My People

For our family, Christmas is about gathering with family.  We spend Christmas Eve with my wife's family and travel to my Mom's house on Christmas Day.  This year, a pesky snowstorm pushed our travel out a day but we still made it.  The two gatherings are different in many ways.  My wife's family is smaller and everyone lives near by.  When we get together, the conversations are generally continuations of topics discussed throughout the previous week or plans for the following week.  My family is larger, and no one lives in town with Mom.  When we get together, it's a time to catch up on each other's lives.  Things are more hectic at Mom's house.  Receiving travelers from distant places during inclimate weather necessitates a certain amount of flexibility.  We never know for certain when everyone will be there or when people need to leave.  Somehow, we manage to squeeze Christmas into that window of togetherness after the last has arrived and before the first has left.

For all their differences, the two gatherings have one important thing in common for me.  It is that sense of belonging, that these are my people.  It is such a wonderful and affirming thing to know that one has people.  No matter how stressful or crazy the world may seem, no matter how alone I may feel, I know I have these people.  My membership is not determined by what I do, or the conversations I have.  I simply belong.  It is good that we take time once in awhile to remember this.  We come together and exchange gifts but the real gift is the group itself.

I have people and I thank God for them.

Christmas Song

With the business of work and the general chaos of Christmas prep, I haven't had much time to reflect.  When I'm not reflecting, well, then I'm not blogging either. This afternoon is an exception.  Our youngest isn't feeling well and having him home from school has messed up an already shaky schedule.  I came home this afternoon so A. could attend B's afternoon choir performance.  I'll go back to work when she gets home and still hopefully be able to make the evening performance.

So, I'm home.  N seems just a little sick, but mostly still his old self.  He's working on a craft so I decided to reflect a bit and blog just a little.  I won't write much - I'm sure most of you are busy with your own holiday plans.

Around this time of year, I like to take out my guitar and play a little song I wrote a very long time ago.  It doesn't seem like it was that long ago, but as I think back, it must have been over twenty years.  The chords are simple and the rhythm is fairly basic.  I purposefully tried to keep it easy so anyone could play it (even if no one else has really ever had that opportunity).  Anyway, I leave you now with the lyrics:

Look at the snowflakes, a gentle reminder,
Of the purity winter restores to the land.
Think of the child, and know that he's much more,
The kingdom of heaven transformed in a man.

And what does this mean?
A babe in a manger seems hardly a king.
How do we know?
Where did the fanfare for royalty go?

Listen, an angel has brought us a message,
That the babe in the manger is really the one.
Born of the virgin, in a stable so lowly,
Receive him as king, as God's chosen son.

And so, let us sing.
For the babe in the manger is really our king.
How do we know?
The angel has spoken, proclaiming it so.

Look at the snowflakes, a gentle reminder,
Of the purity winter restores to the land.
Think of the child, and know that he's much more,
The kingdom of heaven transformed in a man.

And so let us sing.
Rejoice with our king.
Oh, let us sing.
Rejoice with our king.

Merry Christmas.

Stress Tale

For those of you who regularly check this blog, I'd like to apologize for its lack of fresh content.  Things at work have gotten insanely busy as we strive to meet some goals that are nearly impossible.  The stress of trying to get everything done on time and also prepare for Christmas has taken its toll on me.  I sleep erratically and generally just feel lousy.

I've been stressed before and I know how it makes me feel.  I don't like the feeling and I try hard to manage my time and workload to avoid these types of situations.  Usually this works for me, but every once in awhile, like now, something unexpected comes up and throws a wrench into everything.

I have found one bright spot in all of this.  When I'm stressed, I usually have lots of trouble falling asleep.  My mind races with all the things I'm worrying about.  I have found that if I think up a story, sort of a mental novel, I can distract myself enough to finally fall asleep.  Each night, I return to the same storyline.  Sometimes, I think about the characters, sometimes the plot.  Each night, I start from the beginning and work my way forward, sometimes jumping over sections to get to new parts.

For the past couple of weeks, I've thought through the same basic story.  There have been subtle changes as the characters evolve in my mind.  I don't know that I'll ever write any of it down or if it will just exist in my mind.  I fear that if I write something down it will hinder my ability to do my mental edits.  Maybe when I'm through this stressful time I'll be ready to unload the tale.

My Fall

I fell down the stairs yesterday.  Okay, "fell" might be a little dramatic.  I sort of slid down most of the steps and eventually fell onto the bottom ones.  In my defense, I was wearing socks (I was wearing other clothing as well, but only the socks are pertinent).  The socks were very slippery (I think they may have had some silk in them).  Apparently, I am not accustomed to such fine hosiery and I wasn't prepared for my lack of friction.  After the first little slip/stumble, I assumed I would get my footing on the next step.  Instead, I repeated this "shuffle" most of the way down.  Things quickly went from a little unstable to completely out of control.  Of course, grabbing the railing was out of the question since our railing is on the right side and my right hand was busy holding a cup of hot coffee.  If it hadn't been for the coffee, I'm pretty sure I would have been able to stabilize myself without incident.  Instead, I careened down the stairs, right arm thrust forward as if it held a sword and I was diving into battle.

When I finally hit bottom, I landed on my left side, still protecting the coffee on the right.  This did not prevent me from flinging most of it on the wall, the door frame, the steps and myself.  I sat for moment, taking in the massive stain on the wall before me.  There was still a little coffee in the cup, so I drank it before I tried to get up.  I didn't want to risk spilling it.  I looked up the steps and saw my eight year old looking down at me.  He'd witnessed the whole spectacle.  "That," he stated, "looked like it hurt." I nodded and stood, taking a quick assessment of my condition.  Nothing seemed broken or sprained, just sore - sore left hip, sore left shoulder, sore left arm. 

My wife was in the shower while I was falling.  By the time she came downstairs, I had cleaned the mess and set the boys up with breakfast at the kitchen counter.  I waited for one of them to tell Mom about Dad's big accident.  Instead, they seemed to have forgotten the whole episode and were discussing something on the back of the cereal box.  They were ready to move on but I wasn't.  If I'm going to fall down a flight of stairs and dump coffee all over myself and the walls and then have to clean it up, well, I'm going to get at least a little sympathy.  I groaned and made my way across the kitchen with an exaggerated limp.  It took a couple of passes before she noticed.  She responded with an appropriate amount of alarm and concern as I casually remarked that I'd fallen down the stairs.  I assured her that I was fine, just a little sore.  I felt better, knowing that someone felt bad for me.

Anyway, in the future I shall take greater care when wearing fancy socks.

Blue Water Day

Sometimes it doesn't take very much to make me happy.  A good cup of coffee, a kind word, an easy commute - all things that can change a so-so day into a good day.  My youngest son has taken to setting his alarm clock to go off at 7 am, two and a half hours before he needs to be at school.  At 7 o'clock I'm the only one awake in the house, usually sipping a cup of coffee and perusing the newspaper.  I've gotten used to listening for the alarm followed by muffled footsteps as he makes his way downstairs.  He's often toting a blanket as he passes by me at the kitchen counter.  We exchange a quick "good morning" and then he proceeds to the couch in the family room where he promptly falls back asleep.  Recently, I asked him why he gets up so early if he just goes back to sleep anyway.  He explained that he wants to be sure he sees me before I go off to work, that otherwise he won't see me until after school and those are the worst days ever.  Now, 8 year olds can be prone to hyperbole and I doubt those days are the absolute worst ever.  Still, it made me feel pretty good inside and I realized my days feel better when I see him in the morning as well.

Today, I had another reason to be happy.  It was a blue water day at work.  Our office is located in an older building that was once a high school.  The building has a limited number of restrooms that are shared by all tenants and anyone else that happens to be wandering through.  They get kind of gross pretty quickly.  Now and then, though, they do get cleaned.  And when they do, the cleaning crew leaves this blue water in the toilets - kind of like proof that they were there.  I love going into the restroom and finding blue water toilets.  It means that the bathroom has been cleaned and even better, that no one else has used that particular toilet since it was cleaned.  This morning, two of the four toilets still held blue water.  Even better, one of the two happened to be my personal favorite.  A good day, indeed.

Blissful Ignorance

I was checking out an Internet news site the other day and the headline story was about a massacre in the Philippines - at least 46 people dead.  As I read, I tried to imagine living in a place where that sort of thing happened.  The article was well-written and descriptive, yet I don't think I can truly fathom that life.  The same thing happens to me when I read about war and hunger.  I can empathize but I doubt that I fully understand.  I've got a lot of the facts and I can guess at some of the emotions but I know there must be so much more that I don't know.  It's like listening to an astronaut describe weightlessness - you probably need to experience it.

As we go along, we experience new things and thus our understanding grows.  Before I had children, if I saw a young couple that was expecting a baby, I thought, "I'll bet they're excited." Now, I understand that "excited" only begins to describe the multitude of emotions that swirl around that event.  And I know having children has greatly enhanced my understanding of love and devotion.  I've also had some bad experiences, horrible experiences, that have deepend my understanding of pain and loss and fear.  I know that when I read an account of a parent losing a child, it likely strikes a different chord than it does with someone who has not suffered that loss.  Each of us has our own unique experiences and understanding that makes us who we are.  I think this uniqeness is often the cause of us inadvertently hurting one another - one person's funny is another person's offensive or insensitive.

As Thanksgiving approaches, I feel a little ashamed and selfish to admit that I'm grateful that I and the people I love don't fully understand living with war or hunger.  I pray that one day all the world will be so ignorant.

