tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20430554399417562502024-02-08T08:13:25.429-05:00Joie De VivreChris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-60498454765125514242012-03-30T03:16:00.008-04:002012-03-30T04:01:18.080-04:00A Young Martyr<span style="color: rgb(153, 102, 51);font-family:times new roman;" ><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 0);">There I stood, waiting to be told what to do. It was chilly there in the woods and all I'd had to eat was a cold meatloaf sandwich made from my failed attempt at dinner per moms instructions from the night before. It was disgusting, fresh from the oven sitting like a hot brick in the middle of the table, a disappointed family surrounding me, grateful for mom's homemade bread.<br /><br />It's not that I didn't know what to do, I just didn't want to move. Only a week earlier my cousin Wade had flipped me out of a trailer onto the gravel and the gaping abrasion on my leg was still fresh and very tender. </span></span><span style="color: rgb(153, 102, 51);font-family:times new roman;" ><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 0);">Pus from the gaping wound stuck to my pants inhibiting any useful movement.</span></span><span style="color: rgb(153, 102, 51);font-family:times new roman;" ><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 0);"> Dad's anger would have to serve as my motivation. With any luck he would decide that one cord of wood was enough for the day or the chainsaw would break or the sun would depart or the weather turn bad and we could lock the sideboards in place and head for home in the old yellow Chevy listening to eight tracks and smelling of wood and sweat and chainsaw gasoline. I'd hoped that stalling would make it all better.<br /><br />It was warm at home. We pulled in after dark and unloaded the wood. In my bedroom I pulled my pants off, breaking the adhesion from my wound. It bled and stung badly. Lying in bed was a relief but in the morning I would have to peel the sheets from my lacerated leg. However, I would not have to get wood after school that day. The job was done.<br /></span></span>Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-51001437391098619242011-05-18T23:16:00.006-04:002011-05-19T00:22:18.747-04:00"Son of a ..."So when I was just a lad of 12 or 13, I like many others my age, was not only pupating, but trying to prove my man hood through a series of various "real world" experiences.<br /><br />I had the honor of working for a poor sheep farmer down the road who smoked on the sly and wore his hat just leaning to one side high on his head. He assigned me various tasks all Summer long not the least of which included castrations, disassembling broken sheds, feeding, hauling dead sheep and of course stacking hay. The hay elevator consisted of a single conveyor with large teeth meant to stick in the individual bales of hay and carry them to the top of the hay stack. One would typically stand at the bottom loading bales while another would stand on top and receive the bales and stack them in such a way as to tie the stack together under the cover of an open sided hay shed.<br /><br />As the work required two, I was authorized to bring a friend on and Gary Willard was the most available. I believe he wore biker shorts to school on occasion after the manner of Axl Rose, a contemporary inspiration to us pubescent boys. But on this day he wore jeans and leather gloves.<br /><br />It was required that we lift one side of the heavy elevator and lean it against the upper most bales of the existing stack. I relished the opportunity. With Gary as my audience, I chose to do it alone and planned my expletive accordingly. I grunted as I lifted the conveyor cautiously above my head leaning it first against the hay wall then with a final effort pushed the steel elevator to the top. I walked away with a dramatic fling of my arms and overtly exclaimed "Son of a ....." while looking down so as to seem sincere. Gary Willard said nothing but I felt I had made an indelible impression on my counterpart that day. I was now a swearer, a usurper of manly words, a force to be reckoned with!The delivery and timing were perfect.<br /><br />When we went back to school in the Fall, I was still a nerd.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-69388215711527927732010-10-15T02:52:00.005-04:002010-10-15T03:34:39.234-04:00Fields of PooWhy is it that the bad things always seem to happen to those already socially challenged?<br /><br />I don't know if my "nerd" phase was a phase or my time spent in the limelight of popularity was a phase, but the day I discovered the hard way where Dwight Spaulding spread his manure, I was in my nerdy phase.