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Showing posts from June, 2013

Fred Taylor

My dad taught me to jump off high up places. He taught to me to question the automotive repairman, that scars are trophies, that “clean” is relative, and that some candy tastes best when slightly stale.
He used to point at trees or radio towers or rocks and say, “I bet you could climb that.” He still makes the best wilderness eggs: all runny in the middle with a crust around the edges, fried in bacon grease with a side of spuds. He sees difficulties as adventures, summits as destinations, and the wilderness as his living room. And still, he was man enough to see the Swan Princess with me when I was in grade school.
My dad is a desert kind of guy. On multiple occasions he drove his motor home down roads that caused the drawers of cooking utensils and the cabinets of snacks and even the refrigerator door to swing open and vomit paraphernalia onto the plastic carpet runners. His goal was to find a location where we could see no signs of civilization. This was probably done in order to lig…