Simple Xmas

Ah, another Christmas holiday successfully navigated.  At times, it can feel like a bit of an odd holiday.  It's a joyous time.  It must be.  It seems like at least half the carols we sing mention joy or gladness.  But our celebration is often mired in logistics.  Schedules must be synched and dates negotiated before the party can commence.  Or, more accurately, parties.  Our family gathers and celebrates Christmas at least three or four times with different family and friends.  I'm not just so glad each Christmas Eve, I'm also so glad each Christmas Eve Eve and so on.  The Christmas story itself seems intentionally simple.  No hospital, no mention of a midwife or description of labor.  Just a stable and a baby in a manger.  So simple, yet we've managed to make it complicated.  We can't help ourselves.

This Christmas, our church offered three Christmas Eve services.  The first was at 3:00, the second at 4:30 and the last at 10:30.  We attended to 3:00 one because it fit well with our plans to gather with my wife's family for dinner afterwards.  It was a festive affair, with both adult and children's choirs singing and other special music.  The sanctuary was full and I could sense that other families had evening plans similar to our own.  After the service, there was the usual hustle and bustle as people hurried off to their next engagement.  We did the same.  We follow this script every year and it has worked well for us.  We gathered at my  mother-in-law's house, had a meal and opened gifts.  A pleasant evening.

This year, we had one wrinkle in our typical Christmas Eve routine.  My oldest son, B, was slated to acolyte at the 10:30 service.  I dropped my wife and youngest son off at home and B and I returned to church.  He was less than happy about attending church twice in one night.  I'd noticed earlier that the 3:00 and 4:30 services used the same bulletin but that the 10:30 service used something else.  I assured him that the service would not simply be a repeat of what we had participated in earlier.

I could not have been more correct.  The 10:30 service was nothing like the earlier ones.  It was contemplative, quiet almost.  It was beautiful in its simplicity.  It was sparsely attended.  I wish more people would have witnessed it, but the small numbers contributed to a feeling of intimacy that fit the moment.  After days of shopping and wrapping and eating and unwrapping it was so refreshing to just stop for a moment and focus on the simple and profound story behind it all.  I'm so grateful B's acolyte duties brought me there.

Merry Christmas.

Junk Drawer

In our kitchen, we have a little spot, a nook almost, where we keep our laptop, some school papers and a scattering of pens and pencils.  The space is an extension of our kitchen counters but it has been design to act as a desk, with a space for a chair and room for your knees.  To the left of the "knee hole" is a column of three drawers.  The bottom drawer is large enough to accommodate files and has all the necessary hardware for that purpose.  The other two drawers, however, are just drawers.  Without a definite purpose, these drawers, especially the top one, have become junk drawers.

Last night, my wife was looking for a pencil sharpener for my oldest son to keep in his school backpack.  I was at the kitchen desk when her quest brought her to the top drawer.  Apparently, she had not inspected the drawer recently, for as she rummaged, she seemed surprised (or maybe disgusted) at the amount of seemingly useless junk occupying that space.

The search for the sharpener quickly became secondary as she began sorting through the piles of papers, cords, coins, restaurant cards, etc..  I pointed out a pencil sharpener in the mix.  She set it aside and continued sifting through the mess.  Like an anthropologist at a dig, she examined the artifacts and determined that most of it was from 2007.  That is the same year we remodeled the kitchen and had the drawer built.  The junk had apparently been there from the beginning.

As I looked in the drawer, I knew I was guilty of depositing much of the junk in the drawer.  Over the next hour or so, I was quizzed about the relevance or usefulness of various items.  The line between junk and trash can be very fine.  Many items were thrown away, others were merely relocated.  At one point, she handed me a pile of stuff that was clearly mine and told me to put it somewhere.  That's what I had done before, I had put it in the junk drawer.  I took the pile and wandered around the house until I found a new place to stash my stuff.  I suppose at some point in the future, I'll need to move it again.

The drawer is now neat and orderly.  I don't think she bothered to look at its neighbor just below it.  That drawer isn't quite as messy but it's getting there.  Having everything tidy is a nice concept, but I happen to think that junk drawers serve a purpose.  There are things we accumulate that don't fit in any category but junk.  Yet, they are not trash.  They are the tiny plastic pencil sharpeners, the paperclips, the nine-volt battery and the random penny.  They need to go somewhere.  Putting them all in one drawer makes them easier to locate on those rare occasions when you need them.

I go to church and the message is, "Prepare! Prepare! Christ is coming!"

I go to the mall and the message is, "Prepare! Prepare! Christmas is coming!"

Different motives and meanings, maybe, but still weird to have these strangers saying such similar things.

Telling Time

I've worn a watch most of my life.  For awhile, it seemed like I was replacing watches every other year, but I've had my current one for quite some time now.  It's been through multiple bands and batteries.  It was a gift from my wife - she thoughtfully bought a digital one with stopwatch and lap features, useful back when I was running regularly (and caring about my pace).  I don't need such precision when I run any more, a sundial would be more appropriate.

A few years ago, I received a watch from my wife's father for Christmas.  It was a very expensive analog watch set in a very cheaply-made, custom-fitted band.  I liked that watch, and for awhile I wore it instead of my old watch.  I like analog watches.  They don't lie to me as badly as the digital ones.  If I glance at an analog clock and the little hand is barely above the five and the big hand is near but to the left of the twelve, it's telling me the time is "almost five".  A digital clock would say something like "4:56", which may or may not be true, depending on the accuracy of the watch and if it was precisely set.  I know, most analog clocks have little tick marks around the clock face indicating the minutes, but to me, their diminutive size indicates that they are to be viewed merely as suggestions, at best.  I always feel a bit of added pressure when setting a digital watch - I'm just not that precise a person.  I wore my new expensive analog watch until the band broke.  The band and watch are tightly integrated.  Replacing the band appears far from trivial.  That's the problem with expensive things - they are expensive to fix.  Some day I shall fix this watch, but for now it keeps perfect time out of sight in a desk drawer.

Lately, I've been questioning why I wear a watch at all.  My eyes have gotten bad enough that I can't really read the time unless I have reading glasses on.  Usually, if I'm wearing reading glasses, I'm in an environment where there is also a clock within sight.  Also, I'm typically toting my cell phone and IPod around with me.  They've both got clocks as well (theirs are also unreadable without my trusty glasses).

So, maybe I'll stop wearing a watch.  Or maybe I'll buy a really, really big one.

The Unwelcome Guest

As I listen to my son mourn the loss of a pet I am reminded of what a fickle thing grief can be. Just when it seems that it has gone, it returns fully and without warning. Each sob from my son pierces me, partly because I hate to see him hurting and partly because I don't know how to help him. I am no stranger to grief yet I cannot find the words to comfort him. In fact, it is this familiarity that has taught me how futile my efforts would be. Grief is a sometimes necessary part of life. It arrives like an unwelcome house guest and stays until it chooses to leave. You can try to keep it locked in a room but that just keeps it around longer.

And so, I sit here with my son. He's okay right now but I know his sobs are far from over.

Visiting the Doctor

I went to the doctor recently.  This was a major milestone for me as I really don't like going to the doctor.  I woke up one morning feeling nauseous and experiencing severe vertigo.  The vertigo seemed to be the cause of the nausea and it seemed to be isolated to particular head positions.  It was at its worst when I was lying down.  Once I sat up, the room stopped spinning.

I had a bout of positional vertigo about a decade ago that felt like this.  At the time, the doctor warned me that I may be susceptible to the condition in the future.  That morning, I figured that was what was happening.  No need to see the doctor - nothing to do but tough it out until my body adjusts.

For the next couple of days, I woke up feeling nauseous and dizzy but gradually felt better as the day wore on.  Everything was going according to plan.  Then on the third day, I woke up feeling okay.  As I lay in bed, I thought it odd that I would recover so quickly - much more quickly than the last time.  At that point I reasoned that I must have been suffering from something else, an inner ear infection, perhaps.  Whatever, I was all better.  At least, until I got out of bed.  It turns out the vertigo-inducing position had shifted.  Now, if I bowed my head slightly, the room spun out of control.

Luckily, I live in a culture where bowing is not a common occurrence.  If I had been, say, in Japan, I would have been completely incapacitated.  Instead, I went about my day, careful to keep my head up.  It was one of my best posture days ever.

I began wondering about my illness and its cause.  I made the mistake of checking an online diagnosis site.  What I found was that the causes of vertigo range from the fairly benign to the incredibly serious.  Still, I tried to convince myself that it was probably an inner ear infection.  After all, that was one of the most likely reasons.  Then again, I did whack my head pretty hard a couple of weeks ago and many of my symptoms could be attributed to a mild concussion.

After a week of okay days and bad days, I finally made the appointment to see the doctor.  I woke on the morning of the appointment feeling the best I had in more than a week.  I tried valiantly to induce a vertigo episode but with little success.  My head still felt a little fuzzy, but no spinning.  I entertained the idea of cancelling the appointment, but didn't because I'd had a couple of okay days earlier followed by bad ones.

I like my doctor, I truly do.  I only avoid seeing her because I hate to disappoint her.  The last time I saw her, she advised me to come back for some follow-up labs in about three months and to lose at least ten pounds.  I decided to wait for the follow-up until I'd lost the weight.  That was three years ago.  I hated to return now, to have her see me this way.  I hadn't lost ten pounds.  No, as if to spite her, I'd gained ten more instead.  She would not be angry, just disappointed.  I knew that she would want to draw blood, get some lab work, see how much my added fat has increased my cholesterol.  Even though they hadn't told me to, I fasted before the appointment.