Book Snob

I wish I had more time for reading.  I really enjoy reading a good book.  It's not that I don't have any time for reading - I have a little.  But for me, having a little time is almost worse than having no time.  That little bit of reading time I have is precious and I don't want to waste it.  If I'm going to spend it with a book, it had better be worth it.  If I go to the effort of finding a space where the light is right and a time when the boys are quiet, and then the book is sub par, I will be annoyed.  I can often sense early on if I'm going to like a book or not.  Even if I don't , I usually read on, hoping things improve.  Even when I've given up hope of that, I read on, grateful when it is over.  The whole process puts me in a bit of a foul mood - both while I'm reading the book, and some time afterwards.  When I had more time for reading, I didn't feel this way.  The occasional crummy book was usually offset by numerous good ones.  The reading experience, as a whole, was above average.  I don't feel like I have that luxury right now.  Every book matters and it must be superb.

This need for high quality has left me reading less and less for fear of getting a "bad" one.  I tend to choose short books, reasoning that if they're bad, at least it will be over quickly.  I've found that even if I don't like a book, I'll usually finish it.  No one wants to be a quitter, and I've forced my way through some pretty terrible stuff.  Sometimes I have an imaginary dialog with the author as I read, complaining about the parts I find objectionable.  I should point out that when I say something was terrible, I mean I found it terrible.  Others may find it to be the best piece of literature ever.  Experts may disagree with me.  I speak only from my perspective.  I've found the imaginary dialog trick to be very helpful in getting through a book I dislike.  My expectations are different when I'm critiquing.  The fact that I'm thinking about the author at all shows just how poorly the book has drawn me in.  When I'm reading a book I enjoy, I'm too immersed in the characters or the plot to care about the author.

I was browsing the Internet recently, looking for a good book.  My wife knows I like to read and a book seems like the perfect Christmas gift for me.  It's true that January in Minnesota is a great time for reading.  So, I was surfing, hoping to find a "can't-miss" selection that I could put on my list.  Along the way, I came across a book recommendation site.  The site was built on the opinions of regular readers and seemed like it might be helpful.  It had an online interview format designed to guide you to the books you would most likely enjoy.  Unfortunately, I never got beyond the first question - what type of book do you enjoy?  The options given were things like Mystery or Science Fiction or Poetry.  It gave me pause.  I wasn't certain how to answer - some serious introspection was called for.  What kind of book do I enjoy?

I left the book recommendation web site and will likely not return.  I'm sure it has its usefulness, especially if you happen to be in the mood for a specific genre - sometimes I get that way with mysteries.  For me, though, I have different criteria.  I want the characters and plot to be interesting and believable.  I want imagery so descriptive and rich that I feel like I'm there, where ever there is.  I want subtle metaphors that enrich the story, not ones that merely show me how clever the author can be.  Give me a book with even some of these things and I'll likely enjoy it, regardless of genre.

Scaredy Car

I think it's pretty common for people to attribute human characteristics to non-human things.  I believe the term is anthropomorphism.  I also think that the more you use or spend time with a non-human object, the more likely you are to start regarding it as human-ish.  I sometimes do this with our computer - mostly when it is misbehaving.  I consider the coffee maker a friend, but I regard the toaster with suspicion.  I own a small screwdriver which I swear hides when I need it most.  My world is filled with objects that think and feel.

By far, the object which seems most alive to me is my car.  This is probably because we share so much.  On cold winter mornings my family is still snuggled in their warm beds as my car and I struggle to stay warm.  I rely on this beast to get me where I need to go and usually it doesn't let me down.

I think as cars have gotten more complex and automated it's only enhanced their "aliveness".  My car is a few years old now, and age has introduced a level of randomness which at times mimics free will.  For instance, I used to think my car was a snob and held too high an opinion of itself because it was constantly locking its doors - as if everyone was going to be tempted to steal it.  This was particularly annoying on cold winter mornings when the engine was warming up and I was outside the car, scraping the windows.  After finding myself locked out of car and home one morning, I began the practice of always leaving the driver's door slightly ajar when scraping windows.  Yes, I used to think my car was a snob but I don't any more.  I think even it can see that the miles have taken their toll.  Now I think it's more likely that my car is just a coward.  It feels most secure when everything is locked up tight.  The slightest sound or movement can make it nervous.  A squirrel rustling in the grass? LOCK! The wind blowing through the leaves? LOCK! I consider it my car's fetal position and it curls up at the drop of a hat.

I must admit that my attitude toward my car has changed.  Whereas I used to get annoyed, now I feel pity.  Where I used to berate, now I console.  It troubles me somewhat that my behavior and feelings could be influenced so strongly by my assumptions of the car's motivation.  Obviously, the car is neither a snob nor a coward.  It is just a car with a quirk or two.  Still, it makes me wonder.  If I can do this with my car, how often do I misread the real humans in my life?

Introvert

I am an introvert.  I've known this about myself for quite some time but only recently have I really embraced it.  I've also been called shy and quiet.  In certain situations, I can certainly be those things as well.  At my core, though, you will find an introvert.

I used to be a little ashamed of this characteristic of my personality.  I envied the extroverts I knew, easily mingling at a party, striking up conversations with strangers.  I don't do well at parties with large numbers of people.  Even if I know the people well, the experience usually leaves me feeling completely drained.  I've tried being more of a conversationalist and I've found that I am able to do it pretty well.  It's just so darn tiring - thinking of questions, thinking of answers, listening.  That listening thing is really tough.  I think many people spend more time thinking about what they're going to say next than they do actually listening to what's being said.  I think a lot of "conversations" are just a group of people talking with no one really listening.

One thing I do enjoy about parties is watching my wife work the room.  For her, conversations come easily.  As I feel myself tiring, I can see her looking refreshed - as a couple we demonstrate the law of conservation of energy.  What I lose, she gains.  I like watching my wife because she is a good listener.  She has a natural intuition for knowing where the other person wants or needs the conversation to go.  I'm constantly amazed at the things she knows about people.  Not necessarily sensational things - sometimes just the opposite.  She knows the mundane, the ordinary, the private and personal.  There's a simple reason why people share so much with her - she cares enough to ask.

I used to envy the extroverts, but I don't anymore.  I've noticed my wife fidgeting in a quiet, mostly empty room.  I know that she prefers to not spend time alone.  For her, the telephone was one of the greatest inventions of all time - a way to continue the conversations even when you're apart.  For me, the telephone is that thing in our house that usually won't get answered if she's not home.  I cherish time alone.  At lunch, a group from the office regularly go out together.  They've given up asking me along.  I prefer to spend my lunch time alone.  It recharges me for the afternoon.

So, yes, I am an introvert and perfectly happy with it.  I figured I'd tell you this way - it saves me having to share it in a conversation.

Process

Where does one find satisfaction, in the journey or the destination?  I think when I began my career, my focus was primarily on the end product.  Sure, I followed design procedures but they were just a means to the desired end.  Getting there was what mattered.  At least, that's how I used to feel.  Somewhere along the way, I started thinking about the steps I was taking to get to my goal.  I began to study each one, looking at whether it could be improved or eliminated.  Now, I find that I am much more interested in the process than the end product.  It's the process that, if it's a good one, lives on after the product is finished.

I like processes if they are good ones.  I enjoy trying to improve and refine existing processes when it makes sense.  I have little tolerance for what I believe to be an ineffective process and I will resist following it.  I recently met someone who is a dedicated process follower.  This person places adherence to the process above achievement of the end goal.  If the process has fourteen steps and occasionally the end goal is realized after step three, it doesn't matter.  Steps four through fourteen must still be followed.  This type of inefficiency makes me cringe.

This focus on process carries over to my personal life as well.  I enjoy doing sudoku puzzles but I'm less interested in finishing the puzzle than I am in understanding the specific techniques used along the way.  I'm happy (even a little smug) when I stumble upon an approach I hadn't used before.  It is at that point that I feel the most satisfaction.  Finishing the actual puzzle often becomes a bit tedious once a few key elements are solved.

It is good to be a process lover if you have children.  I can imagine my sons grown up but I would rather not have that day come too soon.  I prefer to immerse myself in the day to day, reveling in the tiny changes and how they come about.  When I do allow myself to step back, I am always amazed at how much they have changed in a short time.  I admit this realization leaves me feeling conflicted.  I am grateful, happy and proud that they are growing and changing but I'm also keenly aware that this portion of our journey together is fleeting and I will miss it when it is over.  In reality, our relationship has been evolving and maturing since the beginning and will hopefully continue to do so even when they're adults.  In some respects, this is a process that has no end.

Strange Dream

I don't usually remember my dreams.  I have a friend who has wild, fantastic dreams which he can recall clearly.  A group of us will often listen to his retelling and then give our best shot at interpretation.  Even on those occasions when I do recall a dream, it seems rather tame when compared to my friend's visions.  I wonder sometimes if I just don't remember the wild dreams or if I don't actually have wild dreams.  I'm not overly concerned about it one way or the other, but I wonder.

I bring up this talk of dreams because recently I have been having a dream which I can recall.  At least, I can recall a portion of it.  I'm frustrated because I often awake with the same snippet.  I feel like there must be more to the story but I'm not privy to it.  The parts I remember have rich detail and I'm really curious to know more.  But I don't even know for certain that there is more.  Anyway, I thought I'd share what I have in case there are any dream interpreters out there.

