How are things going for you? Is your bed still smelly? And have you torn apart Brother Bear yet? I heard that Ms. Piggy has been ripped to shreds (what a shame). Things are going great for me. You would be jealous of the college life; I go on walks every single day. I walk from my dorm to my classes and back, sometimes taking a grand total of 1-2 hours of walking every day! I know, it's hard for your little brain to comprehend, but just imagine patroling the yard for an hour or two, and that is how long I walk. Isn't that crazy?! One thing I do not get to experience is running the fence. But I'll leave that endeavor to specialists like you.
Andee, I have heard that you have been a bad little boy lately. I just want you to know that you need to stop eating boxes of mac and cheese and chewing other people's clothes. Also, don't ever get into rat poisoning again (I know, it's hard to resist the sensation of hydrogen pyroxide, but you gotta put mind over matter). And if you ever feel like you need to get the wiggles out, pretend that the lawn mower is chasing you around the yard (you can also use this strategy to get rid of any unwanted neck fat). Anyways, I hope you take my advice to heart. Have fun in Boise, and don't forget to cuddle with whoever is in need of a cuddlebunny.

Love,
Ben

Clair de Lune

Suite Bergamasque  No. 3, L 75: Clair de Lune. Peter Schmalfuss.
I'm listening to it right now. The notes drift from the piano with a soft peace that fills me up like deep breath in bed after a long day at work. Like looking out over my new town from the mountain trail. As peaceful as looking at the picture of my dog Andee, remembering when he was a puppy.
The notes continue to ring out, each pressed key pushes open a door to thought. I think about running. Running up endless trails to the top of the hill. Sun reflecting off yellow weed. Keys continue to pound. I'm laying in my bed, thinking about my brother, about to come home from his mission. The light of my lamp softly illuminates the room. The room we shared, and now would share again as he returned. The song moves on. I'm saying goodbye to friends. To family. I walk away. Get on a plane. Move to a new place. Now the climbing crescendo. I find myself laughing with new friends, smiles pass around. I'm beginning classes. The subjects fascinate, captivate, inspire. As the song begins to close, I sit in the library with my textbook. I'm smiling. I close my eyes. The song ends.

A Handful of Simile

My hands are cold. Cold like the first steps out of a steaming shower. Cold like the feel of fingernails slashing against a chalkboard. Cold like mornings on a summer campout. Cold like the mountain air that laughs frigid wind. Cold like a winter sun.
My hands are so cold they are purple. As purple as the tips of a sunset cloud. As purple as the twenty-five cent grape soda that was sold in the vending machine next to Albertson's. As purple as the first leaves to change color in the fall. As purple as the face of my 10th grade basketball coach after we missed an open layup. As purple as the floor of my Honda Civic after I spilled my sister's smoothie while driving. As purple as the jar of jelly that's sitting half empty next to the peanut butter.
My purple hands are now too cold to type.

Wallet

A twenty dollar bill, a club card to the snowcone shack, 6th grade ID card (deteriorating due to innumerable laundry trips), Visa Platinum Debit Card, Visa Platinum Credit Card (I wonder what I can do with a 600 dollar limit...), twenty-five dollar gift card to Subway (only twenty dollars remain cause I bought a $5 footlong. Mmm... tasty), 7th grade ID card (I'm sportin the glasses & braces combo in this pic), 35 dollars worth of free movie tickets, Idaho Driver's licence, a picture of the Boise Temple, Eagle Scout card (that looks strangely similar to a credit card. Let's hope I don't get those two mixed up), 8th grade ID card, 9th grade ID card (how many ID cards do I have?), 10th grade ID card (oh wait, there's more), 11th and 12th grade ID cards, the For Strength of Youth pamphlet (wallet-size), BYU All Sports Pass (Go Cougars!), and a partridge in a pear tree (not really, I just wanted to see if you had read through all the rest of the junk that resides in my undersized wallet). Oh there's one more thing! My BYU ID card (Although lacking the glasses/braces combo, I believe this ID picture is the best. But that doesn't mean I'm throwing out my other ID cards!).

Excerpt From Creative Writing Assignment (Rough Draft)

Fruity Pebbles didn’t quite satisfy my sweet tooth, so I began enjoying the cinnamon swirls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Finally learning how to read, I scanned the side of the box. My face scrunched up in confusion after reading the words: high fructose corn syrup. I wondered if 18 grams of sugar per serving was a lot for a cereal. But even if it was, I would have still gulped down my bowl to end the morning hunger. Those days were marked by hunger, but not for food – for words. I was constantly reading; my nose almost mummified after being buried in a book for so long. Instead of chasing the girls during recess, I snuck into the library. Secretly extending my bedtime when I found a favorite, I read under dim light in my room. Consequently, my eyesight weakened and I needed glasses, but that made me feel even more scholarly. I would get lost in nebulous worlds of talking mice and a magic tree house. When all the other kids in my class groaned as the teacher announced weekly trips to the library, I suppressed a squeal of glee. Under the influence of the whirling cinnamon squares of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, I found myself spinning into literature and loving every second of it.

