After we read every night and I'm tucking Doc in, I try to slip in a kiss goodnight while he hides under the covers playing "catch me". If I'm successful he grabs me and smothers me with kisses to pay me back. So if I sneak my kiss in while we read he jumps me a shower of goodnight smooches.
Round midnight last night, while tapping away in my shop on a silver cat, Kit knocked on my door and shuffled in to complain that Doc was crying. Poor Doc was having a leg cramp. I climbed into his bunk and massaged the calf and soothed and talked him off the ledge. Buddy just got home and pitched in with a sip of water and kind word. Finally, I tucked his small smiling self to sleep and went back to work. A couple of minutes later there was another knock on my door. Doc was standing there. He threw his arms around me in a great big hug and said "Thank you, Grampy, I feel a lot better".
These are special moments to cherish with small kids that fade so fast when they get a bit older. They aren't as open or tactile with their feelings anymore. They make all the hard work for them worthwhile. So get it while you can, I say.
11.30.2011
11.29.2011
If I open Pandora's box, can I snap it shut again if things don't work out?
I'm replacing my laptop computer so I can give the boys my old one to use for school, facebook, music and other sundry applications. We've tried this before without much luck. Not so much because they abused the privilege, more because they destroyed every computer we put in their path. One got a viral disease and checked out. A second was so old and slow that we could almost smell the smoke coming off the hard drive when we tried to run games. The third went blank - literally. The screen stopped showing anything at all. And a fourth just died of old age, not their fault but still....
I've been letting them have some evening time on my computer with my fingers crossed, garlic around my neck, a rabbit's foot app running in the background and a healthy prayer accompanied by the proverbial lick. So far, so good. But luck has a habit of turning on a dime when if feels it is taken for granted. My computer is disease free, has a good stock of gigawhatiz and all the programming a boy could dream of. Which amounts to "can I go on facebook?" and not much else.
Rather than just logging them into facebook and shutting the lid when the time runs out, in anticipation of the arrival of my new machine, I set them each up with a user profile today, a password, and a certain amount of trust that they don't abuse the internet by gaming, watching inappropriate YouTube vids, looking up 'disgusting things to do to your siblings' and downloading enough Lady Gaga pictures to overload the memory and install a virus. I want the stupid thing to be useful for school, learning computing, email and FB, and a certain amount of fun.
If it isn't I hope I can close the lid without too much backlash.
I've been letting them have some evening time on my computer with my fingers crossed, garlic around my neck, a rabbit's foot app running in the background and a healthy prayer accompanied by the proverbial lick. So far, so good. But luck has a habit of turning on a dime when if feels it is taken for granted. My computer is disease free, has a good stock of gigawhatiz and all the programming a boy could dream of. Which amounts to "can I go on facebook?" and not much else.
Rather than just logging them into facebook and shutting the lid when the time runs out, in anticipation of the arrival of my new machine, I set them each up with a user profile today, a password, and a certain amount of trust that they don't abuse the internet by gaming, watching inappropriate YouTube vids, looking up 'disgusting things to do to your siblings' and downloading enough Lady Gaga pictures to overload the memory and install a virus. I want the stupid thing to be useful for school, learning computing, email and FB, and a certain amount of fun.
If it isn't I hope I can close the lid without too much backlash.
11.27.2011
How do we prepare for the empty nest?
I wonder about people who put 'family' ahead of everything and live their lives through their children. I'm not casting a vote one way or the other here but I see on facebook and reading blogs and adding up the conventional wisdom that a good many (women more than men) say that family comes so far in front that their own lives exist in the shadows. It also seems that for many of those their own childhoods were no screaming joy which makes it strange that they would create a world where the kids are everything and they are only there to serve.
I laid my life on the line and put my needs aside when I married a woman with 2 small children with one over the top hyperactive ADD. I was young and inexperienced and didn't have a clue what I stepped into. There were definitely times when the water was so deep I needed a straw to breathe. But even then I never said that I didn't matter. I may have put my needs aside and worked entirely for their benefit but I didn't lose sight that I was one of the family members, not a robodaddy that put out all day and night. The same goes for the grandsons.
I read blogs and FB status lines where moms are lost when they aren't tending. They miss their kids like sunshine in winter when they go away for a couple of days. Some can't adjust at all when their kids leave home because they've built no life of their own inside the empty house. They expect, or want, their kids to stay totally connected with them even though they would never think to treat their own parents the same way.