<br /><br />We were camping behind the Spauldings with our Boy Scout leaders, chosen because it was convenient and close. The skinny gravel road led back to a smattering of old cottonwood trees scattered randomly along the bank of a slough. It was quiet, as all of Idaho is, and unfamiliar enough that it felt like a treat to be there. We made tinfoil dinners, charred to perfection and eaten with relish amongst dirty talk from the popular boys because the leaders were too far away to hear. While mine was cooking, I followed my desire to wander in unfamiliar territory. I began crossing the field to my destination, my eyes searchingly forward. The ground beneath me softened and before I realized the fact that I was sinking to my calves in wet manure, I was half way through the field. I ran in any direction, the anticipation and anxiety of my parents anger that my single pair of school pants were ruined raising to my skull in heated rage. The crust broke easily beneath my 13 year old awkwardly lumpy, slightly lardy body. I ran blindly toward freedom, not knowing where that would be. I emerged relieved and enraged. Upon escaping, I searched the horizon in all directions to see if any one had seen. I was safe. I ran to a quiet corner of the canal, hidden by the trees and over grown weeds. I heard rustling and approached carefully, relieved when I saw Eric Bernotski, the other nerd of the Scout troop, washing manure from his pants and shoes.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-83358414180006747192010-07-16T22:25:00.000-04:002010-08-31T08:15:14.500-04:00An Opportunity to SwearAs a somewhat dramatic youth I had long wanted to play John Proctor in<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>the Arthur Miller play<span style="font-style: italic;">, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">The Crucible</span>. And since my high school theater group wasn't doing it, I asked my good friend Melissa to play Abigail Williams and chose an excerpt from the play to perform at the regional drama competition. Not only was it a thrill to be playing the part of John Proctor, but my counterpart was really into it and a really good actress to boot. But the best part; I got to say the "B" word. I practiced throwing her down and played with different intonations and levels of volume in saying my angry lines, pretending that deep down I understood the depth of emotions that my character felt. I was secretly proud that Melissa had bruises on her leg from our feigned tussle. Getting lost in emotions at that age in front of people can be a thrill if not addicting.<br /><br />So the stage was set for our performance at the regional competition. We put on our lame costumes, a smattering of pieced together found objects from long forgotten cardboard boxes of rejected costumes. And with my 15 year old baby face and short blondish hair I strode out confidently. We performed and got high marks, high enough to earn a spot at the state competition. I was sure my swearing caused the judges to take us more seriously.<br /><br />When we arrived at the state competition, we were crestfallen to find that another young couple was performing the exact same scene. We had a chance to watch them and were encouraged by what we saw. The actor playing John Proctor didn't even say the "B" word as he calmly willed his counterpart to the ground. Instead he called her a "Beast". Ha! We had them! We poked fun at their performance as we strode away confident that my willingness to swear and her willingness to show lots of leg would shock the judges into handing us high marks. I would show that John Proctor a thing or two about handling pesky fatal attractions!<br /><br />The stage was set again, and we took our places in the same lame costumes brandishing our pride. I think when one is that age, they imagine themselves to look much cooler than they are. I have since seen pictures of myself from that very trip and am sure now that what I assumed were the judges being shaken by our performance was actually embarrassment at seeing two cocky teenagers taking themselves way too seriously, the one unnaturally seductive, the other swearing deliberately and emphatically. The judges must have liked the editing, because they ousted us and sent the other couple to the finals to win 3rd place.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-73306680531910126762010-04-16T22:26:00.000-04:002010-04-16T23:09:47.387-04:00My Special ChipsI loved chips. My growing, awkward, Junior High body craved them. But the only time I had them was at public events. So when someone brought name brand chips on one of our scout camp outs, I determined to save my lunch money and bring my own to the next camp out.<br /><br />The purchase took place outside of my parents knowledge as they could easily confiscate them or at the very least lay forth a profusion of sigh's and quiet comments constructed to engender massive guilt. The chips were tucked away until we arrived at our destination. We unloaded, set up camp, prepared for the night. After our tinfoil dinners I slipped quietly away to the privacy of my tent.<br /><br />That night, I lay nestled into my sleeping bag and ate as many Cool Ranch Doritos as I could possibly desire. My perma-grin couldn't be helped and I fell asleep licking my fingers without brushing my teeth.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-73549943740202372562010-01-11T21:51:00.000-05:002010-01-11T22:29:27.243-05:00One Day...I believe it was Chad's idea and by golly if he didn't have the guts to carry it out.