I'm in the desert.  There is sand everywhere and, occasionally, a large boulder or two.  Sometimes, I'm riding a horse.  Other times, I'm walking along side a horse.  Either way, I'm moving very slowly and I'm thirsty, parched even.  I can see something in the distance ahead of me.  It's too far off to tell what it is but I assume it's another boulder.  As I approach, I began to sense movement from the shape.  Even though I am squinting in the bright sun, I can also begin to discern color - white and red.  I get close enough to make out a boy, dressed in white.  He has his back to me and is kneeling next to an overturned, weathered rowboat, half buried in the sand.  The boy has a paintbrush and is busily painting the exposed parts of the boat bright red.  I expect the boy will turn when he hears my horse but he continues to paint.  Finally, I'm passing right next to the boy, my shadow falls across him onto the boat.  Still, he ignores me.  I consider moving along, but the boat reminds me of how dry I am.  I ask him if there is water nearby.  The boy looks up at me and shakes his head.  Next, I ask him why he is painting the boat.  He tells me he is getting it ready in case it rains.  The boy is very serious as he tells me this and I get the sense that I have some control over whether it rains or not.  I also get the feeling that the rain would not be a good thing but more like a purging flood.  I nod to the boy and continue on my way.

I sure wish I knew what happened next.

My Dead Laptop

Our laptop died a couple of weeks ago.  No one in the household was particularly surprised by this occurrence, the laptop had been showing warning signs for months.  In some respects, it was almost a relief when it finally croaked - no more wondering when it was going to happen.  I quickly set it aside and purchased a small netbook as a replacement.

I bought the laptop almost exactly three years ago.  It went back to its manufacturer once as part of a recall although I'm not convinced anyone actually repaired anything on it.  Almost a year ago, it began having difficulty powering up.  I prematurely declared it dead at the time, but by trial and error I learned how to get it to start (press the power button, wait 15 seconds, hold the power button down - when the lights go out, release the power button and wait 1 full second, then press the power button again).  This trick no longer works.  I suppose there might be a new sequence that would make it start, but I'm just sick of dealing with it.

Before I bought the laptop, I spent a considerable amount of time researching.  Early on, I zeroed in on this particular model.  It had more than ample computing power, the price was high but not exorbitant and it was from a reputable manufacturer.  I was comforted by the fact that it was the same brand as our trusty desktop computer and much of our other equipment.  When I found it on sale, I made the plunge.  For me, this was a big step.  I'd always shied away from laptops before - they seem far less flexible than desktop units, where you can easily swap out faulty or outdated parts.  Still, I was willing to sacrifice flexibility for mobility.  I imagined myself, sitting at the neighborhood coffee shop, computing.

The truth is, even when the laptop worked, I rarely took it to any coffee shops.  I just don't have that kind of free time.  Plus, it was such a power hog you really needed to be near an outlet at all times.  The laptop spent most of its existence tethered to its power cord and external mouse.  It was still convenient, since a desktop computer would not have fit on the desk off the kitchen.  It was the preferred computer in the house, if only because of its location.

It turns out that, despite its brand, this particular model of laptop is infamous for its reliability problems.  These issues had not yet come to light at the time I purchased ours.  I've perused countless forums where others describe experiences similar to mine.  Someone started a petition to bring a class action suit.  I don't think I'm interested in that, I'd rather move on.  I'll lodge my protest privately by never buying that particular brand again.  I do have one last act planned for my dead laptop.  The day after I declared its demise, I came across a web site where a fellow describes how to possibly repair the problem with this laptop.  He cautions that it doesn't work for everyone and it should only be tried if you've given up all other hope.  I think I'm there.  The process involves taking the thing apart and I'm already pretty sure I won't be able to get it back together again.  Still, I think the process may prove to be cathartic, so I'll give it a shot.

Last Saturday, we were at Costco buying some groceries.  As we passed by the electronics area, I noticed a netbook on display.  I grabbed a voucher so we could pick one up at the checkout.  I think we put more thought into what kind of yogurt to buy.  So much for research.

Tubby

I have fallen off the exercise wagon.  When the weather got colder and the mornings got darker in early October, I just stopped going to the gym.  For a while, I continued to pack the gym bag and set the alarm.  An early morning workout made perfect sense as I crawled into bed around 11 o'clock.  It seemed less perfect when the alarm went off at 4:15 the next morning.  It was cold and dark outside and I was warm and sleepy.  I think I am my most creative when I am lying in bed coming up with reasons why I should go back to sleep and skip the gym - just this one time.  Sadly, once became twice and before I knew it, October was gone and I'd only been to the gym once.  That one time was near the end of the month and my level of fitness had noticeably deteriorated.  I was huffing and puffing on the treadmill, painfully aware of a new "jiggle" in my midsection.  Luckily for me, we've entered sweater season.  I'm sure no one is aware of my added girth.

Raking

I'm not a very date-focused person.  To me, each day seems new and unique from all its predecessors.  I do not automatically attach extra significance to days because they happen to be anniversaries of past events.  Even big dates, like 9/11, would probably slip past me if the media didn't remind me.  I do make an extra effort to remember certain special dates like the day I got married, or my wife's birthday.  The kids usually start talking about their birthdays about six months in advance, so there's no problem remembering them either.

Tomorrow is a significant date for our family.  It's the birthday of our first child.  I say first and not oldest, since he died as a baby and is forever fixed at that age in my mind.  My wife is the one who mentioned that his birthday was on Tuesday.  She remembers dates and events.  Even before she mentioned it, I was aware the date was near.  I was raking leaves yesterday.  Every year, when I rake the front yard, I remember back to doing the same thing a couple of days before he was born.  I remember getting home from work and thinking I should clean up the yard - one more task to get out of the way before the baby came.  My wife was still at work so I carried our cell phone with me as I worked - just in case.  We'd gotten the cell phone earlier in the fall, our first one.  Back in 1996, cell phones were not the sleek items they are now.  It was kind of like raking with a brick in my pocket.  Still, I didn't mind.  My mind was focused too far into the future to be bothered by something in the present.

As I raked yesterday, I recalled all those feelings of anticipation and joy.  Our yard has changed over the years.  We've lost and replaced a maple and added a crab apple.  We have far fewer leaves.  Still, the feeling remains.  I suppose if I allowed myself, I could dwell on the events that took place after my son's birth.  I could focus on the feelings of fear, anger and finally grief.  But, I don't allow myself to go there.  My son's life was brief but there were moments of joy and laughter and hope.  On his birthday, that's what I'll remember.  The other feelings have their own date.

Don't Mess With The Funnies

On Sunday mornings I often get up before the rest of the house.  I like to spend a little time flipping through the Sunday paper while the rest of the family is just waking up.  Usually, by the time the boys are coming down for breakfast, I'm reading the Sunday comics.  I read at the kitchen counter and often they'll sidle up next to me with a bowl of cereal and we'll read together.

A couple of years ago, one of the car dealers in town started running an ad that was a half page attached to the front of the comics section and then folded back over.  I found it to be very irritating, made even more so by the smiling face of the man who ran the dealerships prominently displayed at the top.  Every Sunday I would grumble about this piece of trash that didn't conform to the geometry of the rest of the paper and, worse yet, blocked half of "For Better Or Worse".  I declared defiantly to anyone who happened to be passing through the kitchen that I would never buy a car from that man just because of this offense.  This was a bold statement as the man ran at least a dozen dealerships in town - not a monopoly, but I was severely restricting my automobile options.

I must confess, I wished misfortune for this man and his company.  I hoped that others would follow my lead and shop elsewhere.  I wanted marketing types everywhere to understand that messing with the comics is a very bad idea.  And then, the economic downturn happened and things got tough for auto dealers.  Soon enough the advertising budgets tightened and my comics section was ad-free.  I had gotten my wish but as the rest of the paper filled with stories of layoffs, I felt little joy or satisfaction.  With my paper now in order, I wished for some stability in the market.  Alas, for this particular dealer, the dominoes of misfortune were only beginning to fall.  Within the year, all of the dealerships would close.  The man with the smiling face is being investigated by both state and federal authorities.  His marriage ended, with his wife suing for alimony.  He declared personal bankruptcy, with debts in excess of 700 million dollars.  The troubles go on and on.

Now, I know that I did not cause all these bad things to happen to this man.  No, I prefer to think that this is some sort of divine retribution for messing with the comics.  Take note, you marketing types out there.

Yeah, sure you did.

As I sat at lunch today, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation happening a couple of booths behind me.  It was between a guy and a girl.  Their voices and the context of the conversation led me to believe that they were probably college-aged, likely students at the nearby university.  I glanced back once and they looked about the right age for college.  He had a rugged outdoorsy look with a scrappy beard, a big fur cap and a coat that looked heavy enough to keep him warm on the coldest of any Minnesota winter night.  She had a classic co-ed look, with a coat designed more for fashion than cold-weather comfort.

For the most part, the guy drove the conversation.  And where he took it was through the many fascinating exploits of his life.  All the while, the girl oohed and ahhed appropriately.  He told of his time sleeping under the stars when he was a boundary waters guide.  When that tidbit elicited particular enthusiasm, he upped the ante by going international and revealing that he had also been a guide in Peru.  She was rightly impressed.  Story after story fell from his lips, each a little more exotic than the last.  Finally, there was a pause and it sounded like they were getting ready to leave.  Then the following conversation ensued:

He: "I feel like doing something outside today, maybe skydiving."
She: "You skydive? I don't think I could do that."
He: "Yeah, I've been jumping for about six years.  You should really try it."
She: "Oh, I've done it a few times.  But the last time, I got so scared.  I don't think I could do it again."
He: "So you skydive?"