The boys came back from 4 days away today and it's good to have them home. They had a great time, they're in good moods, glad to be home, and looking forward to their next visit away. As things should be. While I didn't pine for them, my mind was enough on hoping they were doing well and being thankful that there was no phone call with complaints, stress or disaster. I want them to develop a life away from home, a life of friends and far flung family, a life of independance. With that, naturally, comes the possibility that they might grow up to move far away for keeps.
I don't read a lot about close families where the parents appreciate distance - especially when there are grandchildren. They might have to deal with it, but it leaves them empty. Of course, no one wants loved ones to live far away but the odds of it happening are strong. You could build a good retirement fund betting on that one. I suspect in our modern society of fast travel, distant jobs, and lives led globally, that human nature and nurture hasn't had time to catch up. It wasn't so long ago that you grew up, worked and died within the same 20 miles of your birthplace. You might not know what the larger world had to offer and rarely meet an outsider. All the jobs were there. None of this "I gotta go where the jobs are, Ma" stuff.
If we're going to live in a world where our children raise families in Beijing while we rattle around an empty house in Yorkshire, maybe we need a better way to prepare for it while we raise our families.
I laid my life on the line and put my needs aside when I married a woman with 2 small children with one over the top hyperactive ADD. I was young and inexperienced and didn't have a clue what I stepped into. There were definitely times when the water was so deep I needed a straw to breathe. But even then I never said that I didn't matter. I may have put my needs aside and worked entirely for their benefit but I didn't lose sight that I was one of the family members, not a robodaddy that put out all day and night. The same goes for the grandsons.
I read blogs and FB status lines where moms are lost when they aren't tending. They miss their kids like sunshine in winter when they go away for a couple of days. Some can't adjust at all when their kids leave home because they've built no life of their own inside the empty house. They expect, or want, their kids to stay totally connected with them even though they would never think to treat their own parents the same way.
The boys came back from 4 days away today and it's good to have them home. They had a great time, they're in good moods, glad to be home, and looking forward to their next visit away. As things should be. While I didn't pine for them, my mind was enough on hoping they were doing well and being thankful that there was no phone call with complaints, stress or disaster. I want them to develop a life away from home, a life of friends and far flung family, a life of independance. With that, naturally, comes the possibility that they might grow up to move far away for keeps.
I don't read a lot about close families where the parents appreciate distance - especially when there are grandchildren. They might have to deal with it, but it leaves them empty. Of course, no one wants loved ones to live far away but the odds of it happening are strong. You could build a good retirement fund betting on that one. I suspect in our modern society of fast travel, distant jobs, and lives led globally, that human nature and nurture hasn't had time to catch up. It wasn't so long ago that you grew up, worked and died within the same 20 miles of your birthplace. You might not know what the larger world had to offer and rarely meet an outsider. All the jobs were there. None of this "I gotta go where the jobs are, Ma" stuff.
If we're going to live in a world where our children raise families in Beijing while we rattle around an empty house in Yorkshire, maybe we need a better way to prepare for it while we raise our families.
Back to work
A quiet Saturday with kids still away. What did I do? Painted bunkbeds, sorted laundry and picked up. Tomorrow I'll reassemble the beds when the paint is dry. Now I'm eyeing my office which as been the recepticle of all the 'I don't know where to put this' clutter. It might take me 2 days to sort that out. Once I get that done I'll be free to put time into actual cooking and baking and tending without having to constantly backtrack. I want to try new recipes and bake bread. Tish wants to do some baking, too. It'll be nice to get out of the supper rut I've been in cooking the same basic stuff that is boring even the taste buds of the boys.
They'll be home tomorrow and, while it's been a nice break, I'm looking forward to them coming back. I do hope they've had a great time.
They'll be home tomorrow and, while it's been a nice break, I'm looking forward to them coming back. I do hope they've had a great time.
11.25.2011
You Pedal, I'll Steer. part 2
As you may recall we left our intrepid hero last week making his way on his early morning paper route after he and Alec made peach cobbler all over the street car tracks....
And now...the exciting continuation of You Pedal, I'll Steer. Part 2
Chapter 2
You could tell that lots of kids lived in our house just from one look. Everybody else had green lawns all trimmed with hedges and raked up like on TV shows. Our lawn was dirt with a trampled stone flowerbed. The porch rail looked like someone’s mouth who lost a whopper of a fight, and all the bent up bikes and broken toys looked like they’d just dropped out of the sky. The reason was because all the other mother’s on the street were smart enough to shoo their kids away so everyone would play hopscotch, spud, matchboxes, jump rope, and no touching floor at our house.Mom said she’d rather have kids where she could see us but Dad always complained. “We have five children. Why do they need friends when they have each other?” But the other’s weren’t friends like Alec and me. Besides us there were the big boys, Eric and Jeff, who were in high school and fought all the time. Then there was our sister, Kate who was eleven. We also had Gulliver, our dog, and two cats, Jake and Bigelow. Throw in the parents and it was a busy house.
