The Power of Prayer

My father taught me an important life and spiritual lesson one day, and I wonder if he even realized he was doing it.

When I was around eight or nine years old, we got a new female puppy.  She was more or less a heinz 57 (or so my father would say).  She was just basically a mutt, short-haired dog.  We named her Snoopy.

Now, I am an animal lover, and I used to love spending time with puppies.   I sort of claimed Snoopy as my own.  I would carry her around on my shoulders, and just wile away my time playing with her.  In some ways, it seemed to me it was sort of an unconditional love.  I mean, I have ADHD, but did not know or understand even what that was until my oldest son was in first grade.  I used to do a lot of acting out, and be obnoxious to friends of my brothers and sisters.  I could not sit still, and could not concentrate on one thing for very long.  Sitting the long days in school was especially hard for me.  I remember daydreaming a lot.  So, having a puppy was some comfort when it seemed (to me) that everyone else looked down at me.

So, all my acting out, and not thinking about many of the things I would do, often caused me to get into trouble.  I used to think my parents didn't love me, or that others were just out to get me.  I never connected the two until I became an adult with my own children.

Having animals to spend time with gave me some sort of comfort from the outside world that "didn't like me so much."  Animals always liked me.  I have always taken comfort spending time with them.

Snoopy and I were best pals.  One day I was carrying her over my shoulder, and for some reason she slipped and fell to the ground.  She must have hit her head or something, because suddenly she was paralyzed.  I was very scared, and did not know what to do.  It must have been a Saturday, or an early evening, because my father was home.

I went directly to my father, and explained to him that I did not know what happened, but that Snoopy fell and was now not able to move.  I was very scared, and thought I had permanently injured her.

I was surprised that dad did not yell, or run out to see what had happened.  Maybe he didn't think I was serious, or didn't know what I was talking about.  Maybe, since I had eight or nine other siblings at the time, he was just preoccupied with keeping the peace.  He simply looked at me, and calmly said something to the effect, "I guess you better pray, and ask Heavenly Father for help."  A bit surprised I didn't think of that myself, I figured that if anyone could help Snoopy Heavenly Father could.

I went back outside where I had left her, then found a spot in the yard where I could be alone for a few minutes, and prayed my heart out.  I do not know what I said, other than to ask Heavenly Father to help my little friend.  I am sure I told Him that I was sorry, but did not mean her any harm.

Anyone reading this is going to think I simply made this up, but I tell you within a few minutes Snoopy began to move her limbs.  She stood up, and was finally back to her jovial puppy self.  And I was a humbled little boy who has believed strongly in the power of prayer ever since.  It was a powerful lesson with a tangible result.

Snoopy went on to live another 13 or 14 years, having had numerous litters of puppies, having had numerous run-ins with porcupines and skunks, and just living out the life of a country dog.  She finally succumbed to something that caused her to have tumors all over her body.  I suspect it was a form of cancer.

I'll always be grateful to that little puppy, and to my father for reminding me of what I could do about any situation in my life.  I have a firm testimony of prayer, and that God truly does answer them - when we are humble, and sincere.  I have many more examples of answers to prayer that I may someday share.

Just a Rambling

Like most people, I did a lot of goofy things growing up. I mean, let's face it, growing up near a small town left a teenager with lots of time to waste, and cook up things to do.

For instance, my friends and I would get bored at football games, and since you had to park on the street at the school for games, people were not in sight of their cars. We got the idea one time to just go and move the car of someone we knew. We would just move it from under the street light to a dark shadowy area nearby. Or, we would move a car around the corner from where it was left. These were the days when most high schoolers had cars from the 60's that did not have steering wheel locks. So it was pretty easy to get in and move them. Lock the car? Shoot, it was a small town. People didn't mess with other people's cars (except us).

Well, we thought it was a hilarious thing to do. We could just imagine the car owner coming out to where they "thought" they left their car, and it wasn't there! Of course, we never stuck around to see the result. We were too chicken that some of our enemies would find out and kill us.