<br /><br />We felt very grown up because we were hitch hiking from the bottom of the Jackson/Teton Pass with our snowboards after descending the two to three miles of diverse terrain. No one stopped. So Chad and I got creative. I laid down on the road and Chad pretended to be giving me CPR. Trevor just acted kind of panicky. I think he really was.<br /><br />The first passing car came screeching to a halt, doors flailing open, and three panicked hippies sprang from the jeep. Chad stood up. I didn't know what to do. I hadn't planned that far. So I laid there with questioning eyes staring at the sky. Chad approached them and in a calm voice said, "we're ok, we just wanted a ride." I raised my head in time to see them stomping quickly back to the car screaming obscenities and gesticulating with their hands and driving away. Trevor stood there.<br /><br />We resumed our hike up the pass. Two minutes later, the Jeep came tearing down the pass and made a u-turn. We approached the car smiling and grateful and got close enough to see the foam on the man's mouth sitting in back. They proceeded to vehemently chastise us with more colorful obscenities, and tore away again up the road. Trevor stood there.<br /><br />I think he just hung out with us so he could watch.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-13333668202547222312009-12-17T21:37:00.000-05:002009-12-17T21:47:40.621-05:00...is for children.We must've not had any talent at Price Elementary because the children performers were from the ritzy part of town and sang and stuff.<br /><br />At the school Christmas Pageant, when I was in 3rd grade, some rich looking blond kid with perfect posture and probably got all the presents he asked for, stood on stage with what looked like his mom and sang "Christmas is for Children", duet style.<br /><br />I didn't like it.<br /><br />I thought Christmas was for everybody.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-58437464378112159002009-12-07T21:35:00.000-05:002009-12-07T22:14:42.815-05:00Christmas StoryThere in the front, playing first chair violin for the annual Messiah in the American Fork Tabernacle, sits a great hulk of a man with childishly chubby jowls surrounding a tiny frown. His sausage fingers dance across the strings tirelessly until the entire steamy hall rises in unison for an ovation. He never loses focus, never sweats and when he's done he rises and picks his pants from his bottom and without a smile, commands his own children, who visit the concert every year, to get things ready and leaves.<br /><br />His mother conducts. She is the size of a school girl and wears glasses to match although probably 65 years old and smiles throughout the concert as though delighted by every note. Her daughter directs the choir effectively and probably thinks she doesn't look like a cartoon.<br /><br />Without the efforts of this family the annual Messiah concert in the American Fork Tabernacle would not happen. And people would be slightly emptier and slightly less inclined to feel the warmth of the Christmas season and maybe even slightly less willing to lend a helping hand.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-22381173435044148472009-09-16T22:35:00.000-04:002009-09-16T22:38:53.677-04:00BigwigWell, we all need a hero.<br /><br />Mine's a rabbit bigger than most with a small dark tuft and a manly English accent.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-77150976010594407452009-05-06T21:09:00.000-04:002009-05-06T21:13:54.038-04:00Confessions of a Big ManI choke up every time at the end when Lightning Mcqeen sacrifices the championship race to that moron Chick Hicks to help the King cross the finish line. And as he is pushing him he says "I just think the King should finish his last race".Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-27801541524981774182009-03-30T21:31:00.000-04:002009-03-30T22:02:49.308-04:00Lambs Head RevisitedI was 17 and my father had left me in charge of the farm while he was running around the world. He told me I was a responsible teenager and left me the '78 puke yellow Chevy with a new engine and some money to buy sausages and orange juice. I was in heaven; a big house in the middle of nowhere all to myself for six weeks with o.j. and sausages and friends and parties and the like.<br /><br />I woke up one morning to feed the sheep before heading off to school. I immediately found a yearling ewe with the head of what looked like a lamb hanging from her backside and quickly herded her into the big barn that still lacked paint and had a chicken coop in the ceiling. I called the vet and together we ascertained the situation and decided on the proper course.<br /><br />He said I had to find whatever way to extract the dead lamb and then syringe 50cc's of propylene glycol into the uterus after the delivery.<br /><br />I hung up the phone and strutted to the barn. Nobody would stop me from being a grown up today. And I had a good excuse to be late for school.