When I got back home that morning, Mom was waiting. It’s hard to describe her because she was just Mom. She had her hair pinned up in a bun and she didn’t take any nonsense. “Where have you been, John? I was about to go looking for you. If you can’t move faster, you’ll have to give up that paper route. Now get a move on or you’ll be late for school - again.”
“I’m going, I’m going.” I said. I could take some heat, after all, I’d just save the world from evil.
“Honestly! You’d think it would take less than two hours to drop off six papers. Now, get some breakfast.”
Everyone else had already gone. She made me rush around and change my clothes and scoop up the homework I didn’t finish while she dished up a gloppy old bowl of porridge that had been on the stove for two days. It floated like a lump of congealed snot in warm milk and rode down your throat just as nasty. The only way to swallow it was covered in so much brown sugar that you couldn’t taste it. But that was sugar and you already know how Mom felt about that. I got to the table trying to think up excuses not to eat it. She’d heard them all.
I was working up a stall so she’d just send me to school when she gave me a look like I was covered in worms. “Sweet Heaven, you’re not wearing that sweater?” It sounded like a question. But it wasn’t.
I looked it over. Just my plain old grey sweater like always. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I can smell it from here.”
“Aw, Mom. I can’t find anything else.” Which was true. My bedroom was knee deep in toys. Alec and I were in the middle of a Meccano challenge.
She blew out air like she was trying to fill a balloon. “I’ll find you something. Eat your breakfast.”
I looked at the bowl and let out a moan as she hit the stairs. As soon as she was out of sight I initiated secret backup plan XR-7: Feed It To The Dog. Gulliver was already sitting under the table with his chin in my lap. I dropped the sloppy mess to my knees and he wolfed down the entire works in three slurps. When she got back I was swishing what was left in the bottom of the bowl with my spoon and acting like I was swallowing hard.
She didn’t say a thing. She just yanked off my sweater, handed me another one and shoved me out the door. “After school you’ll be cleaning your room. It is a pigpen up there! Now scoot or you’ll need a note. I’ll see you at lunch.”
I headed off feeling worse than if I’d really swallowed that oatmeal. It wrecks the whole day when you know you got a chore waiting after school. It weighs on your brain all day long because you can’t make any fun plans. I’d much rather have it sprung it on me when I got home.
A couple doors up and across the street lived a real live witch named Miss Hatten. You could tell she was a witch because her lawn was two feet tall and she kept her dented up old garbage can chained to her driveway like somebody was going to steal it. If a baseball ever landed in her yard, it was dead to us. Some mornings she’d stand on her porch and yell at kids going to school, and late at night, when Gulliver was out taking a pee or a bark, we’d hear her barking right back at him. There were stories that went back for thousands of years about kids disappearing inside that house and we were sure as spit she’d buried them in her backyard. No one knew what kind of magic she used to lure them in so it was best never to look directly at her house, especially if you knew she was on the porch. I flew past her house and down Pine Street straight to school.
I hated school almost as bad as I feared the witch. I hated studying, hated recess, hated my teacher. Worst of all, I hated the bullies. I was born with a split lip that had to be sewed up from nose down to my mouth. So it made my mouth kind of crooked and puffy. Just having to live with that seemed like punishment enough but there were boys who figured that was a good reason to laugh and call me names. It wasn’t my fault I looked different. But that didn’t matter. They made up a new name for me almost every week and I even heard my teacher, Mr. Pratt, use one once. The other thing that got me teased was being really young for fifth grade. I was only nine and most kids were almost two years older. The worst bully was a sharp eyed creep named John Johnson who linked arms with his gang and marched around the school yard singing, “We don’t stop for nobody!”. Then they’d trample any kid fool enough to stand in their way. Since I was real shy anyway, I learned early that the best way not to get teased was to keep to myself.
That’s why I timed getting to school just before the bell rang. I ran straight upstairs and thumped into my seat. I could feel Mr. Pratt’s bug eyes following me the whole way. “Good of you to join us, John,” he said. By the pile of giggles he got you could tell he was a real comedian for the girls.
He was a floppy eared guy with thick pink lips that looked like the scar left from a bad cut. He always played teacher’s pet with kids he liked and took it out on the ones he didn’t. After morning recess he would bring a cup of coffee and rustle around in the cloak room behind his desk to steal cookies from kid’s lunch bags. Then he’d sit at his desk and dunk our brownies or chocolate chips in his coffee. No one knew who got hit until you heard a wail of disappointment at the lunch table from some poor kid who had to go without dessert. I went home for lunch most days but when I didn’t I never took cookies in my lunch. There was no way I wanted old Pratt to enjoy anything that was mine.
