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.