I made it through the appointment.  My doctor was disappointed in my condition but it did brighten her day when she learned that I had fasted.  Like a mechanic working on an old car that hadn't been regularly serviced, she took the opportunity to address whatever issues she could.  She took blood for lab work and gave me flu and tetanus shots.  After examining me for a bit, she concurred with my diagnosis that I likely had an inner ear infection and that I was apparently almost over it.  Again, she recommended I lose ten pounds (apparently ceding me the ten I should have lost from my last visit).

I received a report from the clinic the other day with my lab results.  Most of my numbers look pretty good but my cholesterol is up a little.  My doctor had written a note on the report advising me to lose the weight, exercise more and come back for a follow-up in three to four months.  I'll go back but I think I'll wait until after I lose the weight.

A lesson in caring

I love my kids.  Occasionally, if I am having a particularly difficult time with one of them, I will remind them of this fact.  The truth is, if I didn't care about them then I wouldn't care if they got to bed on time.  I wouldn't care if they finished their homework.  I wouldn't care about their dental hygiene.  It is precisely because I care about them that I care about all these other things.  I am certain there are times they wish I didn't care so much.

Arguments between children and their caring parents are inevitable.  As my boys get older, they are taking on more responsibilities for their lives.  This is a good thing but with greater responsibility comes greater perceived power.  Rules are questioned, negotiations attempted.  I try to listen, even when I already know the basis of their case is faulty.  To dismiss them out of hand would be rude and might discourage them from future attempts.  I don’t want to do that.  I want to raise people who are not afraid to question things.  Sometimes, the arguments get heated.  It is probably a sign of their development that they are able to upset me so.  I suppose this is a positive thing, but I sometimes miss the days when "because I said so" was accepted as a valid and reasonable explanation.  I'm often surprised at how quickly a simple argument can escalate into a shouting match.  Again, I like to think it's because I care so much.

When the boys argue with each other it gets trickier.  As a parent, my first instinct is to step in and restore order.  But, at some point, they need to learn how to resolve things without me arbitrating.  I don't want that job long-term.  I usually try to hold back and wait until they work it out or one of them is screaming.  I try to limit the screaming, for the neighbor's sake as much as anything else.  My older son has the advantage, both in size and experience.  He is adept at getting under his brother's skin.  My younger son has learned that mom and dad step in when there is screaming.  Thus, he jumps to that stage fairly quickly.  Not exactly the outcome I'd intended.

Yesterday, the boys and I were out riding bikes.  We were on our way to meet friends at a local coffee/ice cream shop.  We'd only gone a few blocks when my older son made a remark that I deemed was aimed at irking his younger brother.  In this particular case, I also felt that his action had the potential to negatively impact his brother's overall safety on the road.  Looking back, it really probably wasn't that big of a deal, but at the time, I was upset.  It wasn't the specific incident as much as it was the general issue that we don't screw around when we're out riding.

I began my lecture (perhaps tirade better describes it) as we rolled down the street.  I was out front, with my younger son, shouting back at the other (yes, I scream because I care).  My older son was lagging behind and, as I finished a rather salient and eloquent point, he shouted back, "What?  Dad, I can't hear you!"  Aggravated, I raised the volume and gave him the short version of my previous message.  He interrupted me midway; apparently still unable to hear me, even though I could hear him fine.  I tried a couple more times, feeling the frustration build each time.  Still, he could not hear me.

By now, I had passed from upset to angry.  I decided I would slam on my brakes and skid to an impressive stop, thus punctuating my mood, and speak to him when he caught up to me.  In anger I squeezed the brake levers.  Usually, I only use the rear brakes, but this time I clinched both fists.  And I learned something.  I learned that my front brakes work much better than my rear ones, perhaps because they have been used so seldom.  The front of the bike stopped.  I kept my grip on the handlebars as I flipped over the front of the bike and landed in the street.  If I was going for an impressive stop, I couldn't have done much better than that.  As my older son approached, I was still upset, now more with myself than him.  "Can you hear me now?", I asked.

I got back on the bike and we continued our ride.  I've got an impressive bruise on the inside of my left knee but I know I could have been hurt much worse.  My accident scared both boys and made the older one feel bad because he thought it was his fault.  In some ways, this hurts more than the knee.

A painful reminder to take a breath once in awhile.

Smart Creatures

As the political season enters its frenzied final days, I am again amazed at the success of certain candidates with whom I disagree.  I watch their ads and I wonder how these people ever got to be the standard bearers for their parties.  I mean, they are so obviously misguided or outright wrong.  Surely, everybody can see that, right?  I tend to forget that the electorate is not a monolith of folks who think like I do.  I forget that things that seem obvious or reasonable to me might be ridiculous or offensive to someone else.  We are a diverse bunch, and sometimes I need to be reminded of that.

I received one such reminder this past Saturday.  We were away from home for the weekend, enjoying Minnesota's lake country.  I made a morning trek into town to look for a rake handle to replace the one I'd broken the day before (this incident resulted in a bloody head injury deserving of a post of its own).  Anyway, I headed to a nearby town and ventured into the local hardware store.  I usually love going into small town hardware stores.  They are often like little museums full of useful items from the past.  So much of what is made today is made with a disposable mentality.  Use it until it breaks, then throw it away and buy a new one.  The small town hardware store is founded on exactly the opposite ideology: take care of it, if it breaks, fix it and keep fixing it until all hope is lost. 

When I entered the store, I was greeted by the strong odor of cigarette smoke.  Other than a brief glance from the old man smoking at the cash register, this would be the only greeting I would receive.  The old man was busy talking to another old man who was leaning against the counter.  I made my way past them and began to poke around.

The store was fairly small, and I realized a few things fairly quickly: they carried no suitable replacement rake handles; I no longer had any tolerance for smoky places; the store's inventory was surprisingly disappointing.  I browsed the aisles, hoping to come across something interesting.  All the while I was gradually making my way toward the front door and the promise of fresh, breathable air.  The shelves were packed with an odd assortment of items, more in line with what you might find at a typical gas station.

As I meandered, I couldn't help but hear the conversation happening at the counter.  So often, when one overhears a conversation, it's ordinary, mundane.  The two guys having this conversation spoke as if they were having one of these types of conversations and perhaps, to them, they were.  To me, however, it was rich and different.  I've paraphrased a portion of what I recall here:

Man 1: "So, when were you last around here?  Seems like it's been awhile."
Man 2: "Oh, it's probably been at least ten years, I guess."
Man 1: "Ten years?  Well, then you probably haven't heard about Mike.  Did you hear about Mike?"
Man 2: "No.  What about Mike?"
Man 1: "He got burned up real bad.  He was working at an oil field and got burned up."
Man 2: "He did?"
Man 1: "Yup, he was crispy...most of his body.  Retired after that."
Man 2: "So he survived?"
Man 1: "Oh yeah...he's a tough one." (chuckle) "Tough and crispy."
Man 2: (chuckle) "That's too bad."
Man 1: "Now I remember the last time you stopped by!  You brought me some muskrats and a beaver."
Man 2: "Oh, that's right!  I did do that, didn't I?"
Man 1: "Yeah, I fed them to the wolf.  He loved 'em."
Man 2: "I'm glad he liked them."
Man 1: "Yeah, I knew he would.  I know wolves and what they like.  Y'know, you can put a dead cow and a dead horse in front of a wolf and he'll eat the whole horse before he touches the cow."
Man 2: "Really?  Why's that?"
Man 1: "The horse's got better protein and the wolf knows that."
Man 2: "That's something."
Man 1: "Smart creatures."

At this point, I slipped out the door, once again reminded that not everyone is just like me.  In fact, there are some people who are very much not like me.  I did not ask these fellows who they planned on voting for and, to be honest, I have no idea how they would have answered.

I'm just trying to get food

As I mentioned in the past, the area where I work is inundated with people with clipboards, looking for support.  Many of these folks emanate from small offices in the same building where I work.  I see them in the hallways sometimes, but they never stop me then.  Even if they have their clipboards with them, they seem to wait until they have taken up their stations at strategic street corners.

I've gotten pretty adept at avoiding this people.  I either take circuitous routes that avoid their corners all-together or I position myself inside a larger crowd and move through quickly.  The main reason I avoid these people is that I don't want to talk to them.  It's not them, it's me.  I really don't want to talk to anybody if I can help it.  Plus, I'm leery of anyone soliciting on the street.  Whether it's money or my signature they want, the answer is going to be no.

And I hate to say no to people.  It goes against my internal programming to disappoint them.  What makes it worse is that their causes are often ones to which I am sympathetic.  Yes, I am for a cleaner environment.  No, I do not want to talk to you about it.  I don't have a problem saying no to the ones I disagree with but those are rare.  Mostly, I'm telling kids that, no, I do not have a spare minute to hear about the atrocities of war.  Inside, I want to tell them that it wouldn't matter if they were promoting a petition to end the duct taping of kittens, I wouldn't stop.

At lunch today, I wasn't paying attention and I came face to face with a clipboard.  I'm not sure of the topic, something with gay rights and bullying, I think.  As I approached, the boy asked me if I had a minute.  I grimaced and shook my head, as if it were vitally important that I get to a restaurant and start eating a burrito in the next 60 seconds.  I felt bad.  He was polite and his cause seemed just.  As I passed him, I said, "Sorry."  Then, to really ease my troubled spirit, I threw in a "have a nice day."

I took the long route back to the office.

I wonder what's on?

