Fathers and Sons

Like most Wards in the Church, our Ward holds an annual Fathers and Sons campout. It’s a chance for fathers and sons to spend a little quality time together—huddling together in the freezing cold trying to stave off frostbite. Most fathers get very little sleep on this campout.

For the lucky few who’ve never been, Fathers and Sons works like this. First you go to Costco or Wal-mart and purchase a tent (or ask mom to find last year’s tent). For most families, this is the only time the tent gets used. Invest accordingly. Tents come in a variety of shapes and sizes but have two things in common, 1) they have more poles than a jigsaw puzzle has pieces and 2) they give the appearance of warmth without actually providing any.

After packing the tent and not enough warm clothing, you drive to the designated location. The path is usually marked by paper plates stapled to fence posts reading; “Prairie View Stake, 198^th Ward Fathers and Sons Campout turn here” in letters too small to be read from a moving vehicle.

It’s always a good idea to arrive at the designated camping area while it's still light. This is important because trying to distinguish green pole “A” from blue pole “B” is nearly impossible by car headlights. Furthermore, if you arrive after dark, all of the food will be burnt or consumed. Nothing says “father/son bonding” like a starving child yelling: “I told you the pole wouldn't bend that far.”

Once all the tents have been assembled and dinner consumed then it’s time for a bonfire. If managed correctly, the bonfire gives fathers a chance to teach their young sons about fire, sharp sticks, hot coals, melted nylon jackets and second degree burns. Older boys learn about melting things like marshmallows and expensive tennis shoes.  

Following the bonfire the boys usually play night games. If someone remembered to pray; “bless us that no harm or accident well come upon us”, then no injuries more serious than a broken arm or sprained ankle occur.

By the time night games begin; most fathers have retired to their tents to enter the early stages of hypothermia. The process starts when you enter your so called “sleeping bag.” Sleeping bags have temperature ratings which are scientifically established following this formula: Manufacturers give bags to employee testers to try out and the employee reports the “temperature rating.” In other words; the rating is a "wild guess" as to how warm the bag will be for the "average person." 

For example, a sleeping bag rated for 20 degrees means that if you use the sleeping bag in 20-degree weather you probably won’t die from hypothermia or get severe frostbite. It does NOT mean that in 20 degree weather you will sleep, or be warm and comfortable

Most sleeping bags are made of nylon, a fabric able to stay extremely cold no matter how much time you spend in the bag. Every time you move, a new “cold spot” jars you awake—like putting your foot into a bucket of ice. The way to avoid this is to remain perfectly still for the entire night. I find that pretending I’m being stalked by a giant bear that will maul me to death if I even twitch puts me in the right frame of mind.

In the morning, fathers and sons gather around the fire pit and try and coax some warmth from the remains of the marshmallow/candy wrapper/ tennis shoe campfire while the bishopric prepares breakfast. If tradition is followed, breakfast comprises burnt pancakes, cold bacon and greasy eggs. Following the hearty breakfast, fathers and attempt the impossible task of stuffing the tent back into its original bag. I heard that was successfully accomplished once during the 1976 Fathers and Sons campout--but it’s never been repeated. Fathers usually give up and just throw the whole thing in the trunk and “let mom do it.”

After stuffing the tent and sleeping bags into the trunk, buckling in the sons and driving off to soccer games and yard work; fathers are left with the warm memory of that moment in the middle of the night when their son snuggles up close and says; “Daddy, I’m freezing.”

Here, Hold My Purse

Here, Hold My Purse

I like to spend time with Mrs. Wonderful (yes, that really is her married name) even if it involves shopping. Of course, like all activities there are caveats. I don’t even enjoy watching football 100% of the time.

The other day we were spending quality time together shopping for running shoes (because that’s what you do after eating too much over the Holidays). We decided to stop at Runner’s Corner to see if they had shoes suitable for Mrs. Wonderful’s feet. The salesman was very helpful and knowledgeable and helped her try on approximately 475 pairs of shoes—hoping to find one that fit just right and didn't cost as much as a car payment.

Runner’s Corner is really cool and even has a mini jogging track (approximately 182 laps to the mile) so that you can try the shoes out in “real world” scenarios. Apparently, in order to properly try the shoe in a “real world” scenario, you can’t be encumbered by a purse. Have you ever seen a women jogging with a purse? Cell phone, iPod, car keys, pepper spray, emergency essentials, and all of the above at the same time—yes. Purse? No. Apparently, purses aren't like old shoes or backpacks that can be discarded anywhere, they’re like babies and must be held at all times.

Conundrum, what to do with the purse while jogging at the running shoe store? In my wife’s fantasy, the Old Spice guy would suddenly appear (shirtless) flex, and save the day by gallantly coddling the purse while carrying her around the pretend track. In real life, Mrs. Wonderful turns to her middle-aged husband of 20-years and orders; “here, hold this.”

But I don’t want to.

For me there’s only one thing worse than holding a purse—holding any form of feminine hygiene product. I don’t care what it is. I don’t want to be the guy walking around the store carrying boxes with the words “Acti-Fresh”, “Carefree” or “Amazingly Clean Protection” printed on them. The other day my wife handed me three items to hold while she looked for the perfect shade of lipstick or nail polish or hair color or some other form of artificial color. I quickly noticed the pink box and went looking for a shopping cart—an action that did not go unnoticed by Mrs. Wonderful who commented; “you just couldn't stand it could you?” No I could not.

You can look cool, fatherly and even manly when holding a baby, but when you hold your wife’s purse you look like—a guy with a purse. So, what’s the correct way to hold a purse? Do you leave it on the ground and stand over it like a guard dog? That could work but limits your fight or flight options. Do you throw it on your shoulder like you own it? Yeah, not in my world. Do you hold it at arm’s length like a stinky diaper which lets everyone know it’s clearly not yours? The Missus disapproves of this method.

When you absolutely must hold the purse, I prefer to either, a) hold it awkwardly using one or maybe two fingers (depending on the weight and size of the thing) which lets everyone know it’s UNDOUBTEDLY not mine or, b) grasp the strap tightly and wield it like a medieval weapon, poised to strike down the first person who snickers at a guy holding a purse.

Given no other option, I awkwardly held the purse and wandered over to the clearance table where I found a respectable pair of running shoes for only $14.99. They seemed to fit so I snagged them. Meanwhile, the Mrs. had narrowed her selection down to two pairs, both costing as much as a car payment. She decided to continue her quest for the perfect shoe. I purchased the $14.99 pair. So, other than the momentary discomfort I experienced while wielding the purse, the trip was a success. I got some new running shoes and jointly we only spent $14.99. However, as my astute cousin pointed out, the Missus can now buy the expensive pair because when you take into consideration my fifteen dollar pair, the average price of two pairs would be quite reasonable.

Look for more purse holding at Runner’s Corner this week.