The Power of Shared Experiences

Humans love to have shared experiences.  It gives us a sense of belonging.  This desire for shared experiences will cause us to invite others to join us; or, it will lead us to join with others.  Some join in experiences that are positive, creative, and beneficial.  Others join in experiences that are negative, destructive, and harmful.  Most of us cross back and forth between the two to one degree and another.

Often we seek out and reach for others who have experienced difficulties, trials, obstacles, and sorrows similar to ours.  We may invite them to join with us to some degree.  Not all of these are intrinsically negative experiences.  Many of them produce overtly positive results.  But, the journey through the experience may be painful.  That pain can be alleviated when it is shared with others, when we realize that we are not alone in difficulties.  Often we don’t want to be alone.

In high school I had an experience that brought this home to me in a humorous way.  It was one of those rare days where I didn’t have anything scheduled and I hadn’t come up with some spontaneous activity with my friends or family.  In fact that morning, all of my family was out of the house and many of my friends were busy.  After a quick visit to the local grocery store in my small town, I found a rental movie I hadn’t yet seen.  It was a small miracle since my friends and I had seen almost all of the decent movies that were available.  The title of the movie slips my mind, but it was some sort of modern western that looked slightly promising.

Back at home I put together a few snacks and went to the basement to watch the movie.  It started out fine.  The acting was mediocre but the story line held my attention.  A mystery developed throughout the movie, driving my curiosity.  Despite the overall below average quality of the movie, I was anxious to get to the bottom of the mystery, to get the answer that would bring it all together for the characters and for me.  To my utter disbelief and consternation the movie, in spectacular fashion, failed to answer any of the questions.  Rather, it recycled to the same scene at the beginning of the movie. 

I was physically angry because of the ending.  I felt that I had been cheated of satisfaction and of the time I had spent watching the movie.  I was certain that producers and director of the movie had laughed at the viewers’ expense, knowing that we were angry at our loss of time and money.  Admittedly, I took consolation in knowing that not many people would be fooled into spending time and money on their movie.  Then, I became angry and remorseful, realizing that I was one of the “select” few to do so.

Sitting there seething, looking at the popcorn I had thrown on the floor, I pondered what I should do.  I felt compelled to act.  An idea entered my head and I smiled.  Running upstairs, (because we didn’t have personal cell phones or even a cordless at the time), I called one of my best friends. 

“Hey, guess what?  I just watched an awesome movie.  You should come over and watch it.  I have popcorn.”

Soon he was in the basement with me.  This time, instead of watching the movie intently, I watched his reactions.  The build up of anticipation was evident in his face and body language.  By the end of the movie he was anxious to know the mystery.  He was verbalizing some of the same guesses I had thought to myself earlier.  Then, the ending scene recycled to the beginning scene without giving any answers.

“Wait,” he said, “What happened?”

Then the screen transitioned to the ending credits and his anger blossomed fully.

“What kind of movie is that?  That was stupid.  A waste of my time.”

As he spoke, my own tension eased.  I no longer felt alone.  A friend had experienced the same trial and disappointment as I had.  The world wasn’t a perfect place, but it felt a little better.

“I can’t believe you made me watch that.  Why did you call me over to watch such a stupid movie?” 

The anger in his voice was answered by my smile and twinkle in his eyes.  I said nothing.  Then a similar smile spread across his face.

“Let’s call so and so to come and watch the movie with us.”

We did.  Two other friends joined us to watch the movie.  Their reactions were the same.  Anger followed by a desire to share.  After they watched it we took another trip to the grocery store to replenish our snacks and then called to invite more friends to watch an “amazing” movie.  By day’s end, actually a bit into the night, I had watched that move at least five times.  At the last showing we had around a dozen or so people in my parents’ basement.  The final set of victims or newbies, whichever term you prefer, were upset that we didn’t have time to reach out to anyone else.

The day was amazing.  Each time the movie would end, those who had seen it previously would laugh out loud, congratulating one another on expanding the size of our group.  The new group would transition from anger to a degree of acceptance and belonging.  This is one of my cherished memories from high school.  It took me years to realize why I enjoyed it so much.  It wasn’t the movie.  The movie was terrible.  It wasn’t being mean to my friends.  It was doing something with my friends.  Enjoying an experience with them.  It was seeing how much they enjoyed being included in the group, knowing that when we wanted to share it with someone, we thought of them. 

