Origins of Christmas Tree

I just wanted to know why I was decorating an evergreen spruce inside our apartment. I asked Anna, and she did not know either. So I went to Wikipedia and found two plausible origins to placing a tree in our homes in December. The first origin comes from St. Boniface in 16th century Germany. In defiance of the Norse gods Boniface cut down the tree of Thor, a huge oak. In it's place sprouted a fir, which he saw as a sign of Christianity's triumph over apostasy. He said, "let Christ be at the center of your households."
The second origin I like comes from Martin Luther, the reformer, who established the Christmas tree as the symbol of the tree of life in the Garden of Eden. Both of these are great. But I have a better origin, compliments of the Tingey family in Montana...
One day, a pilgrim family of six was traveling through the woods. Snow covered the ground. The kids were happy to be outside, walking and talking and throwing snowballs. Someone in the family, probably a boy, sat to rest by an evergreen. While enjoying the great blue sky, the boy noticed two birds racing across the sky. To the boy's surprise, the birds raced right towards him. Instead of flying into him, the flew in for a landing right in that evergreen close by. The boy noticed they were hiding in a nest in the tree. Suddenly, the two birds spoke to the boy.
"Please, help us!"
"Yes, we need help," cried bird # 2. "We are being chased by killer birds. Will you please cut our tree down, place it sideways in the back of your Ford pick-up and drive us to your home. You can disguise our tree by decorating it with lights that will confuse the killer birds. Then you can encircle it with popcorn strands to feed us while we stay in your tree. And don't forget to place neat, glass balls in the tree so kids can come by and grab them to throw at other kids. This will also scare away potential killer birds. And please, preserve our nest while you transport the tree."
The boy, in wonder, walked over to his parents and told them the implausible story of the scared birds in the evergreen nearby. Both parents smiled at each other and walked over with the boy to the tree. To their surprise, they heard the same two birds relate to them the same plea. And so, the pilgrim family cut down the tree and carried it back to their permanent-only-for-a-couple-years house. They protected the nest, decorated the tree, and enjoyed the rest of winter with the family and two scared, but protected, birds. And so the tradition grew, that each Christmas season, families began cutting down trees to protect innocence, preserve life, and enjoy family. And you always wondered where those "two turtle doves" came from !

Tender Mercy of Dish Detergent's Last Ounce

Have you ever noticed the last ounce of dish detergent always seems to pour out just a little more? It's funny because sometimes that last ounce lasts as long as a full bottle. And you can rest assured, when you're on the last ounce, you can remind yourself or your spouse to get new dish soap for a month before that last ounce runs dry. As a side note, if you say or type "ounce" a lot, it begins to sound and look funny. I like the guy in the picture giving his every OUNCE. ouch...

Teddy's Restaurant

Ever want to know how to sell a wedding band to a MAN? Tell him it's the same material used in body armor. SOLD. I saw this happen the other day in a jewelry store. Already that retailer has mastered the art of selling to 50% of his customer base. The tungsten band is the antithesis to the diamond for two reasons: cents and sensibility. Seeing as the man shopper is driven by these two factors, that leaves the woman shopper with the other admirable traits that label them as society's refined and perceptive half. And thus you see why my wife can name 3,000 different items in Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrell, and Williams and Sonoma while I can remember only 3. Let's see: the couch, the wooden spoon, and the candle. Oh, number four would be the bathroom.

The real reason for the post was in praise for The Gun Barrell restaurant. It's a place Teddy Roosevelt would have flocked to (can I end a sentence with "to"?) . Located in St. George, Utah, it caters to the animal hunter and western ranger of olden days. When you walk in you are greeted with a winchester used by a Tucson rancher in defense of his land. In the stock is engraved five notches. One each for the maruaders he shot with that very gun to defend his property in the 19th century. What a way to stimulate the appetite. Seriously, it gave me chills to see that living history. As you are escorted to your table, you pass under the mounts of buffalo head, ducks, deer, antelope, pheasants, turkeys, snakes, and more. Roosevelt was a hunter and taxidermist, so I can only assume he would have visited once in a while. If you go, try the Elk steak, it's gamey.

American Saturday Manure

Sometimes I feel a strange impulse when out on a hike in rural America. Whether I'm with Anna, my brother, buddies from high school, or my in-laws (hopefully not as often with the in-laws), or parents, if I cross paths with a cow pie, I always feel an urge to reach down and grab it. Whenever I give in, I usually end up throwing it like a Frisbee at the nearest human. That part is for laughs. The real reason I pick it up, I think, is because it brings me joy. Good, honest-Abe, apple pie, manifest destiny joy. Today I think I made the connection that might bring this impulse from the realms of revolting to the realms of nostalgia. It happened out walking around our complex. The lawn was freshly mowed and layered in crumbled cow pie to fertilize the winter grass. Every October in Mesa, AZ I would help my dad prepare the lawn for winter grass by reaching in piles of manure and spreading it out across our lawn. We must have been the stink of Harvest street. But I liked the smell and the feel. It reminds me of Harvest and autumn. It reminds me of Halloween and cold weather. It reminds me of the smell of burning wood and blooming citrus. It reminds me of college football and early NBA season. Okay, enough Dickinsonian foliage talk. I love manure, plain and simple. It makes me feel American. So here's a raised cow pie to you Dad, on the eve of your birthday, for teaching me the joys of manure. Sorry that I never asked if you wanted to spread the stuff around the lawn...

Speaking of American. Anna and I had an American Saturday today. We helped cleaned the ward building. (Service gives license to play the rest of the day) Drove home to stop at a yard sale. Picked out some furniture. Went out for a bike ride. Spent the afternoon cleaning, moving furniture, selling a desk on Craig's List, watching college football, eating hot Reubens, making caramel apples, breaking teeth with caramel apples, and smelling the manure-scented breeze from below in our third-story apartment. Hey, in all honesty, I'd take the smell of manure over emissions or plastic trash any day.

A call for thoughts

Who is/was your favorite teacher in your educational experience? If you want, leave a comment explaining what it was about their style that worked for you.

My favorite teacher was Mr. Helsel, my AP History teacher. He was the first teacher who showed me the power of writing. And he always called ASU the "Harvard of the West," which I agree with, academically speaking.

Svelte

Anna and I were introduced to someone last week in his nice, spacious office. He had a solid oak desk. The kind with a desktop you could ice skate on. Or at least slip and slide across if it were out in the back yard. Those were my first thoughts when we walked in to his office. He was dressed in a nice suit, tie and polished shoes. He invited us to sit down on his posh couch. Svelte, if I might say so. My cousin, Andrew, and I came up with a good working definition of "svelte." It should be used to describe anything that is trying to look attractive that you would never touch with a ten-foot pole. Like a llama with an under bite.

Anyway, there we were, sitting in a very svelte couch. After some chit-chat, the conversation was going, but it was still luke-warm. And then the gentleman said, "Tell me about yourself Greg?" Anna looked up at the man and said, in reference to my actual name, "He's Spencer."

The man was sitting fairly distant, and all he heard was "He's special."

I nodded in affirmation to Anna's statement, while the man nodded in affirmation to my affirmation that I was special. Major miscommunication.

I repeated that I was "Spencer," which his brain interpreted again as "special," and he affirmed again how good it was that I was special. It took me and Anna a combined effort to halt the conversation and say loudly enough my actual name. Then the ice was completely broken. I don't think we could hold back spurts of laughter for the next ten minutes while we thought about what this fine gentleman thought of getting to know Anna and his "special" husband.

Great way to get to know someone while sitting on a svelte couch.