I love to watch television.  I know many people would likely look upon this admission with a certain amount of disdain, but I can't deny who I am.  I am a person who likes to watch the old boob tube.  Don't get me wrong, I like to do other things too.  I like to read and play my guitar.  Sometimes, I just like to watch my kids while they play.  I have many ways I like to spend my free time, including watching television.

I suppose I could soften my TV admission by saying I only watch documentaries and public television - people who look down on TV usually make an exception for public TV, like it's the lone granola bar in a snack basket mostly full of Snickers.  I could say that I only watch public TV, but that would be a lie.  The truth is I watch a variety of things, some of them very pointless.  In fact, often it's the pointlessness that I find attractive.  Sometimes watching TV is like looking out the window, I don't need something that's going to engage me for too long or require me to watch the beginning in order to know what's going on.  I just want to pop in, view the landscape and move on.

I spend most of my day working with computers and connected to the internet.  But television is the medium I grew up with.  On the farm, we had only black and white TVs.  The reception was limited to a couple channels.  Once in a while, if the weather was right, a couple of others would show up - those were always exciting times.  I've heard that ABC had quite a lineup of prime time shows in the 70s.  I missed most of it - our ABC reception was fuzzy at best.  We got our first color television after we moved to town.  I still remember when it was delivered, a Saturday morning - I think Scooby Doo was on. 

Recently, my wife brought home some DVDs of Gilligan's Island.  I used to watch Gilligan's Island on the farm after school.  Seeing it now, in full vibrant color on our large screen TV was almost like watching a new show.  In these episodes, you could tell that color was a relatively new feature.  Everything is brilliantly colored.  I suspect that we may see something similar happen with the advent of 3D TV - lots of things jumping out at us.  Perhaps some day, one of my boys will be blogging about how he suffered with only 2D TV growing up - or perhaps blogging will be passé by then.

I love technology and I love all the advances that I've seen thus far in my lifetime.  Cell phones do so many things I sometimes forget that you can also use them to call people.  I have an IPod that serves as my primary link for surfing the internet and using email.  So much power in such a small device.  It's all wonderful, but for a guy who's becoming increasingly dependent on reading glasses, television seems to be the only thing getting bigger.  It's like they're making it just for me and my aging eyes.

Yes, I do like television.  Please don't judge me too harshly.

New versions

My sons are growing up.  I love to see them grow and change and I hate to see them grow and change.  As a parent, I want to do whatever I can to help my kids grow and mature and reach their full potential.  Also, as a parent, it pains me to see the previous versions of my children being replaced by the new models.  The new models are great, but I liked the old ones too, and we had some great times.

This transformation has been ongoing since their birth.  In the software world, we used to refer to it as incremental updates - little improvements and fixes.  Each on its own may not seem very significant or even noticeable but eventually they add up or are combined with a bigger change.  When that happens, you release a new version of the product.  Usually, the new version is better, but often it introduces its own set of issues which inevitably cause more updates.  Also, the new version is often different enough from its predecessor that it is difficult to work with initially.  I had a word processing program I used to use despite the fact that it had a few bugs.  I was excited when a new version was released because I'd heard that the most irritating of the problems had been addressed.  After I installed the new version, I found that the bugs were fixed but the interface was also changed.  At first, I struggled with the new version because it was unfamiliar.  I longed for the old one and complained about the new one.  Eventually, I learned how to use the new version and I came to appreciate and understand why the changes were made.

My sons aren't programs and they don't change in clearly defined update schedules.  Still, there are stages of their development that stand out.  Each of those stages is associated with a host of memories and moments that define them and me.  They are gone in the sense that they cannot be recreated.  Yet they exist in a very personal way within me.  Even now, if the weather is just so and I happen to be walking near a park, I'll flash back to a moment shared with a toddler version of one of my sons.  It's not the specific instances that I recall but more the way I felt back then.  Those were good days.  If I look back at my life, I can point to various times that were truly special and wonderful.  In many cases, I didn't realize it at the time.  Childhood memories, in particular, sometimes need to be seen with adult eyes to be fully appreciated.  Many of my memories with my sons don't need such hindsight.  I was aware when they were happening that they were special and significant.  Looking back at them only confirms what I already knew.

My sons are growing up.  With each change, I archive the old version, along with its accumulated experiences, and prepare to learn and love the new model.  These, too, are good days.

Psst! Wake Up!

Last spring, my youngest son, N, would routinely get up early in the morning and read the comic section of the newspaper with me.  We'd each have a cup of coffee; his mostly sugar and milk, and discuss our favorite strips.  I enjoyed this time with him and I wondered if it would continue through the summer.  It did at first, but by mid August he was joining me less and less frequently.  By the end of August I was back to reading the paper alone.  I missed him, but the extra sleep he was getting improved his mood overall, which was a definite plus.  This fall we have a new dynamic regarding school.  My oldest son, B, has moved on to middle school.  The change means he needs to get on a bus a full two hours before N's classes begin.  My morning routine now involves waking B and getting him ready for school.  N, meanwhile, has shown no interest in getting up earlier than he needs to.

I must admit, I hate waking my kids.  This morning, as I stood in their bedroom, there was just enough ambient light for me to see their faces as they slept.  I stood in the center of the room for a moment, watching them.  They are beautiful, I thought, and I am so very fortunate.  This simple fact sometimes gets lost or hidden in the din of the hustle and bustle of our lives.  But, here in this quiet place it is perfectly clear and evident.  After my reflective moment, I set about the task of waking B.  As I stated, I hate waking my kids.  Since the moment they were born, getting them to sleep has been a primary objective of mine.  I remember countless nights, rocking and walking, singing, humming, anything to get them to fall asleep.  I once watched a very late-night Terminator marathon on cable because I didn't want to disturb N, sleeping in my arms.  I have been conditioned - a sleeping child is a rare, precious commodity.  Once attained, it needs to be nurtured and protected.  Thus, waking either of my sons feels completely wrong to me.  I try to be gentle with B, a calm voice, a hand on the shoulder.  It usually takes a little more.  Sometimes, I try to coerce a cat into jumping onto him, anything to avoid having to wake him myself.  Of course, the whole process needs to be done quietly in low lighting, ever mindful of the other son who doesn't need to awake just yet.  Somehow, it's worked out thus far.

Once awake, B gets dressed and joins me at the counter where he reads the comics while I get his breakfast.  Then we chat about the comics, or the morning, or the day ahead, or whatever.  Not too terrible a way to begin the day.

Running outdoors

The weather is getting a little cooler and I couldn't be happier.  After an extended hiatus, I've been trying to get back to running more regularly.  While I prefer running at the Y, I was having trouble finding the time or ambition to get there.  Instead, I've been running outside, around the neighborhood.  I had hoped this would make running more convenient and thus increase the likelihood that I would actually do it.  I think, for the most part, this has been true.  I'm still not running as much as I should, but I wouldn't be running at all if I restricted my efforts to the Y only.

I used to love running outside.  Twenty-five years ago I lived in an apartment near where I live now and I ran down many of these same streets.  But that was twenty-five years ago.  I was faster, slimmer and could run farther.  Even though I ran almost daily, I didn't know any of the people living in the houses I trotted past.  My community was the people I roomed with or worked with, not the surrounding neighborhood.  I shared their streets and sidewalks but otherwise, our worlds had very little in common.  I see people like that today, running through my neighborhood, sharing my street.

I'm not so fond of running outside these days.  I'm older, fatter and in worse shape than I used to be.  I need to be careful to plot a course that won't take me too far from home lest I run out of gas, or pull something and find myself stranded.  I long for the anonymity of my youth, but it's gone.  I know most of the folks I plod past.  Sadly, my running clothes did not magically expand to accommodate my larger size.  Instead, everything fits just little more snug than it should.  My flabby inner thighs do an effective job of swallowing up my shorts as I run along.  I know how bad it looks - I used to look upon people with this condition with a certain amount of smugness and pity.  I've tried reaching down for the occasional corrective tug, but frankly, I think that may draw even more attention to my wardrobe malfunction.  Instead, I've found that if I force a certain amount of bowleggedness into my stride I can almost completely alleviate the problem.  This is sure to cause some sort of knee or hip problem down the road, but it's a price I'm willing to pay.

So, when the weather turned cooler, I was happy.  It was a joy to pop on a pair of baggy sweatpants and go for a non-bowlegged, tuck-free jog.

Lessons learned

I took N to his piano lesson again last week.  I hadn't anticipated this - when I took him the week before, I thought it was a one time occurrence.  Even though I had paid attention during the lesson and taken copious notes, once we got home I left the practicing up to N and his mom.  Deep down, I knew I probably should have sat with him when he practiced, making sure to remind him of anything his teacher had mentioned during the lesson.

Instead, I let it slide.  N missed a day here and there and would have missed them all if not for my wife.  I heard him occasionally playing from the other room.  The tune sounded vaguely familiar - close enough, I reasoned.  On Thursday morning, I learned that my wife had another obligation in the afternoon and that I'd be doing piano duty.

As a child, I remember countless saxophone lessons where I hadn't adequately practiced.  I remember struggling through a lesson and then assuring my teacher that, indeed, I had practiced.  Every day.  Well, almost every day...or maybe just most days...okay, maybe only once, last night.  I hated that feeling.  I knew before I started playing that I was going to sound about the same as I had the week before, or maybe worse.  I knew my teacher would know it as soon as the first squeaky notes blurted out.  I left each lesson resolved to do better in the upcoming week.  I would practice each and every day.  Except today, of course.  I mean, I just had a lesson, doesn't that count for practicing?  By the next day, my resolve had waned and I was back in my old pattern.