While I enjoy quiet and solitude more than I did before, I still relish the joy that comes from shared experiences, even if we share them at different times.  I love to talk about my children with other parents.  I love to run races with people and to talk to people who train for and run races.  I love to talk to people who have experienced military training, who know what it means to by TDY or to PCS; or to have to complete something NLT than COB; or to have to go to the MPF to enter someone into DEERS.  I love attending church with family and friends.  I love to be invited to participate in activities with others.  I love to invite them to participate with me.  I love when someone trusts me enough to let me know about their struggles and concerns in life.  I love when I can trust someone enough to share mine.

Looking Back: One Little Neighborhood

Today is my 39^th birthday.  It seems amazing to me that time has gone by so quickly with no way to slow it down.  In my life I have loved looking forward to what comes next and to the great and wonderful things I can do and experience.  Since one of the next things in my future is the age of 40, I think I’ll spend some time looking back, way back—not for too long, just long enough to affirm how wonderfully blessed I am.

When I was a very young person my parents moved from the Salt Lake Valley to the small town of Duchesne in eastern Utah.  Duchesne, for me, is a magical place.  Honestly, I can’t think of wanting to grow up anywhere else.  It’s comforting to a young boy to feel like he knows almost everyone around him and that everyone knows him.  In that small town environment I wasn’t restricted to the house or the yard except when there were chores, homework, or I had misbehaved.  Oh, and generally on Sundays I stayed around the house.  

Duchesne, UT

After living in Duchesne for a couple of years my parents bought their first home in what was referred to as the subdivision on the southeast side of town.  Looking back I like to think that I lived in the ‘burbs.  It was a great place to live.  With lots of houses there were plenty of children my age.  The Strawberry River bordered the subdivision on the west and north sides.  A small mountain range, part of the Tavaputs Plateau, ran along the south side.  A piece of land belonging to a local construction company was on the east side.  Truly it was a playground fit for a young boy and all of his friends.  In that neighborhood alone we had bike trails, two tree houses, a sledding hill (used for sledding and jumping bikes), and several hiking trails leading up into the mountains.

The sledding hill was a major attraction for the children, both summer and winter.  In the winter we would gather with our sleds and tubes to slide down the hill, clearing the jump at the bottom with as much speed as we could muster.  Steering was always important.  Too far to the left and you would land in a Russian Olive Tree with its unforgiving thorns, thorns just as likely to tear apart a tube as flesh.  Plastic sleds and toboggans were fun, but dangerous.  They didn’t pick up much speed and they were impossible to steer.  The round ones were fun because of the excitement and danger.  Often they would spin so you would go down the hill backwards and they were faster than the other plastic varieties. 

For speed, the best option was generally the old flyers, wood sleds with metal rails.  By far they were the fastest and they could be steered.  Speed was the danger…that and the hard and sharp edges of the sled.  More than one child lost control, crashing into others, flipping, or landing in the Russian Olive Tree.  Whenever there was blood on the sledding hill, there was a good chance a flyer was involved.  Invariably the flyers won the jumping contest.  They could fly further than any other type of sled. 

Old tire tubes were the most fun and safest option.  If you brought a tube, you were expected to bring the wax for the bottom as well.  Wax was the secret to speed on tubes.  The wax had to be reapplied on a regular basis to keep the friction down and the speed up.  Tubes were the HOVs (high occupancy vehicles) of the sledding hill.  If one was coming down, you got out of the way because there could be anywhere from one to eight people on it.  

It always paid to be friends with someone who brought a sled, especially if you didn't have one. 

Fun at the sledding hill was the type that stuck to you and wouldn’t let you leave.  I would stay for hours at a time, as long as I could stand the cold.  Usually I wouldn’t leave that hill on Saturdays until the dark forced us off or my mother called me home.  Usually while I was on the hill, climbing up and sliding down, I didn’t notice the cold.  As soon as I would get home and pull off all of my wet winter clothes, the 10,000 pinpricks of pain would course through my fingers, toes, ears, and nose.  Tears would fill my eyes and I would whimper while I sat next to our big, black fireplace in the front room changing into dry clothes.  I was always amazed at the pain that would come from running lukewarm or cool water over my frigid fingers.