After that, she took the wheel.  She began asking questions, trying to find that shared experience that they would both understand.  He answers were vague and un-confirmable, the kind I would give if I had just lied about being a skydiver.  I think after the first few questions, she knew he had stretched the truth a bit about the whole skydiving thing.  I think she asked the next few just to let him know that she knew.  Then, mercifully, she changed topics.  Shortly thereafter, the two left arm in arm, their relationship seemingly undamaged by his attempted deception.  The romantic in me imagines the two of them ten years in the future.  They're married, sitting around with friends, reminiscing about that first date and all the tall tales he told in an attempt to win her affections.

It got me wondering.  If someone lies to you, but their motivation is to impress you, should you be offended or flattered?  Maybe both?

Married Man

I feel like I've been married forever.  Even when I think back to my single days, I do so from the perspective of a married man.  Being married is such an integral part of who I am that I cannot separate it from the rest of my psyche.  To be honest, I don't want to.  I love my wife and I love being married.  For me, it feels like my natural state - the way I should be.  I'm sure anything else would leave me feeling incomplete.  I feel the same way about being a father.  It's just who I am.

Marriage is a pretty wild concept when you think about it.  Before I got married, the longest commitment I had ever entered into was a five year car loan.  Not quite the same as 'til death do us part'.  Throw in how much people change over time and you wonder how anyone stays together.  But, I have to say that I have not found it difficult at all.  My wife and I have both changed and grown over the years but I think it has only made the bond stronger.  Together, we've felt great joy and great pain with each experience shaping and characterizing our life together.  It is uniquely ours.  No one understands me as she does.  No one else can.

So, I feel like I've been married forever but I know that isn't really true.  However, as of today, it has been 18 years.

Looking Back

A couple of thoughts struck me this morning as I prepared for work.  The first was that one should never underestimate the value of experience.  I think it is hard to recognize how much you've learned in your life if you just look at yourself in the present.  It's much more telling to look back at your past and imagine how different things would be if you were reliving it with the benefit of what you know now.  When I do this, I see so many instances where my former self made choices that are clearly idiotic to me now.  I suppose I could take comfort in the fact that I've learned and grown since then.  Still, there's a part of me that wonders if my future self will look back at the current me and still see an idiot.  Based on the pattern established thus far, the odds seem to tilt in that direction.  On the other hand, if the future me looks back and has no new insights, it implies I've ceased to learn anything new.  This happens to people who think they are perfect.  When you think you are perfect there is no need for change since you can't improve perfection.  I find these people to be the biggest fools of all.  I hope my future self doesn't become one of them.  So, my future self will either look back and see the idiot I am today or it will simply be the idiot.

The second thought that hit me this morning is just how strong my sense of smell is tied to specific memories.  I assume this is true for other people as well.  For me, I'm always a little surprised by it because I don't feel like I'm a very scent-focused person.  Still, some of these odors get themselves associated with parts of my life.  Often, it's very subtle.  For instance, I love the smell of freshly brewed coffee.  Usually, all I smell is the coffee, but every once in awhile something about the scent sparks a memory.  Suddenly, I'm transported fifteen years into my past.  I'm with my wife in a small coffee shop on Chestnut Street in the Cow Hollow area of San Francisco.  It's early spring and the air outside is cool.  As we leave the coffee shop, the warmth of the coffee cup feels good against my hand.  We walk the streets and eventually make our way to a marina on the bay.  It's a good memory and I'm grateful whenever it surfaces unexpectedly.

This morning, it was a different odor that got me thinking about scents and memories.  Today is trash day, and one of my trash day morning chores is scooping out the cats' litter box.  When we first switched to scoop-able litter I thought I would find this task far more distasteful than I do.  It's kind of like panning for gold except the "nuggets" have no real value.  Still, there is a certain satisfaction in the hunt itself.  The litter we are using is scented, and there was something about the smell that was all too familiar.  An image flashed in my mind.  I'm in my dorm room in my sophomore year of college.  The cat litter smells just like the Pert shampoo I was fond of using back then.  I shake off the memory and finish the task at hand.

As I drive into work, the college memory keeps trying to resurface.  I tell myself that it is no big deal.  Obviously, the litter company chose that scent because it is pleasant.  Still, I can't help looking back at my former self and seeing an idiot with hair that smells like cat litter.

A Regular

I think I might be a regular.

There's a coffee shop very near my work and I occasionally pop in for a cup.  Well, lately it's been more than occasionally.  I probably stop by three or four times a week.  I usually visit the shop just after lunch and I always order the same drink - a large coffee, to go.  I've been doing this routine for nearly a year now, so I sure feel like a regular.  I think if I saw any of the baristas on the street I would recognize them.  Still, I wonder sometimes if they recognize me.  For all the times I've been in there at the same time of day, ordering the same thing, they still look at me like they have no idea what I'm going to say when I order.  Maybe the true regulars are the college crowd, slumped in overstuffed chairs, seemingly spending their entire day in the shop.  Maybe the "to go" customers can never really be regulars in this place.  Or maybe I'm over-analyzing it and they're just open to the possibility that I might order something new.

A week ago, I was wondering about this as I approached the coffee shop.  Maybe I should mix it up and try something different.  Maybe they've been waiting for me to see the light and finally order a mocha.  I imagine tears of joy running down the cheeks of the barista as she carefully makes my specialty drink, wanting it to be perfect.  No doubt as soon as I leave the shop she'll be texting the others, boasting that it was she who took the order.  I'm still wondering about this as I approach the cash register and it causes me to hesitate.  The smiling barista breaks the silence with a question, "A large coffee, to go?"

I guess I am a regular.

Gross Word

Last night, I was watching N. play with an electronic hangman game.  He had it set on seven letter animal words and was doing a nice job of figuring out the words.  As far as electronic games go, this seems like a decent one for working on spelling.  At one point he had "O _ _ O P U S".  I listened as he talked to himself. "Oh, Oh-Puss," he repeated.  After a couple of more guesses, he zeroed in on the solution, octopus.  Afterwards, he looked up at me.  "I never really thought about it before, but that's kind of a gross word, Dad.  We should draw a picture of an octopus that's been stabbed with white stuff coming out of it.  That would be the octo-puss."

Strum

Judging from the number of guitars I own, one might conclude that I play well.  The truth is, I'm still looking for that magic instrument that makes me sound terrific.  I think my proficiency peaked when I was in college, the last time I played with any regularity.  It really wasn't much of a peak.  If you compared my abilities to guitarists everywhere, I'm sure my peak would look more like a pimple.  Still, for me, it was when I played best, a relative peak as compared to the rest of my life.  I have not played in public in over twenty-five years.  In that time, I occasionally pick up the guitar but I don't really practice, I just play what I know.  When you only play what you know, you don't get better.  If I had even kept this level up more regularly I might have been able to make my peak a plateau.  Sadly, I had some long stretches where I played seldom and my meager abilities diminished.  I do enjoy playing and in recent years I've been trying to put forth a more concerted effort.  It feels good to have calloused fingertips once again.  I hope to one day match my former abilities or even perhaps to look down at that peak from new lofty heights.

For some reason, whenever I try to play a song, it comes out all folksy sounding.  This is great if I stick to "Peter, Paul and Mary" songs, but not so hot for most everything else.  I once tried playing "Smoke On The Water" and you would have sworn I was copying a tune from the nonexistent "John Denver Sings Deep Purple" album.  I've tried using an electric guitar with ample distortion but the result is still folk, just louder.  While I like folk music just fine, I'd like to be able to take a break from it every now and then.

I was recently asked to play guitar as part of a group for special music at church.  Much like having a looming race improves my daily running, this upcoming performance has focused my guitar practice.  Luckily, the song we're doing is sort of folksy (or at least it will be when I'm done with it).

White Hair

I swear there are some times when I think I can actually feel my hair turning white.  It's a subtle sensation, hard to describe, just around the temples and ears.  It could be stress related, but it's different than my usual reaction to stress, which likes to manifest itself in the pit of my stomach.  I prefer to believe instead that I'm just feeling myself growing older.  Like the leaves on the trees this time of year, my hair is just changing color.  Sadly, just like those trees, I have fewer "leaves" than I used to.

I can remember the first white hair I found on my head.  There it was, front and center, a single white kinky strand intermixed with its straight brown neighbors.  The hair surprised me for a couple of reasons.  First, its length suggested that it had been residing on my head for awhile.  I wondered how it had gone unnoticed for so long.  Second, the kinkiness was something new for me.  My hair has always been very straight (so straight that a Vietnamese stylist once remarked, "You have hair like an Asian man, thick and straight.").  As I looked at this white kinky hair I wondered if perhaps, with time, I would end up with hair resembling Albert Einstein's.  That would've been kind of cool.  Alas, only the first few white hairs were kinky, almost like my body was experimenting with my look (let's try a new color, maybe some curl).  Soon enough everything went back to straight.

At first, the white hairs showed up infrequently enough that I could track each of them.  As the frequency increased, I was reminded of standing outside on a winter day watching the first, isolated snowflakes fall before a big storm.  At some point, there are enough flakes falling that you say to yourself, "It's snowing." At this point, you stop looking at the individual snowflakes and instead consider their cumulative effect.  It didn't take long for me to reach this point with my hair.

Backyard Adventure

A couple of weeks ago, N. was playing in the back yard with the neighbor boys, H. and C..  They had found a toad and they were having a great time studying it.  Usually, when they play in the back yard the game eventually devolves into some sort of sword play with large sticks.  This time however, things were much calmer and, consequently, the parental oversight was a bit less vigilant.  After watching them watch the toad for a few minutes, I went inside and sprawled out on the couch.  I had the window open so I could hear if the dynamic changed outside.