As N sat down at the piano, I recalled all these old feelings from my past.  In my mind, he hadn't been practicing because I hadn't really been paying attention to it.  I wasn't sure how he would do, but I was nervous nonetheless.  When I was young, I had always felt the burden and shame of not practicing were mine alone to bear.  With my son I was learning that some of the responsibility falls on the parents.

As the lesson progressed, N did a fine job.  He earned a number of stickers for having mastered certain pieces.  We left with a new set of exercises and a sense of accomplishment.  He was happy, I was relieved.  Over the weekend, I sat with him as he practiced and reminded him of the things his teacher had mentioned to work on.  I may not be at his next lesson, but I still want him to be prepared.

Fingers

Last week, I took N to his piano lesson. He took his first lessons earlier in the year and then had a brief break over the summer. This was the first one since the break and the first time I'd taken him. I think he enjoyed showing me around the place. N's teacher seems nice and he seems comfortable with her. My job during the lesson was to take notes as needed.

Take notes as needed? I didn't know what that meant. Just to be safe, I started scribbling down virtually anything she said. Better to have too much than too little, I reasoned. About fifteen minutes into the lesson, she turned to me and gave me a very exact page number and lesson that I should note. It was at this point that I learned she would feed me the "needed" notes. I jotted down the information and stopped transcribing the session verbatim.

Since I was no longer busy writing, I had a chance I instead to sit back and watch N play. His teacher was quite concerned that he use his arms more and not just his fingers. She was working with him to move his arms just a bit more. She made no mention of the color of his fingers. I hadn't noticed them earlier but now, against the ivory piano keys, they stood out. You see, our neighbor has a black walnut tree and N has been collecting and peeling walnuts for the past few days. This pastime has turned his finger tips almost black. I felt the need to say something, to explain that the stain just doesn't wash out. I figured I'd wait until she said something first, surely his soiled digits had not gone unnoticed.

The lesson continued. I took notes when instructed to, N tried to use his arms more and no one spoke of the dirty fingers. When we got home, I tried scrubbing his hands but had little success in fading the stain. Even though he was advised against handling the nuts, his fingers acquired a fresh black coat over the weekend. I found a site on the Internet that dealt with removing stains. It provided solutions for treating rust, grass, blood and a host of other stains. Someone had written in asking about walnut stains and skin. The consensus seems to be that time is the only real remedy although one guy did write in that cow urine works surprisingly well. I don't want to know how he learned this fact.

I told N his only options were waiting and cow urine. He smiled at the absurdity of using cow urine. Then, after a brief pause, he said, "I wonder if it has to be from a cow?". Yes, I replied, only cow urine works. In fact, most other urines will actually make the problem worse and should not be tried.

I hope he believed me.

I'm not Jerry

I was having lunch at a local coffee shop when I noticed a fellow enter the cafe with a large cardboard box.  I actually noticed him before he came in - my table had a clear view of the sidewalk outside.  At first, I thought he was a delivery guy but when he got inside he placed the box on a table behind me instead of bringing it to the staff.  After setting the box down, he went to the counter.  I assumed he was going there to order a drink.  I went back to staring out the window.

Within a few minutes, the man reappeared.  He didn't have a drink, so I don't know where he'd been, maybe the restroom.  This time, he approached my table, caught my attention and said, "You're Jerry."  He didn't state it like a question.  He said it with conviction, as if he was making me Jerry.  He used the same inflection one would use when tagging someone, "You're it."  For a moment, he almost had me convinced that I was, indeed, Jerry.  But, I'm not Jerry and so I shook my head at him.  "Sorry," he said as he stepped away and settled into a chair at the table behind me.  I wasn't certain if he was sorry he'd interrupted me or sorry I wasn't Jerry.  I suspected it was more the latter.  The man seemed anxious to find Jerry.

As I finished my lunch, I could hear the man with the box behind me.  He sounded restless, anxious even.  I started watching the people entering the cafe, wondering which one would be Jerry.  I heard some more rustling from behind and the man got up and left with his box.  He didn't go far, though.  He sat down at a sidewalk table just outside the coffee shop.  I was pleased by this change as he was now directly in my line of sight.  Now, I could watch him as he fidgeted and looked expectantly at each passer by.  I could also get a better look at the box, its contents apparently destined for Jerry.  It was a big box and had no markings to give away what might be inside.  I was curious, but my lunch hour was almost up.  Still, we waited for Jerry.

Perhaps I had been a bit too hasty in denying being Jerry.  The real Jerry appeared to be seriously tardy.  Perhaps I should approach the man and tell him I changed my mind, that I am Jerry after all.  I don't think he would care - he seemed like he'd be happy with any Jerry at this point.  I was a little annoyed with Jerry.  This guy had been waiting with his box for awhile now.

As I left the coffee shop, I passed by the man with box.  He looked up at me with the same hopeful eyes he used on everyone else; even though he already knew I wasn't Jerry.  Maybe he was hoping I'd be Jerry for him, just this once.

It was a really short drive, too.

It was a strange drive into work today.  I'd gone less than two blocks when the guy with the foam hat rode past.  He was riding a bicycle that was just a little too small for him.  The hat was oversized and generally Stetson-shaped.  Even though it was large, I doubt it offered the protection a decent helmet would.  Hanging at this fellow's side was a cardboard cut-out of an electric guitar.  It looked to be a Gibson Flying V and the detail seemed fairly accurate except for the duct tape guitar strap.  The guitar bounced off his knee, swaying to the rhythm of his pedaling.  I had a good idea where this guy was headed.  His shirt confirmed my assumptions, Minnesota State Fair Staff, it read.  Once he passed through those gates his ensemble would blend in perfectly.

Later in my drive I saw a guy waiting for the bus.  Actually, I saw many people waiting for the bus, but this fellow stood out.  He appeared to be wearing pajamas - something with a loud print.  The pajamas were tight, almost like a body suit.  Thankfully, he'd also donned a pair of shorts, again with a loud print and colors that clashed with the pajamas.  It was a rather cool morning, which is probably why he'd added the robe.  This too, had yet a different, busy print.  He left it open and it fluttered behind him like a cape.  To top off (literally) the outfit, he wore an old-style aviator hat and goggles.  I couldn't help but stare at him as I drove by.  He looked back defiantly.  If he was trying to convince me that he was a superhero it didn't work.  Everyone knows superheroes don't take the bus.

I'm not just walking, I'm thinking too!

During one of my recent walks, I was having a mental discussion about the differences between intelligence and wisdom.  I don't know why the topic was on my mind but I needed something to think about so I went with it.  I often have these mental sessions when I'm out.  It's really just a way to pass the time.  Sometimes they take more the form of a debate, where I weigh the pros and cons of an issue.  This time, I'd characterize it as a discussion or pondering.  I wasn't trying to judge one better than the other, just understand the qualities of each. 

Intelligence and wisdom are such very different things and yet I think they are sometimes confused.  It's easy to identify and find the intelligent among us, just go to any top university and check out its research department.  Our society values smart people and places them in prominent roles.  We even have an IQ test to help sort our smartness.  Finding the wise can be a trickier task.  To be sure, there are many highly intelligent people who are also very wise, but the two aren't necessarily linked.  I believe we are each born with our own level of intelligence, or ability to grasp, understand and apply new concepts.  For some, it may be directed to a particular field (e.g. "He's good at math", etc.).  For others, anything they choose to study may come easily.  A child's intelligence is evident from a very early age.  As parents, we are watching for clues, certain our baby is the next Einstein (just like his dad).  When our kids get to school we get the first glimpses as to where they rank with their peers.  Very quickly, the "smart kids" are identified and labeled.

But what about wisdom?  For that matter, what does it mean to be wise?  I started my mental discussion thinking that people were born with a certain level of intelligence but that wisdom was solely learned through experience.  By the end of my walk, I'd decided that the answer was more complicated than that.  If wisdom is purely the result of being exposed to certain experiences then it would reason that two people, exposed to the same experience, would be equally wise.  I don't buy that.  I think that, just as intelligence might be thought of as one's ability to understand and apply concepts, there must be some equivalent ability pertaining to wisdom.  I'm not sure what it is.  To me, wisdom seems associated with "bigger picture" things.  Maybe it's an ability to grasp consequences rather than concepts.  Maybe that ability coupled with the right experiences makes a wise person.  I'm still not sure, but I don't think we do a great job of identifying it early.  Instead, people "grow to be wise" and emerge later in life.  Maybe that's the way it should be, it keeps so many of them out amongst the rest of us, instead of tucked away inside some research facility.

It was a good mental discussion, even if I didn't reach any definitive conclusions.

FlipFlop

I heard the "flop flop" coming up the sidewalk behind me.  The sound was a familiar one, that of somebody walking in flip-flops.  But the tempo didn't register until she flew past me.  This was somebody running in flip-flops.  The girl that shot by appeared to be in very good shape.  She ran easily, not at all hampered by her footwear.  She was also talking on a cell phone, another testament to her conditioning.  Maybe she was running late or maybe she just liked running in flip-flops.  I don't know.  I must confess I was annoyed with how effortlessly she moved down the street.

There is nothing effortless about the way I run.  With each step, I feel age and gravity conspiring against me, pulling me back.  A focused attack is required to overcome these foes.  I don't have the spare energy to hold a cell phone, let alone talk on it.  I need footwear that helps not hinders me.  I run in running shoes, not tennis shoes, not cross trainers.  They must be laced and tied a certain way and to a certain tension.  If my shoes are a little too tight or loose, my whole run will be ruined.  Socks, too, must meet exacting requirements.  Not too thick or too thin or too long.  The slightest thing could be the straw that breaks the camel's back and leaves me gasping and trudging home in disgust.  I run with an iPod (mostly to drown out the sound of my own wheezing).  Once, the right side ear bud stopped working.  Within a couple of minutes, I fell apart.  In summary, I am a high maintenance runner.