That morning, Mr. Pratt said something interesting. He handed a stack of green mimeographed pages to the kid at the front of each row. “Take one and hand the rest back just as if you were normal children,” he said, chuckling like this was the first time he’s used that stupid line. “I want you to take this home and have a parent sign it.”
It read: PET SHOW in big letters at the top.
“We’re going to have a pet show at the end of the month,” Mr. Pratt continued. “Each of you will be allowed to bring in a dog or cat or bird, in a cage of course, to show and talk about. We will have contests and prizes.”
I read more. “All pets will be judged for talent, beauty, and best behavior.” This was perfect. Gulliver could win all of those things. He was the best dog in the world. And the smartest, and the prettiest. Here was my big chance for Debbie Bell to notice me. I glanced up at her desk. She was three rows in front of me. Me and Gulliver would zip in on the Fantam cycle and Gully would hop out of the sidecar and show John Johnson his teeth. We’d take the stairs two at a time and Gully would open the classroom door with his mouth. I could just imagine Debbie telling me what a great dog he was and asking to pet him. Then I’d invite her for a ride on my souped up motorbike.
“Mr. Lunn?” I heard a voice say. “Mr. Lunn? If you’d like to rejoin the class?” I heard laughter and saw everyone staring at me. “Welcome back to class.” It was Pratt. “We’re reviewing last night’s spelling homework. Could you tell us how you answered number three?”
I was still holding the pet show page. Everyone else had their books open and giggled while my face got hot. “Um,” I stalled and reached into my desk and pulled out my notebook. The homework page was still folded up from when I took it home last night. I quickly looked down to number three. ‘The study of the human body is called A------.” My mind was blank. I’m sure it was easy if I wasn’t in a panic.
“I didn’t get that one,” I mumbled without admitting that this was the first time I saw it.
Pratt pursed his lips like he was going to puke and then turned to someone else. “Donald?”
Of course, Donald had the answer. “Anatomy. A.N.A.T.O.M.Y.”
At least the spotlight was off me. Debbie had her hand in the air for the next question. I kept my head down staring at the page like I was checking my answers and promising to myself that I’d do all my homework from now on if he didn’t call on me again.
The day dragged on like that until the three o’clock bell finally rang. On the way home, I started a new daydream about my entire class on a jet plane going to Hawaii for a school trip. The pilot got sick and lost control over the Pacific Ocean and I had to step in and fly us to safety. We got knocked way off course and couldn’t radio for help but I managed to crash land us on a small desert island. No one got hurt. Well, all except for Pratt who got banged up because he wouldn’t wear his seat belt.
11.24.2011
A day of giving thanks
By the end of November when retailers stomach's are starting to growl wondering how full they're going to get for Christmas, it seems that the 'Christmas season' has now fully engulfed Thanksgiving. It reminds me of some of the night time satellite views of the east coast of the US when the lights from Boston all the way down to DC started to blend into one long huge mass called Bos-New-Wash.
What's important to note, though, is that no matter what commercial event the 'shopping season' keeps morphing into that has nothing to do with the Christian birth, Thanksgiving has remained an island of turkey, friends and family and nothing else. No money changes hands except to put on the feast and share thanks - and that includes those who donate time, money and food for the many who would otherwise go without.
It's also worth noting because of the town I live in (and Andy would give me grief if I didn't) that Sarah Josepha Hale - I spoke of her in my blog "Sarah Josepha Who?" a couple of weeks ago - who comes from Newport, was instrumental in getting President Lincoln to declare Thanksgiving a national holiday.
So before we break bread I give thanks to our health, our good fortune, to those who can't be home, and those who serve our country, to those who came before us, and the love we share with family and friends. We are blessed to be living in such fortunate times as we strive to make a better life for everyone.
Amen.
What's important to note, though, is that no matter what commercial event the 'shopping season' keeps morphing into that has nothing to do with the Christian birth, Thanksgiving has remained an island of turkey, friends and family and nothing else. No money changes hands except to put on the feast and share thanks - and that includes those who donate time, money and food for the many who would otherwise go without.
It's also worth noting because of the town I live in (and Andy would give me grief if I didn't) that Sarah Josepha Hale - I spoke of her in my blog "Sarah Josepha Who?" a couple of weeks ago - who comes from Newport, was instrumental in getting President Lincoln to declare Thanksgiving a national holiday.
