Cochran Family History and News – BlogCochran.com

It was always gum that stands out, and eventually I had to make my own decision. Around the time I started spending more time with girls, having fresh breath became important to me. I’m sure Mom wasn’t very pleased, but I was able to argue the merits of sugar-free gum. Throughout high school and even today, if there’s gum in my pocket (and there often is) it’s dark blue (Wintergreen) Extra sugar-free gum.

As a parent myself, there’s a LOT of stuff I hate to let my kids have. Anything that comes in and out of the mouth is a potential sticky mess. That includes suckers, candy canes, etc. I like food that doesn’t leave a big mess and can be doled out in small portions. Smarties, Skittles, M&Ms, and so forth are perfect. Pixie Stix? Potential disaster. Fun Dip? Perhaps at age 12.

Well, the draft of my wagon post went missing.  Probably OK; it was longer than the papers most of Laresa’s students turn in.

I’ll redo it sometime.  I had lots of great times in the old Blushing Belle.

This is my name-sake Kathleen O’Bryant with my grandmother.  My grandmother loved roses.Kathleen was not quite two years old when she died.  The oldest child of my maternal grandparents.  I can’t even imagine how my grandmother must have felt after she drowned.  I know she sobbed and sobbed and pulled handfuls of her hair out. My uncle Toby (her second child) was born just before Kathleen’s death.

My first grade teacher was Mrs. Repp. She was an older lady. The only thing I remember about her is that if she caught a bottom in the air she’d smack it. Usually this happened when someone was leaning across a desk to reach someone else’s desk. I think I even remember one day a fellow classmate giving her a swat for having a bottom in the air when she bent down to get something from a cupboard. The whole class was shocked and she was very mad.

I remember that the desks were arranged in groups of 4 or 5.  They weren’t really lined up, they were pushed together with no space in the middle so it was almost as if we had one big desk instead of a series of small ones.

My mother tells me that Mrs. Repp started writing really negative/mean things on my papers and that they became concerned. I know that in first grade I was diagnosed with dyslexia and my parents and others determined that I should repeat the first grade. They told me that I was taking first grade again because my hands weren’t as big as Mellissa’s. I can remember noticing that I was smaller than her one day as we got on the bus to go home. I know I had trouble with the orientation of letters and I had a letter and number line across my desk. I can remember struggling with knowing the orientation of 5 and S and I could never remember which side was my left and which was my right. At sometime during elementary school I figured out that if I tried to snap, my right hand was always the hand that would snap. I used this as my guide and whenever I had to determine left or right I’d think about snapping. Maybe this is weird, but I still use a similar strategy to tell left from right—it’s like my brain just can’t automatically remember which is side is left and which is right, I assume that’s the dyslexia.

Repeating first grade meant I new set of classmates and Angie and Melissa moved on without me. It was probably at that point that I became very lonely. I can remember walking around the playground by myself thinking how I wished my friend Erin from church went to school with me because then I would have a friend to play with on the playground.

My first grade teacher was Mrs. Larsen, who seemed much much older than Mrs. Kofford, my kindergarten teacher.  I think Mrs. Larsen had reddish hair, and it was piled in curls on her head.  I was excited to be in something other than kindergarten (I promise I’m working up to blogging about kindergarten—it was a traumatic and mostly unhappy year for me and I don’t like thinking about it) and my best friend Kacie was in my class, too!  I seem to remember our desks were in kind of a horseshoe shape and I sat on the right side in the back.  We had those pasteboard pencil boxes (I think mine was blue but I can’t rightly remember) and used to make them into little houses by turning them on their side and using the lid either as a door or as a flip-up awning, propped up by our pencils.  I had a big desk and liked keeping it neat on the inside; I remember putting things away carefully at the end of the day (I still do that at work and it bothers me when my things have been moved by someone else) so they’d be neat in the morning.

I don’t remember much of what we learned.  More advanced math and printing practice, I’m sure, as well as a little Utah history and grammar.  I do remember, though, having a pink eraser and those yellow pencils.  I also remember that we had play time almost every day on a couple of big tables in the back of the room.  We could bring clay from home—it was a set of that lovely oil-based clay in fat red, yellow, green, and blue strips—and we were required to put it away in our desks or cubbies near the tables when we were done playing.  Probably cubbies.  I remember rolling it out into snakes and making necklaces and bracelets with it.  I was careful not to mix my colors too much and was annoyed when the boys mixed the colors into a big gray-brown mass and Mrs. Larsen took it away from us.  I was sad when she took the container that mom had given me to put my clay in; I always felt that was unfair because it wasn’t me who messed up the clay.

I seem to remember that there was at least one boy who ate paste on a regular basis…

I’m not sure if this memory is from first grade or not, but I remember being on a bench on the playground under one of the cottonwood trees and seeing a nun playing with or watching a group of children.  I’m not sure how I knew she was a nun, but I somehow recognized her long black dress and veil.

