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.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 20, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 13, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, September 3, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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.
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.
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