So before we break bread I give thanks to our health, our good fortune, to those who can't be home, and those who serve our country, to those who came before us, and the love we share with family and friends. We are blessed to be living in such fortunate times as we strive to make a better life for everyone.
Amen.
11.23.2011
And they're off!
The house is quietl All three boys just left for Thanksgiving at their other grands on Cape Cod. They're gone for 4 days. Four glorious days of quiet. I don't want to sound callous. After all, I love all of them to nth power but a few days off is bliss after no break since mid-October. We'll have a peaceful, noncombative Thanksgiving with Sugar and Danny and Bud. I won't have to use the word don't or no or raise my voice or break up fights for 4 days. It's like a vacation at Palm Beach. Never mind that there are 6 inches of snow on the ground or that I still have to cleanup the mess they left behind. I'll feel like Mary Poppins and the continuous quiet is my spoonful of sugar. By the time Sunday rolls around my batteries should be recharged and ready for the race to Christmas.
I wonder if they'd like to have Christmas on the cape?
I wonder if they'd like to have Christmas on the cape?
11.22.2011
2 steps forward 1 step back
Kit still has a huge chip on his shoulder when it comes to Buddy. Bud is doing much better about being available and helping out. He brings things home for the kids, is in a good mood as much as anyone can be, takes them places on his weekends and days off and tries to be attentive and talk with them and find out how they're doing.
That seems to have no effect on Kit. He doesn't say hi when Buddy gets home, resists any affection aimed him, and argues over the smallest things.
Things are going better but seem to have regressed the past several days. He'll be getting along fine and joking with everyone and as soon as Buddy enters the scene he acts like he's not even there - won't look up, won't respond to questions, won't say hello. They don't fight so much as they used to but this chill runs deep.
I know that Kit's close relationship with his mom has cost his father. He blames Buddy for the separation and holds him responsible for his ongoing anxiety. All that is typical enough for most kids in circumstances like this. We have hoped that as things got better their relationship would improve. And it has. But is it a slow process.
So this morning, after having only 3 hours sleep I hear Kit and Buddy fighting over wearing a coat in the cold weather. Buddy stormed off, Kit ran down to the bus stop in a hoodie and I ended up driving to the school to deliver his coat.
And it's only Thanksgiving.
That seems to have no effect on Kit. He doesn't say hi when Buddy gets home, resists any affection aimed him, and argues over the smallest things.
Things are going better but seem to have regressed the past several days. He'll be getting along fine and joking with everyone and as soon as Buddy enters the scene he acts like he's not even there - won't look up, won't respond to questions, won't say hello. They don't fight so much as they used to but this chill runs deep.
I know that Kit's close relationship with his mom has cost his father. He blames Buddy for the separation and holds him responsible for his ongoing anxiety. All that is typical enough for most kids in circumstances like this. We have hoped that as things got better their relationship would improve. And it has. But is it a slow process.
So this morning, after having only 3 hours sleep I hear Kit and Buddy fighting over wearing a coat in the cold weather. Buddy stormed off, Kit ran down to the bus stop in a hoodie and I ended up driving to the school to deliver his coat.
And it's only Thanksgiving.
11.20.2011
Saucy little kid
Doc is a hundred percent smarter than he sounds. I'm constantly telling him to stop blathering away uselessly with no idea what he is talking about. I'm not trying to limit him talking, just get him to slow down on opening his mouth to respond to every little thing anyone says even if he hasn't got a clue what it's about. But he's wiley and does know better. For instance, when he's told to stop tattling, he rephrases to sound like he's asking something pertinent. "Hmmm," he'll say. "So, I wonder if, what I'm wondering is, I wonder is it snack time yet? Kit had a snack and I wonder if it's time for snack? What do you think, Grampy?" All because he trying hard not to say, "Kit took a snack! Kit took a snack and you said not to!"
Today, he had a hilarious moment of lucidity. While driving into town, when I told him that Dad would be home to make supper because I was going out, he said, "Yay! I like having Dad make supper because you..." and he cut himself of right there. "That is, you don't - I mean, sometimes..." Then he even did the zip lip thing with the key turning to lock his mouth shut.
"What?" asked Kit.
I just laughed and laughed. "He's got himself stuck trying not to say he doesn't like my cooking!" I said.
"It's just the sauces I don't like," said the impertinent little 1st grader, trying to recoup what he could.
Just the sauces. Gotta love that.
Today, he had a hilarious moment of lucidity. While driving into town, when I told him that Dad would be home to make supper because I was going out, he said, "Yay! I like having Dad make supper because you..." and he cut himself of right there. "That is, you don't - I mean, sometimes..." Then he even did the zip lip thing with the key turning to lock his mouth shut.