So, a part of me envies the girl running in flip-flops.  It would be wonderful to run with such ease, to be carefree about it.  Even if I could, I would never run in flip-flops, however.  Just the thought of something crammed between my toes makes me feel a little nauseous.

Such shiny rings

I heard the music from somewhere up the street.  At first, I thought perhaps the coffee shop had propped its door open and cranked up the music system.  But it was hot out and the shop had just recently gotten its AC repaired.  It still had signs, posted in the windows, announcing the newfound cool.  Leaving the door open would defeat this benefit.  Plus, the music had a decidedly Country twang.  The coffee shop stayed mostly in the Alternative vein.  Yet, the sound was definitely coming from that direction.

As I neared the coffee shop, I discovered the source of the music.  A fellow had parked his car directly in front of the shop, rolled down all the windows, and was blasting his tunes for all to share.  To me, this seemed like more than just someone enjoying a hot summer day.  It felt like a cry to be noticed.  The choice of parking spots placed him next to the highest concentration of outdoor tables.  There were plenty of people milling about, sipping drinks.  I watched mister music as I approached.  Even though he was making quite a production of getting in and out of his car - front seat to back seat, no one else seemed to be giving him much attention.  I imagined that this was probably frustrating for him.  I quickly averted my eyes before he noticed that I was watching him.

I don't know why some people need to be noticed.  I tend to prefer blending in when I'm out.  I also don't know why I looked away and denied this poor fellow the attention he apparently craved.  Or maybe I'm all wrong about him.  Maybe this was the only open parking spot he could find.  Maybe he has a hearing problem and doesn't even realize how loud is radio is blaring.  Maybe he took off his shirt because it's really hot today.  Maybe the nipple rings are...um, I can't explain the nipple rings.

I have no swagger

I have concluded that I have a very uncool walk.  I've suspected this for quite some time and I think I'm finally secure enough about myself to admit it.  My stride is efficient and smooth but, when I catch my reflection, it looks a tad uptight or aloof.  As I stroll along, there is no sway in my shoulders.  From the waist up there is very little motion at all.  I assume my hips have ball joints but I could maintain my walk with simple hinges.

I was thinking about this yesterday, as I walked during lunch.  My super-white-boy rigid gait was all the more obvious as I followed a young man with a pronounced swagger.  As I trailed him, I analyzed his movements.  Each step seemed to be driven from his thighs.  His left leg would lurch forward, pulling him slightly to the left.  His right leg would then counter, keeping him moving mostly forward.  Every step included a low dip to the shoulder of the driving leg.  The back and forth motion was mesmerizing, like watch the speed skaters in the Olympics.  I found my head bobbing slightly to his movements.

I thought about mimicking his movements but I felt it best to wait until I wasn't right behind him. Imitation may be the most sincere form of flattery but not when it's confused with mocking.  I turned up a side street and walked until I found a quiet, isolated spot.  Then, slowly, I began to employ the motions I'd observed.  I was surprised at how quickly I found myself locked in the new groove.  I felt much cooler although walking this new way took more effort.  I wasn't certain if this was just because it was new to me or if my old way was just more efficient.  I suspected the latter.

I turned the corner and passed by the large glass windows of a vacant building.  I studied my reflection as I sauntered on by.  I did not see an uptight or aloof person.  No, what I observed was a person who was perhaps a bit drunk.  My attempt at swagger was definitely coming off as stagger.  I reverted to my highly efficient robotic stride and returned to work.

Lunch Choices

As I stepped out the door at lunch yesterday, I was torn as to where I should go.  There are a number of fine choices for food within a couple of blocks of where I work.  I was alone so I quickly ruled out any restaurant involving wait-staff and menus, etc..  In my mind, sitting at a table, waiting for someone to take your order, is fine if you've got someone to talk to.  Before the food arrives is actually the best time to have a discussion - before everyone is talking with food in their mouths and inadvertently spitting little chunks here and there (did I mention I usually eat lunch alone?).  When you are alone, this time before the food is just a lot of quiet waiting.  I feel sorry when I see one of these loners when I'm out with others.

Having narrowed my search to only eating establishments that could give me food relatively quickly still left me with quite a few choices.  I don't like to eat a huge lunch and I'm trying to avoid eating to much saturated fat.  This helped check a few more off the list of candidates.  I didn't have a ton of time so I decided a couple of the more distant options were not suitable this time.  I threw out a few more because I'd never eaten at them before and I just didn't feel like a new experience.  New experiences are fine sometimes but I have to be in the mood for them.

All this culling left me with the same three places I usually choose from.  Two of the places were basic sandwich shops and the other offered Mexican fare.  The Mexican joint was the only one of the three with free Wi-Fi.  If I'd had more time, this might have been a deciding factor.  To be honest, I think Mexican food is my favorite.  I love the taste but I also appreciate the packaging.  A burrito is such an efficient way to deliver a meal.  And it seems so very well suited to a fast food environment.  I think I could eat Mexican food every day and be happy.

I could simplify my life and just get a burrito for lunch every day.  I would be content, I know.  The only thing stopping me is a fear that this would be looked upon as weird.  I already go there often enough that one of the staff knows I prefer black beans over pinto.  I don't mind being recognized as a regular but I don't want it to get to the point where they worry about my well-being if I don't show up for a few days.  I don't know why, but I care about what the staff thinks about me.  I want them to understand that I am so much more than just a "burrito for lunch" kind of guy.  Because I am.  Just ask the folks at Subway.

Roots

I've been doing some casual genealogy work lately.  This is an interest of mine that I've dabbled in from time to time over the past decade or two.  My efforts tend to be cyclical.  I'll start enthusiastically, soaking up every tidbit I can find on the internet.  Soon enough, though, the sheer amount of potential data to mine overwhelms me.  Each generation back has twice as many ancestors to search.  The software geek in me wiles away hours trying to devise the most efficient method for storing, searching and presenting the information.  The joy of the hunt fades.  I save away what I have and I do something else for awhile.

Until recently, my work has mostly focused on my father's side of the family.  This was greatly due to the fact that my aunt has a wealth of information.  My "work" was mostly copying her notes and tagging myself to the bottom of the tree.  The information was fairly straight-forward.  My ancestors came to America from Norway and Sweden in the mid-1800s and settled in the Midwest.  Whatever happened in Scandinavia, for the most part, was a mystery.  I have the name of a town or two, here and there, but searching records in a foreign country goes beyond the level of effort I'm willing to put forth right now.

My last bout of research has focused on my mother's side.  Again, much of the fundamental information I have was provided by relatives who did the real work or saved the right documents.  My initial research on my maternal grandfather's family yielded results similar to what I had found on my father's side.  Europeans, this time from northern Germany, coming to America in the 1800s and settling on farms.  I knew the pattern.  Everything fit nicely with the charts from my father's side, with the ancestors going back a similar number of generations.

Then I started following my maternal grandmother's lineage.  These people were primarily English and Irish and they were apparently in America much longer than my other ancestors.  In my searching, I stumbled across another person's research containing all the names and dates I was looking for - apparently, a distant relative of mine.  This person's research traces back to the 1600s and the first colonies in Massachusetts.  I don't know for a fact that all of the data is correct but the parts I could verify were accurate.  For now, I'm choosing to believe it.  I rather like thinking of myself as a descendant of these people.

I've always regarded the pilgrims and colonists and even the revolution as things and events that were American history but not specifically my history.  Now, the chance to lay claim to it is tantalizing.  Still, there is also a chance that I'll uncover something that refutes the entire link.  Maybe it's time to do something else for awhile.

Saturday Morning Run

 I usually stay up very late on Friday night.  It is the one night of the week that is followed by a morning when I can sleep in.  I often stay up until two or three AM, watching worthless television.  Even though I go to bed late, I'm still usually the first one up Saturday morning.  I feel rotten, but I'm up.  This past weekend was a little different.  I went to bed at a respectable hour because I planned to get up early and go running outside.

Morning running plans always sound great the night before.  Saturday's forecast was hot and humid.  Getting a run in early while it was still cool made perfect sense.  I knew, however, that I needed to make preparations the night before.  I've made weekend running plans before and I know how easily they can be derailed Saturday morning.  Can't find the "right" kind of socks?  Well, maybe I'll just skip the run this one time.  Forgot to charge the iPod?  Better watch TV instead.  The smallest of inconveniences can become reasons to remain planted on the couch or in bed.  This is all the more likely if you are already exhausted from a late night.  Thus, I went to bed early.

Saturday morning rolled around and the "I don't want to run" me rolled out of bed.  I trudged downstairs, my mind frantically trying to come up with a justification for lounging on the couch.  I remembered last night's preparation.  I knew that my running clothes awaited me in the basement bathroom.  No excuses there.  A thought occurred to me.  Maybe, the weather had already gotten warm and muggy.  If it was hot, it would be unwise for me to go out.  After all, the rest of my family was sleeping.  If I collapsed in the street, they wouldn't miss me for hours.  Such action would be irresponsible.  I stepped out on the back porch.  A gentle cool breeze greeted me.  I grimaced and went back inside.

I looked at the TV.  It was off but I could imagine its sharp HD quality picture.  There was probably something mildly interesting on.  Maybe if I watched something educational, it would be okay.  Exercise for the brain.  A part of me already knew that this was a really lame rationalization.  If I flopped on the couch, the laid-out running clothes in the basement would be there, waiting to shame me when I went to shower.  No, educational TV was not a replacement for my morning run.  Still, the TV beckoned. 