Mostly what I heard was a discussion about the toad.  There was talk about building it a habitat out of a cardboard box.  Then, a bucket was suggested.  This led to a conversation regarding whether toads needed water and what they ate.  In the end, I was pleased to hear them decide to release the poor creature back into the wildness of our garden.

After that, I can't say I remember much of what they did.  I guess I dozed off a little bit.  The next thing I remember hearing is my wife asking me, "Did you hear what he said?  He said something bit him!"  I was still shaking off my brief nap when N. came in holding up a finger.

It seems that after the toad was released, the boys became concerned that our cat might hurt it.  So, they began to keep close watch on the cat.  The cat did not notice the toad.  It did, however, find some other critter in the yard.  We're still not sure what it was, but based on the description from N., we think it was a shrew.

The boys did not want the cat to hurt the shrew so they tried to protect it.  They ran enough interference that the shrew was able to escape the kitty and crawl under a plastic toy for cover.  N. was worried it might be hurt and he put his hand down to lift the toy.  And that's when he was bitten.

As bites go, it was a pretty small one.  There was no blood and I couldn't actually see any wound without the aid of a strong magnifying glass.  A. took him to the Urgent Care clinic where they cleaned his finger and applied a couple of band-aids.  They also consulted the rabies hot line and informed us that it was very unlikely that N. could have contracted that dreaded disease.  Even so, we were supposed to watch N. for changes in mood or behavior.

Watching a 7 yr old for mood changes is kind of like watching for mosquitoes on the back porch.  Eventually, you're going to see one, and then another, and another, etc..

He seems fine now.

Up There

I stepped outside this morning and was struck by how many stars I could see.  Usually, it's hard to see the stars at night because of the ambient light from the city.  I've noticed that the stars seem brighter in the early morning.  I don't know if this is because of a change in ambient light or if the earth has turned toward brighter objects by this time.  At four-thirty this morning the sky over my house was clear and there were many stars visible.  I paused to take it in before continuing on with the start of my day.  I didn't get outside again until six o'clock.  By then, the stars were mostly gone.

The stars this morning were lovely and it seemed like there were a lot of them but I know I wasn't getting the whole picture.  I remember looking up at the clear night sky on the farm when I was young.  It was a lot darker on the farm and the sky was absolutely teeming with lights, some so small and numerous that together they almost looked like clouds.  The stars weren't just overhead but off to every horizon.  This morning, as I looked at the sky, I looked at the stars "up there".  On the farm, the heavens seemed to come down and wrap themselves around the earth.  There was no "up there", the stars were everywhere.

I suppose some might look at the full night sky and find reason to feel small or insignificant.  I never did.  I looked up at our massive, incredible universe with the realization that I was a part of it.  Nothing small or insignificant about that.

Lemonade!

A few weeks ago, B. and N. set up a lemonade stand at the end of our driveway.  The Minnesota State Fair was happening just a few blocks away and there was a decent amount of foot traffic past the house.  After a few hours of selling Kool-Aid and cookies, they'd raked in around twenty dollars and exhausted both their supplies and their interest.  The following Saturday, we returned from the fair to find that the boys who live next door (H. and C.) had set up a stand at the end of their driveway.  They'd been good customers for us and we returned the favor, enjoying some lemonade and cookies.  I must admit, they opted for a higher quality product in both the drink and cookie departments (plus, their prices were lower).  They had also set up a radio at their table to broadcast the Twins game, an enticing lure to potentially hook a customer or two.

After finishing his drink, N. immediately joined their venture.  He ran along the curb and shouted at anyone he could see in the distance (Lemonade! Lemonade!).  His involvement was short-lived as it was almost dinner time and H. and C. were forced to close up shop.  Still, the boys had fun and decided they would try running a stand together the next day.  So, on Sunday, I made lemonade while N. prepared the stand.

N. decided that the radio idea was a good one and wanted to do something similar.  Instead of broadcasting a baseball game, he wanted to play music.  I ran an extension cord down to the table and set up a portable CD player.  I brought out a couple of kid's CDs I noticed near the player but N. wanted nothing to do with them.  "I know just the music I want, Dad", he told me.  It turns out the music he wanted was the Beatles One CD.

Soon enough, the boys were set up and open for business.  For whatever reason, customers were few and far between.  The boys didn't seem to care.  They sat near the curb, drinking lemonade and eating cookies and mostly getting along.  There was one contentious moment when H. set the CD player to loop on "Yesterday".  He said he did so because he really liked the song.  N. complained that he didn't think it was a good song for selling lemonade.  By this point, N. had donned a robot costume and had been dancing in the driveway.  Dancing to "Yesterday" was not nearly as much fun as, say, "Help!".  N. turned to me for a resolution to the situation.  I could understand both boys.  Like H., I like the song "Yesterday".  But, I had to agree with N. that it probably wasn't the ideal lemonade selling tune.  I suggested that they just let the CD play through all the songs before repeating.  That way, we'd still hear "Yesterday" occasionally.  They agreed to this, but first N. needed to loop "Day Tripper" a few times to satisfy his robot dance cravings.

As the afternoon progressed, the lemonade stand gradually transformed into a picnic.  For the number of sales they had, they could have just as well been set up in the back yard.  This did not dampen their spirits in the least.  In their minds it was a great day.  I forget sometimes that there's a big difference between wanting to have a lemonade stand and wanting to sell lemonade.

The Big Jump

The nights leading up to the first day of school were difficult ones for N..  He was worried about what lay ahead in second grade.  As he put it, "Second grade is a big jump, Dad.  It's a big jump.  It's not like going from kindergarten to first grade, it's a bigger jump." He was also worried that he had mostly forgotten how to read and that he would therefore fail second grade.  These worries and fears never seem to surface until he's in bed, tucked in for the night.  I think up until that moment he's too busy living in the present to contemplate the future.  I understand this.  I've spent my share of sleepless nights, worrying about all sorts of things, big and small.  Still, I wish he'd sometimes voice his concerns before bedtime.

Yesterday was the first day of school and, by all accounts, he had a wonderful day.  Many of his best friends are in his class this year.  He sits at a table with three very nice kids, all friends.  One would think all these things would mean that perhaps bedtime would go a bit smoother.  Still, last night, we could hear him "not going to sleep" for some time after lights out.  I went up to see what the trouble was and found him staring at the ceiling.  "Tomorrow's going to be a bad day, Dad.  Today was fun, but that's just because it was the first day and we didn't really do anything except find our desks and stuff.  Tomorrow the real work is going to start."

I tried to offer some words of comfort, but I knew they wouldn't do much good.  I don't know for certain what second grade will be like for him and he knows it.  When you're lying in bed scared, even the smallest speck of uncertainty can become a mountain of dread.  I laid down next to him and shut my mouth.  He snuggled in close and seemed comforted to have me there.  I'd like to be able to say that he immediately fell asleep.  Unfortunately, this was not the case.  He squirmed and fidgeted and tossed and turned for quite awhile.  I watched him as he would roll away from me only to return a moment later.  Eventually, he drifted off, with his arm draped across my neck.

The whole episode seriously cut into my night and pushed back my own bedtime.  This was particularly painful since I was planning on getting up early the next morning.  As I stumbled into bed, it would have been easy to be annoyed with the whole incident but I wasn't, at least not too much.  Instead, I felt a certain contentment that my mere presence could comfort him.  It made me feel like I must be doing something right as a father.  One less thing to worry about as I stare at the ceiling at night.

Shaving

I recently switched from using an electric razor back to a hand razor and shaving cream.  I've been using an electric for quite awhile so it is interesting to see how the industry had advanced.  The last time I used a razor the big innovation was three blades.  Now, I see they are up to five.  I think the hardest part about adding blades is coming up with a marketable justification for it.  I recall when they went from one blade to two with the reason that the first blade would pull up the whisker (ouch!) so the second one could slice it cleanly off.  I still remember the animation of the hair being clipped and then recessing back under the skin.  I don't know why we needed a third or fourth or fifth blade.  I'm sure right now there's a group of people sitting around a table staring at a six blade razor and brain storming about why that sixth blade makes it better.  I can't really blame them.  There's only so much you can do with a razor and adding blades seems like the obvious change.  I checked the Gillette web site and they're also touting a razor with a spotlight - to make sure you don't overlook a spot.  Of course, their site also has a link called "Body Shaving - How and Why".  I imagine the spotlight might come in handy when you're shaving all your nooks and crannies.

One problem I've always had with shaving is that I can never seem to keep my face moist enough to avoid razor burn.  To address this, I've taken to shaving in the shower.  A hot, steamy shower is really the ideal place to shave except that you can't see what you're doing.  I tried bringing a mirror with me but it fogged up.  I've decided a foggy mirror is worse than no mirror at all.  Now, I shave mostly by touch, which works pretty well for the most part.  I did notice as I left for work this morning that I'd gone a little too high by my right ear.  I think if I just tilt my head a bit everything will look even and no one will notice.

Morning Moment

This morning I had one of those moments when I wished I had a camera.  As I drove home from the Y, I passed a park.  It was early, and the moon, full and orange, hung low in the sky to my right.  The sun was just beginning to announce its arrival with streaks of gold and pink to my left.  A low-hanging fog had settled over most of the park, heaviest over the open soccer fields.