During the summer months, we would meet on occasion at the sledding hill to jump our bikes.  Enough speed could be generated coming down the hill to jump an amazing distance at the bottom.  For a couple of years I was too cautious (chicken) to take any serious jumps off of the hill.  I’d watch in awe as my friends and older kids went faster down the hill and jumped further and further.  Part of my fear was failing miserably in front of all of my friends and peers.  One day I was the only one at the hill for some reason.  I climbed the hill with my bike and coasted down, gently gliding over the bump at the bottom.  Several times I repeated the process, increasing my speed by increments.  Eventually I was making substantial jumps.  Finally I reached the point where I would pedal all the way down the hill and pull myself into a lengthy jump at just the right time.  I couldn’t wait to show my friends. 

On my last jump, although I don’t think I planned on it being my last, I decided to do a few tricks in the air.  For this inaugural occasion I decided to turn my handlebars one direction and then straighten them out just before I landed.  Speeding down the hill I hit the jump and pulled back with all my might.  It was my highest jump yet.  In the air I turned my wheel and looked down.  I was so impressed with the height and distance of my jump that, sadly, I threw my timing off and I landed before I turned the wheel straight again.  The last thing I remember was my turned wheel hitting the ground and flying over my handlebars head first into the ground.  I know it knocked me out simply because I remember waking up.  My face was a little scraped up and something felt loose in my jaw.  The bike lay on the ground about ten or twelve feet in front of me.  Slowly I picked myself up and rode slowly home.  It would be another year before I was willing to try the jumps again.

I miss being a child in that neighborhood.  Countless times I knocked on friends’ doors to ask, “Can so and so come out and play?”  Countless times my friends knocked on my door to ask, “Can Jarad come out and play?”  Often a friend would show up while I was in the middle of stacking firewood or weeding the garden to see if I could join them on some adventure.  Trying to leave before the work was done was pointless.  Usually they would join in to help me complete my job.  I did the same.  In that neighborhood I knew that at any time another adult there could stop me in my tracks for any improper behavior.  When they did I hoped they would correct me on the spot without feeling the need to inform my parents.  Sometimes, however, it was serious enough that they spoke with my parents.  Luckily I never got into too much trouble.

The Subdivision

Oh, the hours I spent with friends in the mountains.  We would hike and explore for hours.  There were two Devil’s Soup Bowls on the face of the mountain.  One near our neighborhood and one near the County Fairgrounds.  The debate always raged about which one was the real Devil’s Soup Bowl and which was the fake.  In those hills we built huts, tracked animals, looked for Sasquatch, avoided snakes (usually successfully), checked out the television tower, and once hiked several miles up Indian Canyon.  One time someone even managed to spray starter fluid in his eye from a rusty old can.  Poor kid ran screaming all the way home, up and down hills for about two miles.  By the time we got there we had to explain to his mother what had happened because he still couldn’t speak a coherent word.

I have so many wonderful memories from those hills.  One day I was hiking on the face of the mountain with a friend.  I had my brand new cowboy hat, recently purchased at the fair.  We were up above the fairgrounds, kind of close the fake Devil’s Soup Bowl.  A sudden gust of wind blew my hat off of my head and over a cliff.  The cliff stretched too far for me to climb around, so I took out my rope and tied it to a large rock.  My plan was to repel down the face of the cliff to my hat and climb back up.  I had seen it happen on the television set so many times that I was sure I could do it.  The cliff was only ten to fifteen feet high.  I’m not sure how I planned on getting back up. 

As I prepared to go over the edge, my friend kept trying to talk me out of it, but I was committed.  With the rope wrapped around my waist I leaned back and prepared to go over.  Before I could take a step I distinctly heard these words, “Jarad, don’t do it!”

I shook my head and slid down further to the edge.  Again, I heard distinctly the words, “Jarad, don’t do it.  Stop!”