It then occurred to me that I should at least check the news.  I would hate to trot out my front door only to find that there was some sort of emergency and that people were being advised to stay inside.  I hadn't heard any sirens or anything, still it seemed prudent to at least check.  I cautiously sat down at the edge of the couch.  It felt good but I fought the urge to lean back.  I grabbed the remote, turned the TV on and quickly switched the channel to CNN before I got caught up in some other program.  Dr. Sanjay Gupta was hosting a medical show.  There were no scrolls about any sort of emergency.  Dr. Gupta was interviewing a man about the benefits of running barefoot.  They also discussed how good running was for you in general.  I sighed and I turned off the TV.

As it turned out, it was a beautiful morning for a run.

Guys, it's still summer vacation!

My 8-year old, N, has been attending "Camp Invention", a day camp, running from 9 to 3:30 each day this week.  The camp literature states that it is an academic/science camp with an emphasis on math, science and history.  Based on N's recaps thus far, this seems to be pretty true.  He is enjoying camp.  At dinner yesterday, his summary of the day's activities took almost the entire meal.  The camp is a good fit for him and I think August is the perfect time.

I'm not sure if he would have been as thrilled with the experience if the camp had been in, say, June.  In June, he was still shaking off the previous school year.  The countdown to summer vacation was fresh in his mind.  A camp that met roughly during school hours, at a school, covering school subjects would have seemed like an extension of the previous school term - a delay to summer vacation.  June was meant for unstructured freedom.

But now, in August, the realization has set in that doing nothing all day can be boring.  Going to camp, meeting and making friends, learning, it's all good.  Even without the camp, I've noticed that by late summer, my boys start moving into school mode.  I'll find them working on projects that look suspiciously like schoolwork.  I suppose this shouldn't be surprising.  They spend most of the year in school, doing these things.  It makes sense that eventually they'd fall back to them on their own.

Yesterday, B asked if he could use the computer.  This isn't so unusual.  In fact, it's almost a daily occurrence.  I remembered that he was playing on the computer when I got home from work.  I reminded him of this fact but he explained that he didn't want to play games this time.  He wanted to type up the prologue to the novel he'd been working on.  By bedtime he had a couple of pages done and pleaded for a few more minutes to finish the paragraph he was working on.  Another one ready for school.

Loss

Our local news ran a story yesterday morning about a 12-year old boy who died at a neighborhood park on Sunday.  My son is 12 and the park is near our home.  Many of his friends and classmates live even closer to the park.  The name of the boy was not initially released and we spent the morning wondering and worrying.  It seemed likely that we would know the family.

By mid-morning, we'd learned the name of the boy.  We did not know him or his family but we had mutual friends.  I felt no relief at the news that it was no one we knew.  Even though I don't know the family, I do know what it is like to lose a child.  I try not to imagine the despair and profound sadness that has gripped their home.  No, I don't know them, but I am so sorry for what they are going through.

This morning's newspaper had a story about the incident with a few more details about what happened.  A couple of boys playing.  A tragic accident.  It was the sort of story that frightens and saddens anyone who has a young child.  The newspaper also contained the obituary for the young boy.  It focused on the joy he'd brought to those around him - a very touching tribute.  Obituaries are the brave face we put on for the public.  Their concise and terse nature forces us to distill our grief into a few well chosen words.  In truth, if we were given the whole page, we likely would not be able to express how much this person will be missed.  Being forced to keep it short is actually a blessing of sorts.

A family grieves.  And even though I don't know them, I grieve with them.  If the parents are like me then I suspect they have celebrated watching their children change and grow.  First words, learning to walk, going to school, watching your child grow up is an exhilarating, wonderful process.  Now, it stops, and this is yet another source of pain.  We are programmed to track these stages in our kids.  If your child dies, it's difficult not to take note as their peers reach milestones.  It's the pain that keeps on giving.

I suspect that right now, this family is consumed with grief.  I am also confident that, over time, they will find a way to carry on.  They will not "get better" or "get over it".  They are changed.  As much as becoming a parent changes who you are, so does losing a child.  I pray that their friends and family will recognize this and support them through this difficult time.

Going Home

Just over a week ago, I returned to the town where I grew up to attend a high school reunion.  In the days leading up to the trip, I characterized the event as "I'm going back to my hometown...they're throwing some sort of parade...they want me to ride on a float."  Now, these statements were essentially true but perhaps a bit misleading.  And while I suppose it is also true that I may have spoken in more general terms about parades and grand marshals and small towns honoring their native sons,  I do not believe I ever said that any of these things applied to my situation.  I merely left it to the listener to draw their own conclusions.  In truth, my role in the parade was small and not essential.  If I had not been there, the parade and the float would have gone on without me.

It's been a few years since I graduated from high school.  Actually, it's been a few decades.  After high school, I went off to college but still came home for the first three summers.  After college, I moved out for good.  To say I left and never looked back would be a lie.  I left, but I look back all the time.  My mom still lives in town.  My ancestors settled in the area over 100 years ago.  It is as much a part of who I am as they are.  I think there is something comforting and reassuring in knowing where you come from.  I like having a place and a people I can proudly point to.

The reunion itself is perhaps fodder for another post.  Riding on a float with a handful of former classmates was interesting.  I rode at the back, on the left side.  I needed to be on the left because my mom's house is on that side of the street.  I wouldn't want my familiy to miss seeing me - it meant so much to them, I'm sure.  I don't remember parades having so much candy when I was young.  I think we were one of the few floats that was not spewing goodies for the young ones.  We just waved.  I recognized a few people in the crowd - older versions of familiar faces.  I thought it would feel weird to be literally paraded through town for everyone to see but I found that I was doing just as much staring.  The float was a wonderful vantage point for viewing people.  I would have been happy to ride through one more time so I could have seen the other side of the street.

Comic Reality

Yesterday morning I was having breakfast with B and N.  The topics of conversation bounced around a bit but at some point N made a reference to the book he was reading.  He's been reading "Remembering Farley", a collection of comics from the "For Better or Worse" strip by Lynn Johnston.  The point he brought up was something about the characters being different than they are in the newspaper.  I pointed out that, unlike "Peanuts" or "Garfield", the characters in "For Better or Worse" age and change.  B and I then tried to figure out where N was in the timeline.  Had April been born yet?  Was Grandpa sick?  Had Farley died?

That last question stopped the conversation cold.  N looked at us with shock and trepidation.  "Farley dies?", he asked quietly, not really wanting an answer.  B was only too willing to fill in the details and point out that the book title, "Remembering Farley", should have been a hint - so much for brotherly love and compassion.  I stifled B and tried to comfort N.  He was doing his best to hold it together at the table but his eyes were glistening and red.

After we left the table, N took the book to bed and began frantically flipping pages, looking for the account of Farley's demise.  He found it, near the end, and confirmed that B had described it accurately.  He was sobbing when I sat down next to him.  He declared that he was not going to read anymore from the book.  Up to this point he had really been enjoying the book and I think giving it up made him as sad as anything else.  This is the same boy who refuses to even watch a commercial for the movie "Marley and Me" because he heard about the fate of the dog from a friend.

I tried to explain that the comic tried to reflect real life and sometimes, in real life, dogs die.  He told me rather indignantly that he knew that dogs died in real life, but that they shouldn't in the comics.  Comics are supposed to be funny, he continued, what's funny about a dog dying?  I conceded that there was nothing remotely funny about the passing of a dog, or any pet for that matter.  I explained that some comics aren't always trying to be funny.  Sometimes they are more serious.  He didn't like that answer at all.  He felt it was sneaky and mean for them to be funny most of the time and then suddenly kill the dog.

In essence, that is the distinction he draws between real life and comics or movies or books.  He understands that in real life we lose things, dear pets and people we love.  It is sad but it happens and we cannot change it.  I know he gets that.  But, at eight years old, he is unwilling to accept these losses when they can be avoided by simply changing the story.  To him, every comic dog should be like Snoopy, ageless, always able to battle the Red Baron or dance on Schroeder's piano.

Getting B from camp

As I posted previously, last week B was at Boy Scout Camp.  On Friday, the rest of the family went to see him.  The camp is Tomahawk Scout Reservation in Wisconsin.  It is about two and one half hours from home.  The pick-up time was Saturday morning but there was a Court of Honor meeting and campfire on Friday night that was open to family and visitors.  Another family in the troop (the parents of B's tent-mate) has a cabin in the general area.  We stayed with them Friday night and then retrieved B in the morning.

I'm glad we made the effort to see the camp Friday afternoon.  By Saturday morning, the boys had removed all signs that they were ever there.  But on Friday, things were still laid out as they had been all week.  We found B hustling about with some other boys, busily cleaning up a dining area.  When he saw us, he was all smiles.  It was evident that he'd had a good week.  He was wearing a new hat which he made certain we noticed.  The hat identified him as a member of the camp's "dimeclub".  He explained that to become a member of the dimeclub you had to fire seven rounds from a rifle at a target such that all seven hit the target within the circumference of a dime.  Given that he'd never handled any sort of firearm before camp, we were impressed.  We're still not certain what to do with this new-found skill - I haven't seen any summer job postings for snipers.

B wasn't just shooting rifles for recreation; he was working on a rifle merit badge.  After telling me about the dimeclub, he gave an excruciatingly detailed account of how to clean a rifle.  I am continually impressed with how much information he absorbs and retains.  He worked on four merit badges and had a wealth of information on each topic.  There are some tools that he used while working on his woodcarving badge that he would like to buy.  I like the fact that even though he's already earned the badge, he is still interested in continuing with the carving.  He's been like that with all his merit badges thus far.  Earning the badge has been the beginning of a new interest, not something checked off a list.  I think that's how it should be.