My best friend growing up was Brian. He lived in town, while I lived out in the country. Even for a small town it felt like a big difference between living in the country and living in town. For one thing, when push button phones came onto the scene, I thought it was the most ingenious thing that you could just punch buttons to dial someone's number. The most fun part was learning to play songs by punching the different numbers! I mean, out in the country we still had a party line. We had just gotten a dial phone not too many years previous. That was a huge improvement over picking up the phone, waiting for the operator, and giving her the number you wanted to call.

In any case, Brian and I were always looking for something new to do. We had a few other friends in town that we would play fox and hounds with using our cars, but when it was just the two of us, we needed to find something simpler.

Around the time I got my driver's license, Dad picked up a 1966 Rambler Classic automobile. It was probably a $300 find. I mean this car was a tank! It had a huge steering wheel, because it did not have power steering. It took three arms to turn the wheel when maneuvering in a parking lot or turning around. It also had a three-speed stick shift on the steering column, and a switch on the dash to turn on or off the overdrive function (for fuel economy). I remember you had to get it up to cruising speed, then let off on the gas a for a few seconds for overdrive to kick in.

The Rambler could seat 6 teenagers quite comfortably. It was pretty big. It had a 6 cylinder 232 cubic inch engine that was solid as they come. On County Highway G just north of Eagle River there was about a 2 mile straight stretch, where you could really wind a vehicle up if you wanted to. One day I decided I wanted to see how fast this Rambler would go. I got it up to 105 mph on that stretch, then realized that a wheel bearing could go out, or one of the old nylon front tires could easily blow out. I quickly slowed down. Needless to say I never did that again.

Back to Brian and I looking for something to do. It was winter of '74-'75, and we were just driving around bored out of our minds. I pulled into the bank parking lot, and got to looking at the snowbanks betwen the parking lot lights. I wondered how hard it would be to get up some speed and drive right through that bank. So, I told Brian to hold on (I think we decided to put on our seat belts). I backed up, got up some speed, and blasted right through that snowbank. Snow went flying as if a bomb had just gone off. We couldn't see a thing out the windshield for a few seconds.

Now THAT gave us a thrill! So, I started plowing through more spots in the bank, and ramming them even faster. We were just laughing so hard we couldn't see straight. I know, I know, it doesn't take much to amuse some teenagers. But, hey, at least we weren't out doing drugs, or going to beer parties and such. After awhile, I noticed I couldn't see the road too well. We figured we'd better get out and check the front of the car. You guessed it, snow was packed so tightly into the headlights and grille that it took us awhile to unpack it.

To this day, I'm amazed the police did not see us doing this, or that someone in the area didn't report us. I mean, the lot was lit up pretty well. Of course, there weren't houses around, and the town literally shut down after 6:00 pm. We were just content to get our thrill by blasting through those snow banks and watching the snow just explode all over. For some reason we began talking like we were asian, and chanting, "Prow snow! Prow snow!". We just snickered at the thought of people coming to work the next morning and seeing the snow pushed all over the parking lot.

We never did get caught. In fact, this is the first time I've really recounted this story in over 30 years. I wonder if Brian remembers it the same as I do.

The "Expert" Novice Skier

I could write volumes about my snow skiing exploits. My mother was born and raised in Park City, UT. However, it was not a ski town when she was growing up in the 30's and 40's. She did manage to obtain skis and hike up the mountains and catch the ski bug at a young age.

So, when I was 10 years old, my mother obtained some old ski equipment and helped us get into the sport ourselves. It was one of the most fun things she ever instilled in me. I loved it from the first day, albeit I got a bit too cocky. Fortunately, there weren't many there to witness that event.

It was during the winter of '68/'69. My oldest brother, Kevin had already gone skiing a few times before, so he was "an old hat" at it. He was going to hit the slopes of a tiny hill near Eagle River called the Chanticleer. He was going with his friend Mike Gough (I believe). I asked if I could tag along.