“Did you hear that?” I said to my friend.

“Hear what?  I didn’t hear anything.  But, I don’t think you should do it.”

Looking down at the cliff, I considered it one more time.  Again the words: “Jarad, stop!  Don’t do it!”

That was enough for me.  I remembered all of my lessons from Primary and sacrament meeting.  I untied my rope, stashed it back in my backpack, and abandoned my hat.  Several hours later at home, my dad grabbed me by the shoulder and said, “It’s a good thing you didn’t go over that cliff.  Your rope didn’t even reach the bottom.”

Confused, I asked, “How did you know about the cliff?”

“We were watching you from the backyard.”

“How could you see me?”  It was about a half a mile or more away.

“With the binoculars.  Why were you trying to go over the cliff?”

“To get my cowboy hat.  The wind blew it off.”

"Was that you telling me not to climb off the cliff?"

"Yes.  I was yelling as loud as I could."

So many more memories.  Dirt clod wars.  I believe we had three of them and usually spilled blood at some point.  Working for Porter Merrill on his farm and in his garden.  Fishing the river.  Camping out in tents or under the stars for nights on end in the front or backyard.  All of that and more in one little neighborhood.

Great Haircut Stories

For the past several weeks, perhaps months, I’ve been busy with family, church, work, and a larger writing project.  Today, to help me unwind, I decided to share some important experiences related to my development and upbringing—important haircuts in my life.  For those of you who are kind enough to read my blog on at least an intermittent basis you may have read about my friend Brett’s amazing haircut experience in China during a beer festival.  If you haven’t read it, here’s a link to that adventure: “Living on the Edge: Brett, the CulturalWarrior, in China”.  I don’t think any of my experiences approach his in terms of raw shock and awe, but I think they’re informative, entertaining, and impactful.

First Haircut

Of course I don’t remember my first haircut.  I just remember my parents talking about it.  It’s been several years, maybe even a decade or two since they have mentioned it, but I remember it still.  The conversation between them would go something like this:

Dad: “Remember when you took Jarad in for his first haircut.”

Mom: “Yes, I remember.  You were so mad when they cut all of his curls off and they never came back.”

Dad: “He was so cute with curls.”

Mom: “I know.”

They would both sigh and look at me with a bit of regret in their eyes and shake their head sadly.  I’ve always wondered how cute I would have been if I had kept my curls.  Would I have been more successful, more personable?  Would I have had more friends?  Perhaps I would be a successful third term politician by now.  Instead I grew up missing the cuter Jarad I never really knew.  I like to think the loss of the curls made me a stronger person, that I was forced to work harder for what I have received.  My natural intelligence and work ethic were forced to the forefront of my personality as my natural good looks were somewhat diminished.  Like my parents I still sigh when I think about those lost curls.

Naval Junior Officer Training Corps and the Flat Top

As a young child I once talked my dad into giving me a buzz cut.  My mom hated it (probably because it reminded her even more of my lost curls).  Other than that one buzz cut I went years without an exciting haircut.  It was the same every time, with the perfect part on the one side.  If I got my part wrong, my mom either used a sharp-toothed comb to fix it or made me go try again.

Life changed when I entered the 8^th grade.  My dad decided to up and join the US Navy at the ripe old age of thirty, pulling our family from quaint little Duchesne, Utah all the way across the country to Pensacola, Florida.  Eighth grade in Florida was painful.  Nobody really liked the kid from Utah with huge glasses and a perfect part in his hair.  My favorite places that year were in my dreams and at church. 

When summer rolled around I tried out for the freshman football team at the high school and was selected to play outside linebacker.  In order to fit onto the team and to deal with the hot, humid summer, I cut my hair quite short, not a buzz, but you know, very short.  It was nothing exotic, but practical.  As school started I was excited to register for the NJROTC classes, sort of follow in my dad’s footsteps and learn a little more about the military.  The NJROTC instructors were amazing.  They managed to convince me, and others lest you think I was alone, that it would be cool and patriotic to wear a uniform to school once a week while keeping a short haircut. 