At the corner of the park closest me there was a small flower garden and a group of benches arranged in a semi-circle.  An elderly gentleman in a navy blue running suit was sitting, hunched over, at one of the benches.  He had his back to the park and the moon and was instead watching the cars pass by on the street.  He held a cigarette and its thin trail of smoke seemed to mix with the fog around him.

Kind of a surreal way to start the day.

Welcome Week at the U

As I walked at lunch today, something felt different.  Like Darth Vader sensing the presence of his former master, I felt a familiar spirit manifesting itself in Dinkytown.  It took only a moment to realize what had changed - the students were back.  The shops and school had awakened after a carefree summer of waiting.  Sure, the stores were open all summer and they were only too happy to sell me a sandwich or a cup of coffee.  But they were merely marking time until their true customers came back.  Like grizzlies waiting along the river for the salmon run, each shop has been preparing for their return, hoping to catch as many as possible.

At the movies

Last Thursday, A. and the boys took some friends up to the cabin for an overnight.  This left me with a night all to my own.  I decided to go to a movie, even though it felt weird and a little wrong.  For me, movies have always been something you do with others, a convenient reason to get a group together or a good date activity.  Movies really are custom made for the introvert in me.  Unlike a party, where you're expected to mingle and engage in some degree of conversation, a movie demands just the opposite.  Perfect.  If I've got to go out with a group of people, let's do a movie.  I can sit quietly with the best of them.

Still, it felt strange and a little extravagant to go to a movie alone.  I got there early so there would be plenty of seat choices.  I've always been a little suspicious of the loners I see in the theater.  I'm even more uncomfortable when they sit down next to me or the group I'm with.  I didn't want to be that guy so I got there first.  After I found a seat that was generally in the middle of the theater, I relaxed a little and checked my watch - plenty of time.  As I sat there, the theater slowly filled and I thought about the concessions and the bathroom, places I would surely have visited if I had someone with me to save my seat.  Instead, I sat there and tried not to take an inventory of all the liquids I had enjoyed that day.

The movie I saw was rated R, a far cry from the G and PG movies I usually see with the boys in the theater.  When selecting a movie, I looked for one that was not aimed at kids and that I wanted to see and that I figured A. would have no interest in.  For once, I thought, I was going to a movie that did not star some sort of computer-generated talking animal - I think the last one was guinea pigs.  Once the movie began, any discomfort about being alone dissipated and I enjoyed myself.  It did occur to me, though, that many of the main characters in the movie I chose were computer-generated talking aliens.

Tweet

I'm being followed.  On Twitter.  Despite the fact that I had only "tweeted" twice, the last time being months ago, I received an email recently that some guy was following me.  Maybe he figures that after months of inactivity I'm due.  Now, I feel the need to tweet...something...anything.  I know he's likely following lots of people and won't notice if I tweet or not.  Still, I can't shake the image of him sitting there, looking at a blank screen, waiting....for me.

This morning, I decided to make his day.  I decided to tweet.  First, I needed to reset the password on my Twitter account since I couldn't remember it.  Once I was loggged on, I made my tweet.  I let my follower know that I saw a movie last night and I enjoyed it.  I'm sure he'll be happy to know that.

I sent my tweet and in less than five minutes I received an email notifying me that someone else was now following me.  Good grief!  Now, I have two souls to feed.  I wondered if the movie tidbit would suffice for the new follower or if I should add another tweet, just in case.  I wasn't going to, but I just couldn't leave him with nothing.  I threw out another tweet, mentioning that I needed to update this blog.  Two tweets on the same day, a veritable flurry of activity compared to my idle past.

Within minutes, I received another email about yet another follower.  Like crows watching a corn crib, they latch onto any kernel that falls.  "He's fed us before, maybe he'll do it again!"

I don't think these people should be following me.  I'm really not that interesting.

Barefoot

I am not a person prone to going outdoors with bare feet.  For me, even sandals are a bit of a stretch.  I do have a pair of sandal-ish shoes that I like wearing.  These shoes expose much of my feet but they cover my toes.  Because of this, I have concluded that my issue with sandals and going barefoot is really all about the toes.  To test this, I imagined wearing a pair of regular running shoes that had the top removed on the end, exposing my toes.  Yep, I imagine I would be uncomfortable in such footwear.

Now, I do sometimes step outside in bare feet.  In particular, I like the way sidewalks and concrete driveways feel on my soles; the cool of it in mid-morning as the air around it warms up; the warmth of it in the evening as coolness of night moves in.  Of course, the concrete has to be swept clean, for my usually clad feet are as delicate as a flower.  The tiniest pebble can send me reeling.  It's one of the reasons I don't particularly like walking in grass, you never know what sticks or rocks may be lurking unseen between the blades.

On Saturday, I stepped outside barefoot.  The car was parked in the driveway.  It rained a lot last week and due to a disconnected sunroof drain line, a fair amount of water had found its way to the floor of the car.  After reconnecting the errant hose, I decided the amount of water merited removal by Shop-Vac.  Evaporation alone would not do.

Normally, at this point, I would put some shoes on.  After all, the Shop-Vac involves traipsing about in the garage, plugging in electrical cords and dragging hoses, all sorts of opportunities to step on something.  And there was a voice in my head saying "We should put some shoes on, they're right inside the door!"  But it was a beautiful day and the driveway felt so good on my feet.  The garage floor was extra smooth and cooler.  The sensations were just too good to pass up.  So, with great care, I lugged the Shop-Vac out to the car and ran an extension cord back to the garage.  I daintily stepped around the lawn mower to reach an open outlet socket.  Then I pranced (yes pranced) back out to the car, being mindful not to step on the cord I had just connected.

I crouched outside the car and set to work sucking up as much water as I could.  The water was concentrated on the driver's side both in the front and back.  I finished up the front first.  This was the wettest area and I felt a certain satisfaction listening to the vacuum slurping.  Once the slurping ceased, I turned my attention to the back.  I was enjoying myself.  I was focused.  So much so that I never noticed the bee.  Not until it stung the bottom of my foot.  Then I really noticed it.

That's what I get for straying from my shoes.

Twitterfall

On Friday, I was running some fairly long tests at work.  It was one of those jobs that needed to be done but didn't really tax the brain cells, actually a pretty good option for a Friday afternoon.  To help pass the time, I opened a web browser up to the twitterfall site.  I had this window running mostly in the background but I could see the messages scrolling by along the left margin of my screen.

Twitterfall is basically a site where you can watch twitter traffic.  You can specify search tags and topics to narrow what you see.  I usually put in something like "dinkytown" and then I watch to see who's tweeting around me.  It's usually pretty mundane stuff, like "I'm at Espresso Royale on 14th, leaving soon." I started using the site during the recent upheaval in Iran.  It was interesting to watch the messages and try to sort reality from propaganda.  After awhile, I'd settled in on a couple of people whose tweets convinced me they were actually in Iran and witnessing events.  I tuned in regularly for a few days filtering so I only saw messages from them or referencing them.  They were frequent tweeters and it was a little startling when one day there were suddenly no messages from or about them.  I don't know why they stopped, if it was voluntary or if something happened to them.  Either way, it was a reminder that even though we shared a part of the internet, their world was very different from mine.  It makes the local tweets seem all the more trivial and mundane.  Here, we have freedom to express ourselves and the best we can come up with is "I'm leaving McDs, spilled Big Mac sauce on my shorts."

On Friday I chose a new search term for twitterfall to follow.  The ELCA was having its convention in Minneapolis and, being a good Lutheran boy, I figured I'd check out what was going on.  After a few general searches, I landed on a couple of search tags that seemed specific to the convention itself.  The messages were interesting enough that it was difficult to keep the window in the background.  It was a strange mix.  There were a number of tweets that I assume were humorous but I think you had to go to seminary to get the joke.  Many of the messages were regarding the fact that they were not supposed to be tweeting from the convention floor.  Intermixed with these messages was a mostly respectful debate about the primary topic of the day; the proposal to allow gays and lesbians in monogamous relationships to serve as clergy members.  I was impressed with the level of discourse on the topic.  To be sure, there were some inflammatory comments from those on both sides of the issue.  But mostly, what I witnessed was a number of people genuinely concerned about the church, trying to understand the ramifications of a decision either way.  I closed the window before the vote took place so I don't know if the tenor changed afterward or not.  I like to believe that an air of respect was maintained.

Now, I'm no pastor and I'm not gay.  In fact, I only know a few openly gay people.  I am probably one of the least qualified people to offer an opinion on this topic.  I have, however, been Lutheran my entire life and I know what feels right to me.  But, I know there are plenty of good Lutherans out there that feel just the opposite.  Maybe they're right and I'm off base.  I just don't know.  I do know that the outcome of the vote brought great joy and great pain to many people.  I hope the church takes delicate steps as it moves forward.

In any event, it was good to see some local tweeting that rose above the mundane.

Mining

Part of our recent vacation involved visiting an amethyst mine north of Thunder Bay.  The visit consisted of a brief lecture about the geology of amethysts and the area followed by the opportunity to "mine" some amethyst stones for ourselves.  The lecture itself was educational but I must confess I was less enamored with amethyst after hearing how it is formed.  Even so, it is a pretty stone and our group was eager to do some mining.

There was a part of me that was assuming that amethyst mining would involve hard hats and shovels, maybe a pick axe if we were lucky.  I imagined us in a quarry or cave, chipping away at the side of a rock wall, looking for the distinctive purple vein of pure amethyst.  Instead, the rocks were brought to us.  Large loaders go into the mine and scoop up bucketfuls of dirt and stones.  They then dump their buckets out in a field where tourists can pick through the rubble.  There are also a few water hoses strung out throughout the field to help clean the stones enough to find the good ones.  The hoses turned what would have been a dusty experience into a decidedly muddy one.