"What?" asked Kit.
I just laughed and laughed. "He's got himself stuck trying not to say he doesn't like my cooking!" I said.
"It's just the sauces I don't like," said the impertinent little 1st grader, trying to recoup what he could.
Just the sauces. Gotta love that.
11.19.2011
Setting a fine example
Just back from McCheapy's with Kit and Doc. They're off delivering fundraiser goodies across the street and I'm trying to think up something profound to write. When Tish gets home from work, she and I are off to a birthday party for a great 80 year old woman. She's been an active democrat in this neck of the woods since the Kennedy administration and, this being New Hampshire, has met every president and presidential candidate right back to JFK. I've known her for almost 20 years and, except for growing a bit older, she's still the same sharp, clear thinker that wants to make this country, state and region a better place for everyone. She instilled the same values in her daughters and the whole family are always working hard during elections canvassing, holding up signs, cooking for volunteers and you name it. But what's even more important is they don't stop on election day. She's still out there making sure the voice of hard workers and underprivileged people are heard and even served in public office herself during several election cycles.
I guess that is profound. Knowing and admiring someone so dedicated to a lifetime of public service without looking for kudos or remuneration herself (NH hardly pays it's public servants) sets an example for us all to emulate and teach our children about. She knows that our democracy doesn't only function when you vote - a lesson a lot of people today could take note of. America is in a world of economic and social hurt. We have to work every day to help our communities succeed, kick Congress out of it's self-absorbed funk, and rebuild our education system, infrastructure, and working middle class.
Happy birthday, Ethel. Thank you for your example and your hard work.
I guess that is profound. Knowing and admiring someone so dedicated to a lifetime of public service without looking for kudos or remuneration herself (NH hardly pays it's public servants) sets an example for us all to emulate and teach our children about. She knows that our democracy doesn't only function when you vote - a lesson a lot of people today could take note of. America is in a world of economic and social hurt. We have to work every day to help our communities succeed, kick Congress out of it's self-absorbed funk, and rebuild our education system, infrastructure, and working middle class.
Happy birthday, Ethel. Thank you for your example and your hard work.
11.18.2011
You Pedal, I'll Steer.
I'm going to start something a bit different today. Every Friday for the next little while, I'm going to serialize an as yet unpublished novel I wrote a couple of years ago called "You Pedal, I'll Steer". It's a recollection of the fall of 1967 when I was 9 years old in Toronto. Ninety-nine percent of it is true. I hope you enjoy it.
This first installment is a bit long just to set the scene...
You Pedal, I’ll Steer
CHAPTER 1
“Alec. Wake up.” I tried to whisper loud but I knew he wouldn’t hear that. I pushed his shoulder and he shrunk away like a slug under a shower of salt. “Come on. We’ll be late.” It was the same every day: the alarm goes off at 5:30, I climb down off the top bunk and spend five minutes rattling him out of his sleep. If you think it’s easy waking your brother up, you don’t know Alec. You could strap an alarm clock to his ears, it wouldn’t matter.
“Go away. I’m up already.” he’d always say and then roll over and start snoring again. If that didn’t work, he’d call me names and tell me if I didn’t leave me alone he’d pound me. I didn’t mind. We were best friends.
I shook him again. The rest of the world could sleep on but no matter if it was a blizzard or a summer day itchy with stuff to do, we had papers to deliver. He finally sat up like a shock just went through him which meant I could go to the kitchen make us instant coffee with canned milk and six sugars. Mom doled out sugar like it was gold dust - one grain at a time - so this was the only time of day to get a clean shot at the bowl. My favourite part was spooning up the milky syrup from the bottom of the mug. No wonder grownups liked coffee so much. Alec appeared at the door grumbling that he’d get a job delivering The Star so he could sleep in. But he never did. I mean, who wants to give up their afternoons? Not me.
We pulled the red sacks over our shoulders and headed down the hill towards Queen Street, the rush of cold air finishing off any last thought of sleep. It was early dawn and the streetlights were still on. “Ever notice how there’s always a drop in the temperature right after Labour Day?” he said, while he zipped his jacket right up to his nose. “Like starting school somehow makes the world colder.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Goodbye Summer - pow - hello school.”
“What are you going to wear for Halloween this year?” he asked. I was ready to dig right into one of our daydreams about being small or living on a deserted island. I hadn’t given Halloween any thought. It was miles away.
“I don’t know yet. What about you?”