I got outfitted with some old wooden skis, with "hanging in the straps" bindings (meaning they had long leather thongs that wrapped around the old leather boots in a crisscross fashion to hold the skis on - it also meant they didn't come off when you fell, very dangerous for a leg bone). They were straight out of the 30's or 40's. The boots were leather lace-ups, with a squared toe to fit into the metal toe piece. They resembled hiking boots of today - well sort of. The poles were made of bamboo with metal points, leather straps for the wrists, and a basket made of leather and a metal ring. (The ski pole basket is to keep the pole from driving down deep into the snow when planting the pole for turning.)

So, here I am going with my brother and his friend for this big day of skiing. Now, the Chanticleer Inn has been around Eagle River for years and years. The ski hill was just a large hill on the property that was maybe 50 feet vertical to the top, and maybe 200 feet run off. It was really dinky, but was good enough for me to have fun. It was actually perfect for a beginner. Well, except for the rope tow to get us up the hill.

Rope tows are not the easiest things to learn, because you have to put your poles in one hand, pick up the wet moving rope (a rope that is about 1 1/2 inch in diameter that drags along the snow when no one is using it), then try and grab it slow enough that it doesn't jerk you forward and right off balance. Years later, when I became a professional ski instructor, it was always difficult teaching beginners how to use the rope. Usually children learned it quicker than adults.

We arrive at the hill excited to get the day started. To our delight there is no one else there! Kevin helped me get my equipment squared away, and we were off to tackle the terrain. He gave me pointers on how to use the rope to get to the top. He explained that there was a safety rope that would shut the tow off should I get caught, or be unable to release myself soon enough. It was a fairly simple concept, but just took some coordination to get used to.

I made it to the top of the hill (it seemed giant to me, being from the midwest and all). Kevin also gave me a few pointers on how to go down straight, and how to turn. At first I just went down straight until I stopped. I would go to about the parking lot and stop. Then back up for another go at it. I found it exhilirating to say the least! I mean, I can go fast without tons of effort. What could be more fun than that, right?

Soon, I experimented with wedging my skis out to stop, and putting more pressure on one than the other to turn one way or the other. I began to get quite confident. I was becoming an "expert" skier (at least I thought I was). I was getting so confident, that I started going over the snowbank that was between the ski run and the parking lot. Then, I started lifting up while going over and found I could get some air! My confidence was building. Each time I went over I landed better and better. I was also beginning to get quite a bit of air.

By this time, Kevin and his friend were oblivious of me. I was having so much fun riding up and skiing down, that I didn't care if anyone else was there or not. Finally, having jumped several times with success, I determined that I was going to try a trick. What trick would one postulate that a 10 yr old would come up with (I mean never having watched skiing before)? Of course, it would have to be an attempt at a full forward flip in the air. After all, I was good at what I was doing. Why not go for the hard stuff right away?

I'm at the top of the hill, staring down the path to my most excellent jump. I'm determined to get up as much speed as I can muster to obtain the lift I need for the flip. I push with my poles, and I'm off. Pushing harder and harder to get up speed. Then I tuck my arms in, and crouch down for optimum speed. I hit the approach to the jump, and suddenly I'm airborne. A quick tuck of my head, and I'm dreaming of flipping all the way around. THWACK!!! I come crashing down on my head, and the rest of me crumples down in the hard snow of the parking lot. Did I just break my neck? It sure felt like I did - well, at least at first it felt like it. I gathered my composure, and it looked like my brother and his friend never even saw what I just did. Whew! What a relief to be spared the ribbing I would get.

To quote a famous cliché, I had to jump back on the horse and ride it again. I finished out skiing the rest of the day (and loving it), but not trying any more flips. Even with that awful crash landing (and subsequent scraped forehead), I was exhilirated and excited to find what would become my favored sport of all time. I recounted the experience of my first day skiing many times over the years.

P.S. I didn't succeed with flips and other tricks until years later when I had had many ski runs under my belt - oh, and much better equipment conducive to that type of abuse.