Shortly after school started I was warned by one of the instructors during our weekly inspection that my hair was about due for a haircut.  My dad decided to take me to a local barber he had been seeing for a few months.  An older gentleman named Ivan owned the barbershop.  He had two other ladies who worked for him. 

As I sat down my dad smiled and said to Ivan and to me, “What do you think about a flat top?” 

Never before had I really considered a flat top haircut, but I liked the idea.  Ivan responded before I could.

“I think he would look great with a flat top.  He would have to get a special flat top brush to train his hair and to make it work.”

Ivan proceeded to describe the process of training hair to stand up.  As a new member of the NJROTC I was thrilled at the prospect of doing my own training.  Quickly I agreed.  It was refreshing to have the sides of my head shorn of hair.  Ivan used an old-fashioned straight blade razor to clean up the appropriate spots.  It took him some time to get the hair on top to the right length and even.  When he was finished, I thought I looked pretty good.  In short order I had my own flat top brush.

In fact, I still have a flat top brush to this day.  I think I’ve owned a total of two flat top brushes.  The last one I bought, and still use today, was purchases after I lost my first one when I was fifteen or sixteen years old.  My sisters think it’s a little gross that I still have the brush, but I love it, missing bristles and all.

For the next two years I met with Ivan and his straight blade on at least a monthly basis to keep my flat top in good working order.

Wild and crazy in the Basin – Or, Making It Up as I Go

After my sophomore year I moved back to Duchesne.  I kept my flat top for a while, but it wasn’t considered as cool as it was as it was in Pensacola, so I slowly let it fade.  Plus, it wasn’t a great haircut to have during the cold winters.  My first winter back, I went over to Roosevelt for work and decided to stop in for a haircut at a local barbershop on Main Street.  I had never been there before and didn’t really know anybody.  When it was my turn I sat in the chair, not sure what I wanted.  Looking up I saw that the place was full of fathers and sons waiting their turns.  None of them had anything too crazy, outside of maybe a lingering mullet, which was not considered extreme at the time (or even still).

I must have been bored and wanted to entertain the crowd because I told the barber I wanted something like a high and tight, but I didn’t want the hair shortened on top.  In fact, I wanted him to leave a distinct line like a bowl cut with the longer hair coming down to a point on the back of my head.  The barber asked me several times if I was sure that was what I wanted and if my parents would approve.  I told him I was spending my money and that they wouldn’t care, too much.  Also, I mentioned that I was from Duchesne and that I doubted my parents would come over to give him a hard time for giving me a crazy haircut.

It was obvious he was excited to do it.  I doubt he had ever given such an exotic haircut.  All of the boys and their fathers leaned forward in their chairs to watch, making comments to one another about what the barber was doing to me.  Some made it clear they didn’t approve of my deviant behavior.   Some of the boys, especially those younger than me, started to ask if they could get a similar haircut.  Discussions went back and forth as the barber did his work.

When I was finished I paid and walked out the door with fathers and sons still discussing the option of getting the same haircut and wondering what mom would say.  I hope some of them were brave enough to try it.  Of course, my dad didn’t love the haircut, but neither did I.  All of the joy was in being the center of attention and causing a little controversy.  Within a few days I had the back of my head fixed and the rest of my hair shortened a little.  I believe that was the only time I was considered a trendsetter in my life.  Whatever happened, I think the barber was excited to try something new.

The Russian Sporteevni’ and Karma

Learning to ask for a good haircut in a foreign country in a foreign language is a true challenge.  As a missionary I worked hard to make sure that I knew how to describe what I wanted.  By the time I needed a haircut I could explain how long I wanted it on the various portions of my cranium.  (For some reason all of us missionaries in Russia, at least the elders, loved to go to the beautician schools so we could get our hair cut by the young, pretty female students.)

At the time I was in Russia, the sporteevni’ cut was all the rage with the young men.  Basically, it was just a buzz cut.  Of course they loved to give buzz cuts because it was easy to do and easy to satisfy the customer.  Unfortunately a buzz cut did not fit with the grooming standards for missionaries.  We had to figure out how to describe what we wanted.  Failure to do so accurately could result in serious mistakes.