B was surprisingly cleaner looking than we expected.  The boys were in their uniforms for the Friday night meeting and they all looked pretty good.  The schedule for Friday morning involves a lot of swimming which I suspect is an attempt to clean them up a bit before they go home.  The camp has showers but they seem to be primarily used by the adults.  When I picked B up Saturday morning, I only really noticed one obvious sign of grime - his socks.  I wasn't sure if they were supposed to be gray or not.  I remarked that it looked like he hadn't changed them all week.  He looked mildly offended and explained that he had, indeed, changed his socks once, on the second day - making this day seven for this pair.

It is good to have him home again.  He wears his hat often and is only too willing to explain its meaning.

Observations at the park

Lonnie watched the little girl.  She came to the park often and Lonnie could see her from his home.  He wanted to play with her but he was a little frightened of her.  She was bigger than he was and sometimes her exuberant and sudden movements startled him.  Still, that was part of her appeal.  That rush of adrenaline and feeling of relief were alluring.  She played by herself but she often talked and giggled as if she had a playmate.  The giggling, in particular, attracted Lonnie.  It sounded to him like she might be speaking to him.  He could almost hear the words, "Come play with me."  Lonnie crept down to the edge of the park and watched her playing on the slide.  He stared in wonder at her long blonde hair, so different than his own, short and red.  He stood next to a tree but in plain view, waiting to be noticed.  But she did not notice him.  She continued to play, to giggle, seemingly looking directly at him at times but not seeing him.  He could see now that she had a small bowl of crackers and was having a party on the platform at the top of the slide.  He longed to join the party, to replace the invisible, imaginary guest she was serving, to nibble on a cracker.  The party was soon interrupted by her father who had been sitting on a bench nearby.  He was a big man and Lonnie feared him.  Lonnie slipped around to the back of the tree, out of view.  He heard the girl and her father talking, their voices getting quieter.  Then, it was silent.  Lonnie peered around the tree to find an empty playground.  The girl was gone.  He scampered up to the platform and looked around.  A broken cracker lay near the top of the slide.  Lonnie cautiously picked it up and took a bite.  It was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.  He chewed slowly, which was unusual for him.  He wanted the cracker to last forever.  He pretended he was chatting with the little girl, making her giggle.  After the cracker was gone, he ran home and took up his position watching the playground, waiting for her return.  Such is the life of Lonnie the squirrel.

Disclaimer:  While the preceding portrayal accurately reflects the actions of a young girl and a small red squirrel during a recent visit to a park, some artistic license has been taken in describing the internal mood and motivations of both characters - especially the squirrel.

Out Of Sync

I have an iPod Touch that I just love.  I use it for email, web browsing, facebook and other apps.  I even occasionally listen to music on it.  I used to plug my iPod into our laptop every night.  I mainly did this to charge the iPod, but it also gave the laptop and the iPod a chance to sync up.  The two devices would share any new music or apps that they had downloaded.  Since I was doing this every night, the process didn't take very long - not much changed in a day.  Then, I bought a separate charger for the iPod.  My nightly hookups to the laptop ceased.  Now, when I do bother to attach to the laptop, it's an involved process.  Like a soldier returning from war, the iPod has changed noticeably since it was last home.  The two devices exchange into the night with the iPod sharing all its experiences.  Eventually, they sync up and the laptop once again understands the iPod.

I'm only sort of here this week.

The Fourth of July weekend was great.  We saw many friends, enjoyed good food, watched fireworks had a generally great time.  But, I was only partially engaged in the experience.  This feeling has carried over into the work week.  I'm getting things done but I'm also a little distracted.  Last Saturday, my oldest son, B, left for a week of Boy Scout camp.  It's the longest he's been away from us, the longest he's lived in a tent, the longest he's been responsible for keeping to a schedule on his own.  This is the source of my distraction.

The weather was extremely hot and humid over the weekend, accompanied by some strong thunderstorms.  I thought about him, sleeping in his tent, getting progressively dirtier with each passing day.  I know the camp has our telephone number and if there was an emergency, we would know.  But, I'm just as concerned about the non-emergency things.  Is he making friends?  Does he feel lonely at night?  Is he glad he went to camp?  Is he happy?  I'm so accustomed to knowing these things that not knowing feels all wrong.

Tomorrow night we will go to the camp for family night.  Once again, I will sync up with my son.

Jeremy

"Oh man, I got another Jeremy."

I still remember uttering those words.  It was the summer of 1984.  I was working as a counselor at a Bible camp.  Every Sunday, we would receive a list of campers that we would be in charge of for the upcoming week.  This week it would be third graders.  It was probably just coincidence, but after just over a month of camp, I'd noticed that boys named Jeremy seemed a bit more spirited than average.  I suppose having kids that are strong in spirit should be looked at as a good thing for a church camp.  At the time, I just saw sleepless nights in my future - Jeremys particularly love to talk into the night.

The kids arrived and I met Jeremy.  He was the only child out of the group who was not brought to camp by a parent.  A family friend dropped him off and left.  Jeremy explained proudly that his parents were on vacation in Europe for the summer.  He'd already been to two other camps this summer and he had more awaiting him after ours.  The other boys were in awe of him.  How lucky he was, they thought, to get to spend the summer at so many camps.

Jeremy lived up to my initial expectations.  He was spirited and he definitely loved to talk.  Over the week, I learned that what he needed was just someone to listen.  By mid-week, I was glad that he was a part of my group.  At the end of the week the parents returned to camp.  The kids performed a few songs and showed off their favorite parts of the camp before leaving.  I wondered if the other boys in my group were still in awe of Jeremy as they hugged their parents and he walked off with the family friend, ready for the next camp.  For his part, Jeremy was as chipper as ever, smiling and waving as they drove away.

Fat Cat

I used to chuckle when our fat kitty tried to shove herself into a shoe box.  She doesn't seem to have any concept of just how big she is.  She'll squirm and twist and wriggle and eventually get some percentage of herself into the box.  Then she'll lay there with parts hanging over the edges.  It's got to be uncomfortable but you wouldn't know it if you looked at her face.  She looks perfectly content.  Maybe she's putting on an act.  Maybe she thinks now that she's in, everything looks fine.  Maybe she's trying to convince us that she actually fits in the box.  She doesn't fit in the box.  In fact, she looks ridiculous.  The fact that she tries to act otherwise adds to our amusement.

Yes, I used to laugh at the kitty.  Then I saw my reflection when I was wearing my biking shorts.

Performance

During the summer the university occasionally has local bands perform outdoors over the lunch hour.  Last year I would often sit and listen if I happened to be walking by.  They're doing it again this year but yesterday was the first performer I had a chance to listen to.  I was actually there early but not because I was particularly anxious to hear a band.  The area where they perform happens to be one of the more pleasant places where I can be outdoors and still get WiFi.  I was busy checking email when I noticed speakers and microphones being set up.

I started watching the setup, trying to pick out the band members and guess at the type of music.  I spotted an acoustic guitar but not much else - no drums, no bass guitar.  I found a sign promoting the day's act.  Instead of listing a band name, it just had a guy's name.  Just a guy and his acoustic guitar, I thought, probably some sort of singer-songwriter folk thing.

Eventually, the time came for the show to begin.  The stage cleared except for one fellow.  I'd pegged him as part of the crew but apparently he was the artist.  After a couple introductory remarks, he launched into his first song - well, not quite.  First, he had to turn on his "drums".  He made a point of telling us that he was using a drum machine - perhaps in the interest of full disclosure, lest we be duped into somehow thinking he was producing drum noises from his guitar.  The drum machine pounded out a loud rock beat and he joined in with guitar and vocals.  The song was fine but the ending seemed a bit awkward as the guitar and singing faded away but the drums pounded on as he fumbled for the off switch.

For the next song, he explained that it had a cool electric guitar part.  Unfortunately, his guitarist buddy couldn't make it.  Fear not, he assured us, he had a recording of the guitar, backing vocals and drums.  Again, he fired up a machine and played along.  I began to wonder if we really needed him up there at all.

For a later song, he switched back to just his guitar and his trusty drum machine.  Before starting, he informed us that the song sounded best with accompanying strings and some "really cool" vocal harmony.  Apparently this was the way he'd recorded it for an upcoming CD.  He suggested we try to imagine it that way as he performed.

I didn't feel up to the task so I went back to work.

Bike Commute

I rode my bike to work today. As I coasted down our driveway, I told myself what I always tell myself when biking to work: "Take it slow. It's only four miles. Enjoy the ride. Don't get sweaty. "

I did a fine job of heeding my advice for the first few blocks. The streets were hectic with rush hour traffic, but I managed to meander along, enjoying the fresh air. Then it happened, I was passed by another cyclist. As he rode past, I felt myself drawn along, needing to keep up. I was fully aware of what was happening - I kept thinking, "Slow down. Forget about him.".

But, I couldn't forget about him. I pedaled on, trying my best to match his pace. I stayed with him until I came to my turn and he continued straight. Even then, I imagined we could be taking different routes to the same destination. I pushed on just in case. If our paths crossed again, I wanted to be in front.

Our paths did not cross again as far as I know. I arrived at work a sweaty mess. We don't have showers at work but I did have a little hand towel packed. I changed out of my biking clothes and did my best to "pat down" a bit for settling into my cube.

Tomorrow I will ride leisurely into work - unless someone passes me.