Like I said, I don’t remember much (it will probably come back to me) but overall I liked Mrs. Larsen and the classroom felt friendly and nice, which any classroom would have after kindergarten…

I have only owned one car and it is the very exciting 1998 Nissan Maxima GLE.  I did, however, drive the glorious ‘78 Buick LeSabre and somethingoranother 1980? BMW.

The Buick was a freaking tank and I didn’t like driving it; in fact, I hardly drove until I bought my own car and had to drive to and from Rexburg.

The Bimmer remains the only manual transmission car I have ever successfully driven.  I believe it had the loosest, most forgiving clutch know to man.  I actually really enjoyed driving it, but I tended to stall, and that was stressful.  Then my parents gave it to my brother and that was then end of my fun.

My Nissan?  Well, I really like it.  It does what I tell it to do when I want it to.  It floats on the highway and likes to go fast.  I like its sound system, I like the leather interior, and I like the convenient placement of all the buttons.  It is a good car and I like to drive it.

As for car repairs, I don’t do any of them.  In fact, the only way I know where anything is is because of the nice pictures the Japanese engineers put in my car.  I don’t even think I’ve taken it to get inspected alone; Dad is a terrible (or very good) enabler.  I figure I have the brains to watch the miles and take it to Jiffy Lube if I’m ever off on my own.

Like some of you have said, this is hard to articulate, so this post will be something of a ramble.

I’ve traveled in Europe—not enough to claim any expertise—but I have noticed that people are more carefree here.  Whether or not that’s because we don’t have a lot of war scars in the landscape, I’m not sure, but I am confident that it is partially because of the foundation of freedom we have in the USA.  Even with the inevitability of government corruption, we enjoy freedoms that are unheard of in other parts of the world.  I know that I can speak my mind, and while it may cause an argument, I probably won’t end up killed execution style in a dungeon (not that this happens in Europe, right now).

I remember the thrill of pride I had when I finally memorized the Pledge of Allegiance.  I loved leading the class in proclaiming our loyalty to our country.  Likewise, I was thrilled when I memorized the Preamble to the Constitution.  One of my favorite assignments was outlining the Constitution for my US History class and I love the chance I have now to teach my students the inspirations for our Constitution, even though we don’t get to study much American history.  Sometimes I’m so convinced of the rightness of ideas that it’s hard to present the other side objectively; I’m certain I can’t hide the surge of pride I feel when I get to teach about figures like John Locke and Adam Smith and their good ideas and how smart we were to adopt them.

When I read about the great sacrifices of war, I am always proud that my people have been willing to make those sacrifices and serve their country, especially when I hear stories of my grandfathers and their families during WWII.  I have a visceral reaction to stories of valor and heroism and I’m proud that I’m part of a people that has that legacy.  I look at what we, as a people, do in the world and I’m amazed; I can see the work of God moving forward because of the influence of our country.

I’ve been teaching European history, and we’re about to cover the French Revolution, which is an insane mess.  We are special because we got a fresh, God-driven start, in a new land away from the old problems that still dog Europe and other countries.  We broke free, and as far as I’m concerned, we’re the best country in the world.

I love cars.  I love the memories of cars too.  A lot of the cars I drove overlapped with my siblings, but I think many of the memories are unique.  I’ll give a run-down of each car I drove, what I loved about it, and a few memories.

This was Dad’s car, of course, but I appropriated it to drive my senior year.  At first, I was terrible with the thing; it took a while to get the quirks figured out.  I’d flood the carb and need rescue frequently.  I think I got it towed the first day I drove to school; maybe just the first week.  Dad did not pay the bill ($65, in 1993 High School Zach Money; it was a gut-twisting amount to me then).

I did eventually get the hang of the thing, though; I figured out what to do when the brakes and power steering stopped working (check vacuum hoses), or when the tail end started to sag (air shocks, pump them up).  I even began to do repairs; I did the water pump, plugs, etc. 

I loved that car, but I’m afraid I drove it hard.  I was young and stupid, of course.  I remember coming down the canyon and zipping down University Avenue before they had all those lights in.  I meant to turn on Center Street, but nearly missed it.  Rather than turning around or going to the next light, I pulled a crazy maneuver and got the car a little sideways to make the turn.  I was with a girl, and I apologized for crazy driving, but she just had a big grin on her face and told me she thought that was pretty good stuff (turns out she drove a ‘67 GTO). 

The first and only time I ever let someone drive the car was on a large group date.  We were doing a video scavenger hunt, and one of the requirements was a Chinese fire drill (where you pull up to a red light and everyone dashes around the car to different spots).  The retard I agreed could drive (after asking if he’d driven a stick, even) burned out the clutch.

One night I was at McDonald’s and was trying to leave the parking lot when the car in front of me just stopped, blocking our way out.  Someone ran into the store, so I figured they’d be right out.  Well, after a few minutes I got antsy and crept up to tap their bumper with mine.  (We used to do that all the time; we were teenage boys.)  Well, they were not amused and called the cops, reporting a “hit and run”.  Retards.