“Me? Eighth graders are too old for trick or treats. It’s for kids.” He said it like I was stupid or something. “Everybody knows that.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine being too old for trick or treating. That’s like saying you don’t want Christmas presents. Before I could talk him out of being that crazy, my eyes got drawn into the dark windows of a little brown gingerbread type house with crisscross white latices. In the middle of the front lawn was a sign hanging on a chain. ‘The 66 Bells’. I loved that sign. I loved that house. It had eyeball magnets that made me look every time I walked past. Debbie Bell lived there. She had blue eyes and a pink bow tie barrette in her brown hair. We’d been in the same class for three years and every morning when I passed her house I imagined her getting up and having her breakfast and I got goose bumps. She probably didn’t remember my name but that was okay.
Alec start singing under his breath, “John and Debbie sitting in a tree K. I. S. S. I.---”
“Shut up,” I hated that tease. “I do not.”
He laughed. “Then why do you moon at her house every day? It must be love. Poor Wendy will be heartbroken.”
I slapped his arm and looked back down the street hoping I wasn’t turning red. “Shut up. Wendy’s just a friend.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Shut. Up.” I slapped him again and he pretended that he was mortally wounded. He was thirteen I was nine and we probably looked funny going everywhere together. But we didn’t care.
“We could invite Debbie trick or treating...”
“Ha. Ha. Why don’t you just tell me why you’re not going out on Halloween?”
“I told you already. I’m too old. You’ll know you are too when the time comes. But I have a plan. I was thinking I could be your manager.”
“Manager?” I didn’t even know what that meant. “What for?”
“The way I see it, if we get some business sense into this Halloween thing, we could clean up. I could design your costumes and plan out the best route for you to go. Like up on Glen Manor Drive where the big houses are. They give out those huge chocolate bars, not just candy kisses and apples.”
“You don’t think I can do that myself? Why do I need you?”
His look showed me why and I didn’t argue. “You need really good costumes to go up there. They don’t give away all that good candy to just anybody. Think about it. Every year you go up and down this same street and come home with the same crappy loot: spotty candy apples, mini Tootsie Rolls, Sweet Tarts, and stale break-your-jaw caramel kisses. I’m talking about a real big score. Full sized Coffee Crisps, packs of Juicy Fruit, Smarties, you name it.”
“They give away stuff like that?”
“Yup. And here’s the beauty part, little brother. We’ll design two costumes so you can go out twice to the best houses that give out the best stuff. See, you go out early in one costume and then change into a different one to go around again and score a second bag of goodies. That way you get all chocolate and bubble gum and no apples or junk. Is that a plan, or what?”
A second bag of bars! I could almost feel the weight of it in my hands. Sometimes it took me ten minutes to decide which chocolate bar to spend my allowance on. Imagine having two bags full of all the best ones. “But what if I get caught? I mean...”
“Not a chance. I thought of everything. When you go around the first time, you wear a mask. If they ask you to show your face to get a treat, you don’t go back there the next time. If they don’t, you can go back for a second score. I’ll be waiting on the corner and keep track of which is which.” He smiled at me like he was offering to clean up our room for nothing. There was a catch, I just didn’t know what it was. Yet.
“Don’t you think that’s like cheating?” I asked.
“Naw. What do you think those people do with all the leftover candy they have? They just throw it away. Grownups don’t keep that kind of stuff around.”
I sure knew our parents didn’t keep it around. The only chocolate that stayed in our kitchen was the barf from one bite unsweetened baker’s stuff that Mom made cakes with. It was so bitter it could make a dragon gag. The only way I could eat it was to slobber up a square with spit so it would snag a gooey coat of sugar out of the bowl. Then I’d just sort of grind a layer off with my teeth. It was a lot of work for chocolate. “Why doesn’t everyone do that if it’s such a great idea?” I asked.
“Who knows? Why wasn’t the car invented two hundred years ago? Why did it take Einstein to discover the atom? You don’t question genius when it happens.”
That was a good point. Alec was a genius. “What do you get out of it?” I asked.
“A modest thirty percent of your haul. I’ll design and make the costumes, plan the best route, get you over there and hang around so you don’t go twice to the wrong places.”
I couldn’t think up a down side. “It’s a deal,” I said. “What costumes?”
“I’m working on that.”
At the bottom of Scarborough Road we turned along Queen Street. This was the main business street of the Beaches. Streetcars ran along here twenty-four hours a day and I knew every store, every alley, where all the gumball machines were, and just about every crack in the sidewalk from the Neville loop to the Fox Theatre at Beech. Our first stop was Cirrone’s market at the top of Munro Park.