When they release you onto the field, they give you a plastic pail and a metal rod.  They say the rod is for helping dig through the rock pile but it's not really substantial enough for that.  I think the main purpose of the rod is to try to maintain the illusion that you are mining and not merely picking up rocks from the ground.  After all, you don't need a tool for that.  When you're done mining, you can buy as many of the stones as you'd like - the place we were at charged three dollars a pound.  It took N. about a minute to fill his pail to overflowing.  As I watched him struggling to drag the pail towards me, I glanced at his brother, whose pail was also filling quickly.  In my head I was estimating weight and calculating cost.  The mining adventure had the potential to be the quickest and most expensive thing we did on vacation.  I talked to the boys about the cost involved and I encouraged them to be more discriminating in their choices.  To their credit, they dumped out most of what they had and started over at a slower pace.  I tried to balance their collections by limiting what I picked up.

We left the mine with a substantial haul of amethyst.  I'm not certain what we will do with it all.  The larger stones have found their way to the garden.  I put some smaller rocks in a tumbler.  The boys have given a few out to their friends.  The rest are sitting in a bag, their fate uncertain.  As I suspected, it was the most expensive single activity we did on vacation.  Still, we managed to control ourselves a little bit so the cost wasn't extreme.  And the rocks seem a more lasting and fitting memento of our trip than anything we could have picked up at a gift shop.

Fun Run

Falcon Heights held its first (hopefully annual) 5K fun run/walk last Saturday.  I've been training for this event for months.  Well, maybe not specifically for this event, but I've been running about this distance for awhile now.  I felt ready.  I like competing in the 5Ks that are billed as run/walk.  I figure even if I tire out after running the first third, I can still switch to walking and probably not finish last.  When they throw the "fun" in front of it, it's even better.  When a run is described as a "fun run" it means that 1) You may or may not get a unique race number.  2) They may or may not have an official timer.  3) They will very likely NOT be posting individual results.  It's all for fun.  No matter when you finish, you can always pretend you could have run faster if it had been a "serious" race.

On Saturday, three members of our family participated in the race.  A. chose to do a fun walk.  B. and I ran together.  B. went into this race without having trained at all.  He has some new running shoes but he chose to wear his old beat up ones (I think he chose them because they were already tied). 

The starter pistol fired and we took off.  We were swift gazelles bounding across the open plain - for about thirty yards.  That was when I received the first query regarding whether we were close to the finish yet.  We were not, I confessed.  In fact, we had barely begun.  The rest of the race consisted of B. intermixing slow walks and sprints as I cajoled him from one landmark to another ("C'mon buddy, let's just try to run up to the corner").  Any time B. was walking, I would run in big wide circles along side him so I wouldn't leave him behind.  I'm a big believer in momentum and inertia.  I feared that if I stopped running I wouldn't get going again.  I think by the end of the race, I'd run about 8K.

As we caught sight of the finish, B. found renewed energy and we finished strong, once again gazelles.  We crossed the line side by side in just under forty minutes.  It was the longest motivational speech I've ever given.

Ugly Shoes

While walking down an office hall,
I came upon some shoes,
That made me gasp and shudder,
And my cookies almost lose.

They didn't look like shoes at all,
But more like actual feet.
Yet, the color was unnatural,
Like that of rotten meat.

The girl that wore these grotesque things,
Was fair and kind of cute.
But her footwear choice was ogre-ish,
And made her seem a brute.

I hope these shoes do not become,
The latest fashion trend.
For then I'll see them everywhere,
And that would be my end.

Rain

It was raining this morning as I sat on my back porch sipping coffee and perusing the newspaper.  It was a steady but not heavy rainfall, backed up by a sky dark with clouds, promising an extended shower.  I stayed out there as long as I could but eventually I had to leave for work.  I wish I could have lingered there longer.

I love rain.  It pleases so many of my senses.  This morning there was little wind and the rain was falling straight down.  Looking out from the porch I could sense the motion of the raindrops, as if the normally empty spaces of my yard had suddenly come alive.  I also enjoy those times when I happen to be outside when a rainstorm begins.  I love watching the first droplets explode on dusty and dry patches of the ground.  I took a deep breath as I sat outside and enjoyed the wonderful smell of wet grass.  My lawn was overdue for a good washing.  I am glad to see Mother Nature finally got around to it.

By the time I arrived at work, the rain had intensified.  I did not run from my car to the door.  I walked my normal pace.  I got wet but it felt so good.  I'm just going to be sitting in a cube, working mostly alone.  I don't mind if I'm damp.  As I sit, I can hear the rain pelting against the window like an impatient child wanting my attention, begging me to come out and play.  I try to focus on what I'm doing but I am aware of its presence and it soothes me.

I suppose part of the reason I love rain so much might be due to my growing up on a farm.  Farmers depend on the rain and the weather in general.  In a supreme act of faith, they stake their livelihoods on something they have no control over - not just once, but year after year.  Usually the weather cooperates, but not always.  It is that uncertainty that makes each rainfall all the more appreciated.  As a child, I don't think I understood the significance of a rain shower and what it meant for the crops.  I celebrated the rain because it meant Dad couldn't get out in the fields.  A rainy day kept him nearby, busying himself around the farm yard, where he was easy to find.  And if it was really wet, there was a chance my siblings and I could convince our parents that the day might be better spent shopping - maybe even in the big city, that's right, Sioux Falls.

So many reasons to love the rain.

Dress Code

As I waited at a stoplight this morning, I noticed a guy waiting at a bus stop.  He was wearing a very nice gray suit and he could not have looked more uncomfortable.  The bus stop he was waiting at is mostly used by university students.  The typical attire worn by most of the crowd there barely rises to casual.  Some of the kids appear to be wearing pajamas, which I suppose is both trendy and efficient when you're running late.

The fellow in the suit stood very stiffly and appeared to be trying to maintain a buffer between himself and any structures or people.  The structures weren't giving him much trouble but the people kept crossing into his personal space bubble.  Each time a group moved in a little too close, he would shuffle a little bit away from them.  He kept himself on the perimeter, obviously wary of getting trapped from multiple sides.  He appeared to be about the same age as the rest of the group but none of them seemed to know him.  Or maybe they just didn't recognize him in his businessman disguise.

As I drove on, I thought about men and suits.  Some guys just look natural and comfortable in a suit.  Whether they are in church or at a baseball game, they don't really seem out of place.  The suit is like an extension of themselves, an integral part of who they are.  When they try to go casual, it's usually Dockers and a polo shirt and they always seem a tad less at ease.

On the other end of the spectrum, are guys like the one I saw this morning.  No matter how nice the suit is, or how well it fits, something just doesn't seem right.  I am one of these guys.  When I put on a suit, it's like I'm playing dress-up.  These are not my clothes.  This is not me.  I would much prefer to wear a t-shirt and jeans.  And that is what I often do, whether I'm going to church or a baseball game.  Interestingly, when someone from this group tries to dress up a little, they often go with Dockers and a polo shirt.  It's nice to see there's a little fashion common ground out there.

I guess most of us feel most at ease when the people around us are comfortable.  And I think people are most comfortable when they can be themselves.  If that means wearing a suit to a baseball game or jeans to church so be it.

Our Vacation with Elton John

Like all good family summer vacations, ours involved many long hours of driving.  Nothing brings the family together like a little intense time in the old minivan.  We anticipated that the boys might get tired of the riding so we had a few strategies in mind to help them out.  When I say we, I of course mean my wife.  She had picked up a new DVD and borrowed some audio books from the library.  She also brought along a fine cross-section of our music CDs.  Typically, the boys use headphones when they watch a movie.  This frees us to talk or listen to music without too much disruption.  Of course, if the boys do need something they usually forget to remove their headphones.  Instead, they shout their request/complaint and then can't hear our response unless we shout back.  So, during movie time our van was mostly quiet with occasional outbursts of shouting.

As I mentioned, I had little involvement in procuring items for amusement and distraction.  My responsibilities fell to the technical side.  I hooked up the portable DVD player and made sure both sets of headphones were working and properly connected.  Our van does not have a CD player so I was responsible for bringing a portable one along with all the necessary wiring to interface it to the van's radio.  On this second point, I'm afraid I failed miserably.  I remember watching my wife load this huge stack of CDs just as we were taking off.  Somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain, I know that the van doesn't have a CD player.  But I don't usually drive the van.  I drive the car.  The car has a CD player.  We drove for the first hour with the boys watching a DVD and the two of us talking.  Even as A. reached for that first CD it did not occur to me that we had no way to play it.  I was still blissfully driving along, happy to be on vacation - right up to the time when she asked, "So, where's the CD player? You did bring it along didn't you?"  At times like this there's not much to do but confess to being an idiot (I think she accepted this explanation far too readily).

The next few minutes were spent looking through the audio books and finding that, indeed, many of them were on CD.  Next, like rats in a dumpster, we searched every nook and cranny of the van, looking for any cassettes we might want to listen to.  Our prize for this effort was an Elton John's Greatest Hits tape, released in 1974.  We opted to instead ride in silence.  CD cases slid around our feet, adding insult to injury.