I used to love driving around the Alpine Loop in the Dodge.  I’d often go late at night after my shift at the pizza place.  I was on my way to do that one night when I got pulled over; I’d been going 65 on State Street going down the hill in Lindon.  The officer believed me when I said the speedometer didn’t work, and also when I told him I’d taken my seatbelt off when he approached (both true, but I could see how it sounded totally made up).  I got a ticket for being out after curfew.  Rather than going home, of course, I made my way around the loop anyway.

The Dodge had a hole in the fuel tank, so I could never fill it up higher than about 3/4 of a tank.  What was wonderful, though, was that gas was often as low as $0.89/gallon.

I know it was probably hard for Dad to let me drive it.  I know that when I was done with it, it wasn’t even a good candidate for restoration.  I’m grateful that I had a car that taught me how to troubleshoot and how to fix simple things to avoid getting stranded.  I loved having a big, fast American coupe to drive around.  When I think about the car I’d like to drive around the country during retirement and between missions, I think of a car like the Dodge; large, powerful, comfortable.

So thanks, Mom and Dad, for letting me cut my teeth and letting me be free to screw up so much.  Thanks for letting me fix the car and have some responsibility for its maintenance.  And thanks for letting me be free to explore and make mistakes.

I’ve never been over the oceans.  The most foreign I’ve been is Tijuana and Vancouver.  I know more about the world than many people who have been abroad, I think, but I’ve never taken the opportunity to go.  I do know America, though. 

There are gaps, but I’ve been over most of the country.  I’ve been on every mile of Interstates 70, 80, 15, and 5, and I have long miles on many of the others.  National parks?  I’ve been to Glacier, Arches, Zion, Capital Reef, Canyonlands, Grand Canyon, Mesa Verde, Yosemite, North Cascades, Olympic, Yellowstone, Tetons, Redwoods, Rocky Mountain, Wind Cave, Smokies, and maybe others I’ve forgotten.  I’ve walked the streets of San Francisco, San Jose, Los Angeles, San Diego, Seattle, Portland, Las Vegas, Salt Lake, Denver, Santa Fe, New Orleans, Washington, New York, Phoenix, Tucson, and a hundred small towns in New Jersey.  I’ve stopped for gas in hundreds of other towns, or just passed through.

And that’s just scratching the surface of this country.  There’s so much to be experienced in America that I may never get around to Europe and Asia.

There’s something amazing about a country that produces both Davy Crockett and Thomas Jefferson.  The personalities unleashed when liberty reigns are like none other in the history of the world.  I have no doubt that the founders of this nation were inspired, and most of them were among the elect as well. 

In one trip, I went to both Gettysburg and to the Lincoln Memorial.  Many conservatives have their issues with Lincoln, but I am not one of them.  He was a titan, a frontiersman turned statesman whose skill saved our nation.

I visited Monticello one hot August afternoon, where I felt I came to know the eccentric Thomas Jefferson.  He was a great mind and a great man.

I walked around the battlefields of Monmouth and Yorktown, and I used to play softball in a little town called Washington’s Crossing.  The shadow of George Washington is heavy over New Jersey.  This quiet, sensible servant steered the country so well, and then returned to his farm.

I’ve been to Palmyra, Kirtland, Independence, and Nauvoo, where the American Prophet spoke to angels and restored the church of Jesus Christ. 

One spring I walked along the National Mall in Washington.  I passed the long dark wall of the Vietnam Memorial, the great plaza of the Navy Memorial, and other monuments to men and women who served and died.  I regret not being part of that brotherhood sometimes.  I think about the unique American soldier, summed it in the following quotes:

“Retreat? Hell, we just got here!”

“Nuts.”

“You don’t win a war by dying for your country. You win a war by making the other son-of-a-bitch die for his.”

Other soldiers rape, torture, and destroy.  Our soldiers build; my brother-in-law spent a whole year in Iraq building sanitation facilities for the people.

Other soldiers have no regard for human life.  Ours rescue kittens and dogs and especially children:

This image is credited to Michael Yon, and you can read about it here.

Another Michael Yon pic, this showing one of our soldiers in the Tennessee National Guard:

I had a conversation about American exceptionalism once.  The other person argued the familiar line about all countries having something unique to argue, and how arrogant we Americans are.

I called BS.  America does more good in the world than any other nation in Earth’s history while doing less harm.  No other people or nation has spread prosperity and freedom so far, and we did it with a bunch of cast-offs from the so-called great nations of the earth

Scunci shower caps.  I hate every other kind.  I will go to 5 stores to find these because everything else angers and annoys me for some reason.

Old Navy jeans.  I know how they will fit without having to try 17 different pairs on.

For processed potato pulp, I only like Pringles.

Paula’s Choice beauty products (or those highly recommended by her).

Making Memories scrapbook products.  I do buy other brands, but this company has some really good ideas and really sturdy products.  I haven’t bought a kit, tool, or embellishment that I don’t like from them.

As long as they make them, I will buy Pepsi’s line of throwback drinks.