<br /><br />I flipped the yearling ewe on her side and tried to push the cold, choked head back into the mothers body as the feet were still inside keeping the lamb from coming out. Her own feet flailed stiffly and helplessly in the air. It didn't work. I procured the bow saw from the shop and returned to the frightened ewe, threw her down again and proceeded to sever the head of the lamb enabling me to push the bloody stump of the neck inside where I found the two front legs and proceeded to drag the terrified young mother around the barn whilst extracting her dead baby. The lamb was quickly disposed of and the yearling ewe was released after the required shot of propylene glycol was administered.<br /><br />I saved her life.<br /><br />And I wrote my own note explaining my tardiness to school.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-70413503113589123402009-02-28T14:00:00.000-05:002009-03-01T20:44:42.142-05:00DonutsIt's called "Phatso's" but the owner/baker looks like he is a regular marathon runner. I don't know that he found charm in the location close to the action of downtown Chester, Pennsylvania, being a hot spot for drugs, violence, prostitutes. But it felt much different stepping into the shop. Much different. I was scared for my life until I was safely enclosed in the warmth and subtly sweet smells and early morning smiling faces of the proprietor and his son. And if I hadn't been on the war path of weight loss, I would have frequented it more.<br /><br />I came to New York and tried some expensive donuts. But I don't need to say anything about that.<br /><br />There in Chester, two blocks from my crappy filthy job, I found a bit of heaven so simple, so delicious, so delightful, and so memorable that if I were ever remotely near I would stop to spend a small fortune to ensure the continued existence of the tiny shop everyone should know so well.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-14116835995842515992009-02-15T22:11:00.000-05:002009-02-15T22:31:06.571-05:00Three Little MexicansIn the early morning hours at Fulton St on the A,C train route, there are three Mexicans, all shorter then my wife of 5' 4", the first playing Spanish guitar, the second some sort of penny whistle or recorder and the third a full sized acoustic guitar that would cause me to mistake him for a child except he has a full blown mustachio.<br />I saw them at 6:30 one morning setting up with an amplifier and some other various accoutrements while a woman, apparently connected intimately with one of the musicians, waited until they were settled before kissing and saying goodbye as though they were working regular jobs.<br />The melodies are divine. I don't mind if they play El Condor Pasa time and time again slightly out of tune, they play with the heart of a matador from the moment they begin.<br />I can't help but smile.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-31633241260265500802009-02-02T21:22:00.000-05:002009-02-02T21:45:31.378-05:00MasterI thought it would be cool to learn how to yodel in high school. Everybody wants to be unique.<br />But some actually create something of what they find unique and master those simple things and bless the lives of others through it.<br />Incidentally, it's Roger Whittaker's voice humming as Clancy comes riding over the hill in "Man from Snowy River". <br />Just copy and paste this. It's worth it.<br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rp_ZAtCwjE8Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-8883311041804985502009-01-20T21:05:00.000-05:002009-01-20T21:49:38.909-05:00School LunchWalking into High School in the morning I was always pleased by the smell of the school cafeteria preparing for the onslaught of complaining teenagers who probably really enjoyed it. I didn't share my thoughts at the time. I had a budding social career firmly on the rise and knew better. But in my heart I relished the time when I could use contrived exemptions to excuse myself from going out and plant myself in the lunchroom and eat potato triangles and cheap salisbury steak. I especially enjoyed accepting leftovers from others like miniature cartoned milk and trashy peanut butter, chocolate bars that left a chalky residue. You could buy an extra one for a quarter. Occasionally I would shamelessly bum the money convinced that I was charming if I was blatant. But it didn't matter. I had my peanut butter bar.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-49485480547053052292009-01-10T20:55:00.000-05:002009-01-10T21:21:20.542-05:00Back to RealityIn the cold and early January mornings on the train from West Chester County there is a group of Union workers who board at Pelham station with their hats and coffee and they sit separate from each other and gesticulate crudely of their private lives and unfaithful desires, feigning amazement at the stories in the free paper for conversation sake and they have no awkward silence between them. And they sit there with their big thumbs and fresh hair like they've been up for hours and I cuddle the wall and watch, not with envy or admiration but for entertainment.