Father's Day

I remember a Father's Day about twenty-five years ago. I was living in an apartment near Como Park in Saint Paul. I would often go for a run through the park and around the lake. On that morning, I stopped my run when I got to the lake. I found a quiet spot next to a tree near the water. It was a glorious morning, a slight breeze, a bright sun. The parking lot nearby was already beginning to fill with people out to celebrate the day. I ignored them and instead kept my focus on the water. It had been about a decade since I lost my father. I tried to remember him and what life was like back then. I also talked to him. I told him what I was doing, where I was living. I wasn't a kid on the farm anymore, I had grown up. I wanted him to know that I was okay and I hoped he could hear me. Deep inside, I hoped he was proud of me and I hoped he wasn't upset that none of us was on the farm anymore. I reflected on how much my life had changed in the past decade. I wondered how much it would change in the next ten years. Little did I know that approximately a decade later I would once again be experiencing the severing of the father son relationship as I mourned the loss of my first child. It is truly amazing how much life can be packed into a decade.

This Father's Day, our family was at the cabin with friends. Once again I found myself at the edge of a lake, staring at the water. This time I looked out, not just as a son, but also as a father and a husband. My sons are eight and twelve. A decade from now my oldest son will be about the age I was when I sat by the lake in Como Park. The decade ahead will surely be one of vast change for them and for me. I can hardly wait.

Elvis has entered the house

As we left church last Sunday, we noticed a sign for a garage sale down the street.  The boys wanted to stop but we were on our way to brunch and decided against it.  This led to much pleading and some whining on the drive to the restaurant.  We suggested that maybe, just maybe, if everyone's mood improved, perhaps we could stop at a garage sale on the way home, after brunch.

Our intention was not to return to the sale by our church.  Instead, we'd hoped to find something between the restaurant and our house.  We knew it might be difficult - Sunday is not an ideal day to find sales in our neighborhood.  Still, we managed to find one along the way home.  It was not what the boys had hoped for - light on toys and electronics, heavy on plants and romance novels.  We moved on.

The rest of the route to our home appeared to be sale-free.  We had no pressing schedule and my wife and I were feeling bad about how disappointing the last sale had been so we decided to visit the sale by church.  It claimed to be a four family sale, surely we would find at least one treasure.  The sale was attracting a small crowd, but as I parked I didn't see much of interest.  We got out and began perusing.  After a single pass, I deemed it consisted mostly of dishes, holiday decorations and clothes.  I returned to the car and waited for the others.

As I sat listening to the radio, B came running to the car window.  Apparently, N had found something but Mom didn't have any cash.  I handed over a five-dollar bill, hoping it would suffice.  B took the money and ran off without elaborating about what the item was.  A moment later he returned, followed by my wife and N.  N was hugging a pile of clothing and grinning from ear to ear.  When they got to the car, N revealed the treasure: a white jumpsuit with rhinestones on the lapels and a red stripe down the side of each leg.  The jumpsuit had an attached cape, with "Elvis" written in rhinestones across the back.  The outfit also included a black wig with sideburns.  This was a find indeed.  As he clambered into the car, N was already practicing his "Thank you.  Thank you very much." impersonation.  He put it on as soon as we got home.

After watching N jump around the house for the afternoon, I decided it might be good for the boys to see the King in action.  A quick search on YouTube revealed a number of Elvis performances.  I chose one where Elvis appeared to be wearing a white jumpsuit very similar to N's.  What we learned was that by the time Elvis hit the white jumpsuit stage of his career he wasn't moving very much.  As we watched Elvis singing "My Way", B looked at me and said, "So...this is it?  This is Elvis?"  He was noticeably underwhelmed.  I switched to a 1957 rendition of "Jailhouse Rock" - there was no white jumpsuit but the dancing was more what they were expecting.

The whole experience did not seem to dampen N's spirit.  He still loves his Elvis costume.  His only comment about the YouTube videos came as he watched the first clip.  "Oh man." he said, "There were scarves at the garage sale.  I didn't know they were part of the costume."

After The Rain

Water droplets hang from the shepherd's hook like diamonds.
The sun's early rays cause them to sparkle, drawing my attention.
Their placement looks symmetric, purposeful.
Some might see this as the work of a higher power,
A sign of some divine intervention.
Others would no doubt turn to science,
Citing the laws of physics as a reason for this splendid array.
Perhaps both views are correct,
One explaining the why, the other the how.
Rather than ponder their creation,
I prefer to appreciate them as they are.
Beautiful.

This Morning

This morning was like most mornings.  I woke up at five-thirty.  By six I was dressed, had coffee brewing and was waiting for the newspaper to be delivered.  It arrived at ten after six.  Even though I'd been waiting and I saw the delivery guy from the window, I waited until he'd left our block before retrieving the newspaper.  I don't know why, but I always wait until he's gone before I open the door.  I think this stems from an incident years ago with a different delivery person.  In that instance, I happened to check for the paper at the very moment it was being delivered.  It was startling to encounter this person standing outside my door.  Plus, I felt like by opening the door just as he arrived it looked like I'd been anxiously waiting and I wanted him to know it.  This was not true in that case.  I was not trying to passively reprimand him for his tardiness in any way, it was just an act of pure coincidence.  Nonetheless, I felt a little bad about it.  Since then, I've gone out of my way to avoid the paper guy.  I've also learned to always check the little security peephole before opening the door.  If the paper's not there, I quickly close the door and open the shade on the window a bit so I can watch for its arrival.

Once I had the newspaper, I settled in to scan it quickly.  I need to be quick because I'm never certain when N is going to come down and read the comics with me.  I like to have that section open and ready when he shows up.  He sets his alarm for six-forty but sometimes he gets up earlier.  This morning, he showed up at six-thirty.  He entered the room with a smile and a bit of a dramatic arm wave.  Once on my lap. he dozed a bit before sitting up and peering at the paper.  I like to watch his face as he reads, waiting for some change in his sleepy, stoic expression.  A tiny upturn to the corner of his mouth is the only indication he found something amusing.  He's usually quiet as he reads.  When he's finished, he lets me know which ones he likes and any he doesn't understand.  This morning there were a couple of each.  After a short discussion, I carried him to the couch in the family room, threw a blanket on him and went back to the kitchen.  I worked on the crossword puzzle while he slept.

Around ten after seven I heard movement upstairs.  I began preparing N's "coffee" and woke him.  I hate to wake him up when he's sleeping so soundly but I've learned it's the best course of action.  He takes a certain amount of pride in the fact that he and I are the early risers.  It upsets him greatly if wakes up and finds his older brother sitting at the counter eating breakfast.  I set the coffee on the counter and N crawled off the couch.  As he sat at the counter, the sounds from upstairs grew more distinct.  It was evident brother and mother were up and about.  N began taking bigger sips, gulps even.  He finished the last of it just as B appeared in the doorway.  "Ah, just in time," he quipped.  "Dad and I just finshed reading the paper and drinking our coffee!"

A good morning, indeed.

Blog maintenance

I was re-reading some old posts recently (gosh, I love reading my own stuff - it's like that guy totally gets me!).  Anyway, I stumbled across the Rod and Debbie stories and found it a little hard to read them since the order felt backward.  I added some links to hopefully help with this.  You should see them in the right margin under the heading "Rod and Debbie" if any of you are interested.

Fishing With B

We were at the cabin for part of this past weekend.  The weather was mostly beautiful and we had a pleasant time.  B and N took a net down to the end of the dock and tried catching sunfish.  They didn't have great success, but they did notice some other large fish swimming just off the dock.  B decided to try his hand at fishing.  We didn't have any bait, so he and I ran to the nearest bait shop.

I used to fish when I was young but it was mostly for bullheads.  I've had limited experience fishing for anything else and even less experience with any actually catching.  B has been fishing at the cabin for a few years now but mostly with small hooks and kernels of corn.  He's caught many sunfish and a bass or two.  As he's gotten older, the size of the hook has increased, as has his desire to land something different.

We arrived at the bait shop and I immediately realized we had no idea what we were doing.  We needed bait, but we didn't know what kind.  Thankfully, the girl helping us could sympathize.  She did not fish herself, but she pointed us towards the types of things other people were buying.  We left there with a scoop of minnows and a box of night crawlers.

Once back on the dock, we set about the business of rigging B's line.  We opted to try a minnow first.  B had never fished with anything but corn and worms.  The minnow seemed to hold the promise of unknown adventure.  As usual, I got the honor of baiting the hook.  As I skewered the minnow with the hook, I glanced a pained expression on B's face.  About that time, N appeared and declared that he didn't think what we were doing was right.  N's arrival seemed to steel B's feelings.  He explained that N just didn't understand real fishing.  N was not swayed from his initial judgement.

B fished for awhile with the minnow and got no bites.  Meanwhile, N inspected the bucket of minnows and reported on the health (or lack thereof of the population).  I suggested we allow N to release a couple of minnows back into the wild.  B agreed and, in fact, wanted to release a couple himself.  I switched B's bait to a nightcrawler and immediately he began getting bites.  A few more minnows were allowed to swim free.

By the end of the day, B and I had spent a few hours at the end of the dock.  He'd caught numerous fish, mostly rock bass.  We'd talked about fishing, the calm, smooth surface of the lake, the importance of being patient.  The minnows were all released into the lake, albeit a bit too late for most of them.  For all the fish he caught, we only used a couple of nightcrawlers.  The rest were released into the garden before we went home.

As we put the fishing gear away, B thanked me for fishing with him.  As we loaded the van for the trip home, he thanked me again.  Once home, he thanked me again as I kissed him goodnight.  I'm pleased that he enjoyed it as much as I did.