Twentieth Maine

"Chamberlain raised his saber, let loose the shout that was the greatest sound he could make, boiling the yell up from his chest: Fix bayonets! Charge! Fix bayonets! Charge! Fix bayonets! Charge! He leaped down from the boulder, still screaming, his voice beginning to crack and give, and all around him his men were roaring animal screams, and he saw the whole Regiment rising and pouring over the wall and beginning to bound down through the dark bushes, over the dead and dying and wounded. . . ." (The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara)

In my mind the wood came to life. Men shouting amongst the bursts. The smell of burnt skin. Dead brothers. All of these images came to me as we walked along the trail of Little Round Top. This was Gettysburg. My sisters giggled and chatted behind me, probably excited by the fact that a cute tourist had walked by. I kept quiet, remembering the past. I could see Chamberlain; he was so alive. Walking along the line of troops, his mind working quickly like the bullets that whizzed by. Then the realization. The Twentieth Maine looked back at their leader with empty expression, as they revealed their empty rifles. Dry of ammunition. Chamberlain's mind didn't skip a beat. "Bayonets!" he hollered.
The word was enough. It ran like fire along the line, from man to man, and rose into a shout, with which they sprang forward upon the enemy. -- Joshua Chamberlain
Success hinged upon that man. I remember seeing a picture of him, and almost laughed at his mustache that extended past his chin. But now I knew what he did, what he accomplished under the grinding pressure of leadership. He fastened a blade to the end of his rifle and charged. And men followed.

My First Trip to the Library

Silence seeps in the walls of the lower level of the BYU Library. As I walked down the stairs, the friendly chatter and studious discussions began to diminish, becoming soft echoes. I smiled as I took my seat at a table nearby; the silence was just what I wanted. Screams and shouts of students, the blaring music in my dorm building, and the honks and horns on the streets, all pricked the patience of my brain. Now I could finally sit back and think. Now I could finally get some work done, and open the world behind the title page of my textbook. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and my eyes closed in satisfaction.
I found it difficult to reopen them. My eyelids felt weighted, pulling down a dreamy drape on my vision. But I was at peace; a smile remained on my face as I enjoyed the silence. Thoughts began to lose momentum, becoming slower and heavier. I wanted to read and work, but my body and mind resisted, lulling me to rest. I rested my chin on my hand, falling faster and faster out of the conscious world.
My arm became limp. Then gravity took care of the rest; my head fell and hit the table with a loud "THUMP." My eyelids finally whipped open and I awoke with a start, a quick breath firing up the motor in my brain. I looked around with embarrasment flowing into red cheeks, but I couldn't help but laugh. My first trip to the library may not have been successful. But seeing my head hit the table probably gave somebody something to laugh about.

Push Forward Anyways

Economic Principles & Problems was the class, with J.R. Kearl as the professor. This was all I knew when I signed up for the class during regristration. But in the past few weeks I've heard plenty more. "Kearl is great, but the exams are soooo tough," said one. "You signed up for that class! What were you thinking!" another exclaimed. Nervous feelings began boiling. And these feelings just about spilled over when I went to a class on leadership given by Professor J.R. Kearl himself. Former students laughed when Kearl said his exams were hard. "They were horrible," they said. The room laughed mockingly, but I squirmed in my seat. Would I be able to make it?
I approached Professor Kearl after his lesson. "I'm an incoming freshman," I said shaking his hand, "And I was wondering if it was a bad idea signing up for your class this semester. Should I wait?"
He sighed, contemplating his words carefully. "We usually encourage freshman to wait, at least until their second semester of BYU, just so they can adjust to the rigors of college."
I thanked him for his advice and walked out of the room. Doubt and fear began to mold in my chest, festering on my thoughts and emotions. Did I make a mistake taking this class? Should I drop it right away?
I needed inspiration. Cue Randy L. Bott. He stood at the podium, ready to address an audience that included myself. As I sat there, fearful thoughts pounding away mercilessly at my tender brain, I suddenly knew that Randy L. Bott would say what I needed to hear. He would provide the inspiration.
Throughout his speech he repeated a phrase that softened my frantic mind: "God did not send you here to fail." The words left his mouth, soared through the air, and hit me between the eyes. Just what I needed to hear. Then Professor Bott's eyes made contact with mine. We held that two-way bridge as he said this, "Satan will try to get you to give up, to drop out. Push forward anyways."
It was then that the fear and doubt evaporated in the high-mountain air. I was going to take Economic Principles and Problems, and do everything to make it through. And if Satan objected, I would push him aside and succeed anyways.

Leaving Home

Walking down the aisle of the plane, I looked at the people around me. Some talked on cell phones, others buried their noses in the binding of a book, and the rest simply sat, waiting to ascend. None of them knew me. None of them knew I was about to leave home. No one knew.
But it was happening anyway. I sat down next to the window, preparing myself to wave goodbye to my home. Eighteen years of laughing and loving with family and friends. I did not know anything else. And now I was going to turn around and walk away, leaving  those past eighteen years to gather dust in my memory.
The plane started and began to move slowly along the runway. The girl sitting a row ahead of me began to make friendly conversation, laughing with the boy next to her. He laughed too. But my mouth didn't move. My entire body was focused on what appeared through that tiny peephole of a window. The plane began to accelerate, gaining momentum as the seconds ticked off the clock. I anxiously waited to enter the weightless world, when the wheels of the aircraft would separate from the hard earth, touching nothing but air. Moving faster and faster, contact with the ground became a thin grip, the wheels barely skimming the runway. It was at this moment that I let go, my grip on the past loosening to embrace the future. It was at this moment that the plane lifted off the ground, and I left home.
Gaining altitude brought an incredible change of perspective. The tiny buildings and antlike cars were all I could see of my home, all I could see of the past. But the endless horizon ahead gave grand hopes of a brilliant future. And as the plane moved closer to that horizon line, a gust of excitement rushed through my mind, blowing away doubts and fears to bring the warm wind of possibilty.