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-19127295034064789152008-12-17T22:23:00.000-05:002008-12-17T22:29:51.338-05:00The GiftThe title sounds so prententiously profound.<br /><br />I'll remember the Gobots when I was 16 going on 17. I'll remember the keyboard that was given to someone else or the weights that I had no intention of lifting. I still remember the games that we played and the smells that we smelled. But I'll not forget the Christmas morning that Dad and the others went and did my chores for me so I wouldn't have to face the cold and the dread. That was the best gift from my childhood.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-9736648825338129622008-12-03T21:28:00.000-05:002008-12-03T21:30:06.121-05:00I likeI like it when short, fat men with stubby fingers wear dark highwaters with white socks and dark shoes.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-80613959763474640062008-12-01T21:11:00.000-05:002008-12-01T21:27:35.337-05:00VoiceIt doesn't matter when I first heard it. Because it will always be evocative. It will always be seraphic. <br />They made a cheesy made-for-television-movie of her life that was shown to me in high school health class, to dissuade me, and probably the girls too, from practicing bulimia or anorexia. I remember how delicious the cake looked that she so dramatically stuffed in her face. She probably wasn't really like that, not with her voice.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-29149776355249094842008-11-25T21:01:00.000-05:002008-11-25T21:02:10.509-05:00Confessions of a Big ManSometimes I smell my clay.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-78894135937075860872008-11-19T21:11:00.000-05:002008-11-19T21:16:15.674-05:00AwkwardI like awkward moments sometimes. At least they give you a story to tell.<br />But my brother assumed somebody else's embarrassing moment. He claimed the fart of a nerd in a High School classroom. That's charity.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-77644433281539129102008-11-17T20:51:00.000-05:002008-11-17T20:53:50.717-05:00The BestI recently watched a PBS special called "Sandwiches You Will Like" and they just confirmed something I've known all along. Philadelphia has the best sandwiches in the world.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-51230893391739883032008-11-12T23:17:00.000-05:002008-11-12T23:56:09.849-05:00The Day No Pigs Would DieIt was winter and the snow in Idaho stays until April or longer. In town kids were watching cartoons and eating sugared cereals, the kind that are on tv commercials. And they probably got to take showers every day and talk back to their parents a little and had posters on their sheetrock walls.<br />I don't know why Dad didn't wake me, maybe it's because I was the sensitive one. But I recall hearing gun shots. And the first thing I remember seeing was a lot of red blood on the snow and Merlin Madsen holding his pistol point blank to the head of one of our four ,trusting, young pigs. He seemed a little reluctant like one of those people that will try anything if he just has an idea of how it works or what in the end needs to be accomplished. But he owned a gun and so offered to help my dad slaughter his pigs. He was the kind of guy who never wanted anything in return, just the benefit of feeling needed.<br />But he shot the pigs one by one and when I got there the pigs were flopping around and dying. Merlin had to shoot some of them twice or three times. I had on my Kmart winter work boots that were lined with yellow fuzz and probably an old U.S. Army jacket with the name "Waddell" on it from the early 70's. But I didn't feel cold that day.<br />I was incorporated without any notice and helped where I could, dragging bodies around, stepping in cold blood. The bodies were decapitated and the heads placed on 50 gallon barrels at the front of the driveway where the kids driving by in the school bus could see.<br />We transported the gutted bodies to the butcher down the road who organized them appropriately, taking his share and jumping town. And we had bacon and ham that didn't taste like it came from the store.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-61102312805555251522008-11-10T21:07:00.000-05:002008-11-10T22:00:13.195-05:00A Certain Place...There is a certain place in Brooklyn where if you park your car for more than an hour, it will be blanketed in bird poop. There is a certain time where if you walk on Front St. you will see a fat man making pizza dough through the window. And there is a particularly poignant smell at that certain time.<br />It's easy to take things for granted, especially those things you see, smell and hear every day. I like the view where I am. The bridge never gets old to look at.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2043055439941756250.post-18278989211585464182008-11-06T21:31:00.000-05:002008-11-19T21:11:06.186-05:00Confessions of a Big ManSometimes on my Ipod I listen to a Celine Dion song and I turn up the volume.Chris Waddellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14191267370663576465noreply@blogger.com2