Throughout our week of vacation, the boys tired of the DVDs and we played the few audio books we were able.  After that, N. and B. played, talked, argued and fought.  When things got too loud or heated, we would put in Elton John and crank up the volume.  Initially, this stunned them just enough to quiet them.  But after awhile, they began requesting the tape.  After all, what little boy wouldn't want to listen to songs about crocodiles and rocket men?  By the end of our trip, they were singing the tunes even when the tape wasn't playing.  I still haven't decided if this is a good thing or a bad thing.

Celebrity Watch

I was at the computer the other day and I did a Google search on JABN.  I'll admit this sounds a bit narcissistic, but it's just so darn exciting to see some of my blog posts come up in the results.  There was a time when I was invisible to Google.  I still remember the first time Google returned one of my pages in the results.  If you've ever seen the movie "The Jerk", recall the scene where Narvin is so excited to find his name published in the phone book.  It was kind of like that.

This time, to further direct my results, I added the word "update" to my search terms.  This generally puts my stuff right at the top of the returned pages.  Sure enough, the first entry returned was my home page.  But then another page near the top caught my eye: JABN - Jennifer Aniston Breaking News.  I wonder if people seeking the latest on Ms. Aniston ever pop onto my site by mistake.  Oh, how disappointed they would be.  Maybe one of you reading this right now is really wondering "What's up with Jen?".  Or maybe some of you have been to the other site when you were trying to get here.

Anyway, I thought a name like JABN would be fairly unique but I apologize for any confusion.  Just to be safe, if I ever have any breaking news about Jennifer Aniston I'll be sure to let you know.

Taking pictures

Over the past few years, whenever our family went on vacation I was the primary keeper of the camera.  When we purchased our first digital camera, I was the one who researched which one to buy.  I was the one who read the manual enough to actually understand the various modes and options.  It made sense then, that I should be the one to take the pictures.  To be honest, digital cameras are pretty simple to operate.  My wife knew this, but she still allowed me the opportunity to play with my toy.  This was pretty gracious of her, especially since many of our vacations involve hiking and I naturally tend to hike behind the rest of the group.  This results in a lot of photos of backs and behinds.  I've tried to make an effort to move to the front, but eventually I find that I've drifted to the back again.

Of course, the main reason I like taking the pictures is that it means I'm not in many photos.  I swear, there are some vacations where it looks like A. and the boys went without me.  Usually, I just show up in the group shot where I prop the camera on a rock, set the timer and hustle over to the others.  Consequently, in the few shots of me that exist I typically looked a bit harried.  In a couple, I have a quizzical look as I try to determine if the camera has taken the picture yet.  I've never been real fond of having my picture taken.  The camera's dose of reality tends to throw cold water on how I imagine myself to look.  I'm happy enough to live in my little fantasy world - especially if I can limit an evidence to the contrary.

On our last vacation, the boys also had a digital camera along.  B. used it mostly, but N. tried his hand now and then.  Having never used a film camera where every shot is a precious commodity, they showed little discrimination or self-control when deciding to shoot.  See a grasshopper? Take fifteen shots.  See another grasshopper? Do another fifteen, or maybe a movie.  The sheer quantity of pictures taken was driving me a little crazy - just because of the frequent pauses in the hikes.  Every time B. stopped to take a picture or three of a flower, I stopped to maintain my position as last in line.  After all, one of the reasons I like to be last is to ensure that no one is left behind.  What I found is that B. also enjoys the back of the line.  Our group often hiked in pairs with A. and N. well ahead of B. and me.  And yes, we took pictures of their backs and behinds with both cameras.

Having another camera along meant that I appear in more photos than in past vacations.  It's like Dad finally got to come along on one.  Yep, there I am, fatter and balder than I imagine myself but there just the same.  The rest of the group has confirmed that I do indeed look like that so there's no need to have the camera checked for some malfunction.  And they seem okay with my appearance so maybe I should just adjust my mental image.

The really great thing about the extra camera is that we have a vacation that isn't mostly documented from one person's perspective.  Even though it was a little aggravating at the time, all those pictures of bugs and leaves capture a part of our experience that I largely missed with my camera.  It's easy to forget sometimes the sorts of things that matter and are interesting to young boys.  Looking at the pictures they took gives me a glimpse back into that world.

Do you want to know how far it is to...

Our family is just ending a week-long vacation.  All parties were a little sad to see it end, which I think is an indication of a successful time.  As I mentioned in my last post, part of our vacation was spent in Canada.  This gave our trip the added exotic flair of being "international" although going from Minnesota to Canada is probably about the tamest international trip one could imagine.  Still, we felt like real jet-setters as we handed our passports to the border patrol.

The boys were expecting that things would be different in Canada, foreign.  They were not disappointed.  Things were just different enough to be exciting without being utterly confusing.  They delighted in the little things: "Look! The McDonald's arches have a little maple leaf on them!"  The pool at our motel used saline solution instead of chlorine.  The boys assumed this was a Canadian thing and reveled in the brilliance of it.  If it was different, it was Canadian.  And if it was Canadian it was cool.

I think one of my favorite Canadian differences is their use of kilometers over miles.  I liked that I was able to finally use the numbers on the inner part of my speedometer.  They seemed to work just fine.  I also liked how my brain kept flipping back to miles whenever I saw a road sign.  The conversation would be something like: "Oh man, it's still 11 miles to Ouimet Canyon.  Oh, wait a minute, it's not 11 miles, it's 11 kilometers!" We never bothered to try to convert what the distance was in miles.  We just knew that kilometers were shorter than miles.  It was like we'd been instantly transported closer.  I wonder if the opposite sort of thing ever happens to Canadians when they travel in the U.S..  Perhaps they are constantly depressed to find that things are farther away than they initially thought.

By far, my favorite reason for using kilometers was that it allowed me to refer to distances in "klicks".  I used the term as often as I could, even for relaying inconsequential and unwanted information (e.g. "I think there's a Sears about 2 klicks up the road.").  I never aspired to be a soldier but I always liked it in war movies when they talked in klicks.  It was nice to have a chance to try it out.  So I klicked about this and I klicked about that and eventually I irritated the others to the point where I was asked to stop.  And so I stopped.  Or at least I tried to.  I think a couple more klicks probably slipped out, purely by accident.

But now we're home and the klicks are stowed away with the passports until our next international trip.

In Canada

As I write this, our family is in the midst of a week-long vacation, mostly in Canada.  Our youngest, N, studied Canada this last school year in first grade.  This fact had some influence in our choice of destinations this summer - when you're going to a foreign country it always helps to have an expert along.

In the days leading up to our departure, N was very excited at the prospect of visiting the country he studied.  He was also happy to share his expertise with the rest of us, such as, "We'd better pack some coats, it's cold in Canada" and "It's okay if we don't see a polar bear, they're kind of dangerous."  I should point out that our trip did not go very deep into Canada.  We entered at Fort Frances by International Falls and drove east to Thunder Bay - not exactly polar bear country.

As we entered and drove across southern Ontario, I was worried that the experience might be a bit of a let down considering the expectations.  There were a couple of observations from the back of the van about it being warmer than expected but mostly the comments were positive.  The different flag, using kilometers instead of miles, it all added to the "foreignness" of the place.  As we continued along, N. became very excited about the rock formations and terrain and related what he'd learned about them in school.  Finally, at one point he remarked, "Canada is even better than I expected!" - and this was before we'd seen Kakebekka Falls, the Amethyst Mine or Ouimet Canyon.

And so, now we've seen all those things.  And we've confirmed that Canada is a splendid place, even if you only see a little slice of it.  We'll spend another day hiking and exploring and then start our way back to Minnesota tomorrow.  B. is a little worried that he'll be all messed up when he switches back off the metric system.  We've become so very international.

Of Cucumbers and Pickles

I stopped by Subway for lunch last week.  I ordered one of my standards: veggie sub, no cheese.  Ordering this sub can occasionally cause a little confusion on the line.  The empty bun making its way along the counter looks incomplete.  Usually, the next person in line double-checks the toaster - just in case there's some meat being heated.  Once, the guy looked at the empty bun and then at me.  His look of concern conveyed, "Is this the way you expected it would be?"  I gave him a reassuring nod and put in my order for toppings.  When I order the veggie I always tell them to put everything on it.  They always fill the bun quickly.  I think an empty bun makes them uneasy.

On this particular visit, my sandwich was handed off mid-fill.  In the exchange, one topping was left off.  I was aware of this oversight as it was happening and was watching to see if anyone would notice the omission.  It was mildly exciting.  No one noticed.  They thought they gave me a sandwich with everything but they actually gave me a sandwich with everything except pickles.  And I could not have been happier.

You see, I've been thinking for some time now that I might prefer my veggie sandwich this way.  There's something about eating fresh cucumbers and pickles together that feels odd to me.  I eat a cucumber and I think, "Ah, that's tasty."  Then I hit a pickle and I think, "Hmm, I wish you were still just a cucumber."  This is a little weird because I really like pickles - just not mixed with fresh cucumbers.  The way I see it, this pickle was once a cucumber that sacrificed its freshness and changed its very nature just so that it would still be edible when there were no fresh cucumbers.  By eating it with a fresh cucumber I feel like I'm saying, "Nice job with the whole pickle thing but it wasn't necessary.  I'm not saving you for later anyway."  It kind of cheapens the pickle's whole purpose for being.

So, I had my veggie sub with everything except the pickles.  As I suspected, I do prefer it this way.  I'll probably continue to ask for everything when I order a veggie sub, though.  I suppose I could start saying, "Everything, except pickles," but I don't think I will.  I liked the sub better without pickles but not enough to merit changing the simplicity of just saying "Everything."