When I had been in the country for a year one of the newer missionaries asked me for instructions on how to get a haircut.  Honestly, I gave him the correct instructions and the correct vocabulary.  A week later we met up at a baptism.  We were standing outside the school, where the baptism would take place, in the cold winter air.  He was wearing his shapka and I could tell he wasn’t happy with me. 

Finally, he pulled his fur shapka off of his head and said, “Look at this!  Look at what you did.”

His hair, what was left of it, looked terrible.  I’m not sure what he told them, but my guess is that as he realized they weren’t doing what he wanted, that he kept trying to correct them.  The result was horrendous.  I apologized, trying to convince him that I had given him good instructions.  He didn’t believe me, but he did think it was kind of funny.

Skip ahead several months.  I was nearing the end of my mission.  The long Russian winter in Yekaterinburg finally had come to an end and I wanted a shorter haircut to match the weather.  Completely confident in my language abilities I went to a nearby barbershop and gave my customary instructions.  The girls asked if I was sure that I didn’t want a sporteevni’.  I assured her that I did not and gave my instructions again.

As she started to cut my hair, I relaxed.  The room was warm and the hands on my head felt good.  Within a few minutes I was mostly asleep as she cut.  Suddenly I realized she was asking me a question.  Without thinking too deeply about what she had said, I replied with a hearty, “Da, da!”

Immediately she ran the clippers across the top of my head.  Apparently she had asked one more time if I wanted the sporteevni’.  She must have been watching for a moment of weakness, probably because she had made some mistake.  Unfortunately the next day I spoke in a sacrament meeting the next day with our mission president in attendance.  I had to explain why my hair was not within mission standards to all of the missionaries, several of the members, and to the mission president.

I still fall asleep during haircuts sometimes.

What did you want?  What are you giving me?

I have worked at the Air Force Academy on two different occasions, as an active duty officer and as a civilian.  Both times I kept basically the same short, military style haircut.  There was a small barbershop in Fairchild Hall, the academic building.  It wasn’t manned all of the time, so you had to get on the schedule in advance in order to get your haircut.  One of the regular ladies in there was a bit on the eccentric and loud side of things.  She liked to complain loudly about everything in her life.  More than once I walked away when she was working, preferring to keep long hair for a day or two to avoid the verbal assault.

One day I was down at the community center and decided to drop into the barbershop there to get my haircut.  Looking in I saw one of the other barbers, a guy who did a good job.  There was only one other person in front of me so I took a number and sat down.

The eccentric lady walked in and set up at her station.  She called my number.  Somewhat reluctantly I went and sat in her chair.  Before I was even sitting she and the other barber were in a heated discussion about coworkers and their upcoming schedule.  She didn’t say a word to me as she wrapped my neck in tissue and draped the cape over my shoulders.  I was waiting for her to ask what I wanted, when she just started to cut my hair with the clippers.  Within a minute or two, most of the hair on the sides of my head was completely gone. 

Suddenly realizing what she was doing, she stopped and asked, “What did you want done with your hair?”

Smiling, I asked in turn, “I don’t know.  What were you planning?”

She thought for a minute and said, “Well, I’m not sure but what do you think about this?”

Quickly she described what she had in mind, which luckily was almost exactly what I usually asked for anyway.  I agreed and she continued to cut, never apologizing or pausing again in her work.  Her conversation with her coworker picked up right where it left off.

It was kind of exciting not knowing what my hair was going to look like.

Where Has All the Excitement Gone?

I had my haircut this weekend.  It’s been the same for several years now, a military style haircut—short on the sides, with just enough length on top to comb it forward.  My mom’s part on the one side, like my curls, is gone.  I still enjoy having my head touched, rubbed, and scratched when I get a haircut.  Nothing exciting is on the horizon.

No, the most exciting thing this time and likely the next time is when I tell them that I have a mole on my head that they may want to avoid.  Always, they are so thankful for the heads up.  Sometimes I ask them to thin my thick hair, but I haven’t had to do that for a couple of years.  That kind of worries me.

Maybe one day I’ll shave it completely bald.  Going grey isn’t as exciting as I had hoped it would be, although the pace of conversion from brown to grey is picking up speed.