During the summer and fall, Joe Cirrone just pulled a green canvass over his outside tables of fresh produce. At six in the morning, the store was still closed so I stood lookout while Alec reached under the tarp to grab some fruit. As soon as an empty streetcar clicked by to turn around at Neville, we laid a string of peaches out on the tracks to watch them get mowed down when it came back up.
I heard the Cachunkaka-chunkaka-chunkaka of the steel wheels coming up the hill and hollered. “Here it comes! Hurry up.” Alec was still balancing the last one on the rail. I grabbed his arm and we ran to the sidewalk to wave and smile at the driver as he plowed all the peached down. Poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot. What a great sound.
“Can I get you some freshly squeezed peach juice?” Alec asked.
“Is that with or without fuzz?”
All the pits but one got squooshed along with the pulp. I put it in my pocket and we moved along the street to peer in the window of the Willow Fish and Chip shop. They made the best potato fritters in the world: all greasy and covered in salt and vinegar and wrapped up warm in newspaper. Across the street was The Goof restaurant. It had a neon sign with a light out. Instead of saying GOOD FOOD it read GOO FOOD. So everyone who was anyone called it The Goof. Just outside the barber shop, I took a shot on a penny candy machine, hoping to get a toy but got the usual handful of Hot Shots. I got Troll out of that machine almost a year ago. But he lost an arm during a battle with a Krag monster and I was hoping to get another.
Finally, we got to the corner of Beech where our newspaper bundles were waiting outside the Fox Theatre. There was a new James Bond film playing with a picture of Bond riding a tiny helicopter. Alec and I spent weeks dreaming of where we’d go if we had that chopper. He untwisted the wire around our paper bundles and stuffed thirty-five papers mostly for Beech and Willow in his bag and six in mine for Fernwood and Balsam. Most mornings my route took about two hours.
“I’ll meet you back home,” Alec said and we parted. “Don’t go too slow. You know what George said.”
“I’ll try.”
George was our boss and he said I lost two customers recently because they complained that they didn’t get their paper early enough. It wasn’t my fault if they wanted today’s paper last night. Besides, I couldn’t go any faster. I headed down Hazel and right into my favourite daydream about being rock star/super hero, Fantam. With my sidekick, Fleagle, we saved the world by day and sang rock and roll to crowds of screaming girls at night. The Fantam Mobile was a souped up E-type Jaguar loaded with so many secret agent gadgets the tires should have popped every time we jumped in. But my role model was Secret Squirrel and if he could stuff all those weapons in his hat, I could get them into my car.
That morning, I was working for Interpol to capture a gang of diamond smugglers...
This first installment is a bit long just to set the scene...
You Pedal, I’ll Steer
CHAPTER 1
“Alec. Wake up.” I tried to whisper loud but I knew he wouldn’t hear that. I pushed his shoulder and he shrunk away like a slug under a shower of salt. “Come on. We’ll be late.” It was the same every day: the alarm goes off at 5:30, I climb down off the top bunk and spend five minutes rattling him out of his sleep. If you think it’s easy waking your brother up, you don’t know Alec. You could strap an alarm clock to his ears, it wouldn’t matter.
“Go away. I’m up already.” he’d always say and then roll over and start snoring again. If that didn’t work, he’d call me names and tell me if I didn’t leave me alone he’d pound me. I didn’t mind. We were best friends.
I shook him again. The rest of the world could sleep on but no matter if it was a blizzard or a summer day itchy with stuff to do, we had papers to deliver. He finally sat up like a shock just went through him which meant I could go to the kitchen make us instant coffee with canned milk and six sugars. Mom doled out sugar like it was gold dust - one grain at a time - so this was the only time of day to get a clean shot at the bowl. My favourite part was spooning up the milky syrup from the bottom of the mug. No wonder grownups liked coffee so much. Alec appeared at the door grumbling that he’d get a job delivering The Star so he could sleep in. But he never did. I mean, who wants to give up their afternoons? Not me.
We pulled the red sacks over our shoulders and headed down the hill towards Queen Street, the rush of cold air finishing off any last thought of sleep. It was early dawn and the streetlights were still on. “Ever notice how there’s always a drop in the temperature right after Labour Day?” he said, while he zipped his jacket right up to his nose. “Like starting school somehow makes the world colder.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Goodbye Summer - pow - hello school.”
“What are you going to wear for Halloween this year?” he asked. I was ready to dig right into one of our daydreams about being small or living on a deserted island. I hadn’t given Halloween any thought. It was miles away.
“I don’t know yet. What about you?”
“Me? Eighth graders are too old for trick or treats. It’s for kids.” He said it like I was stupid or something. “Everybody knows that.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine being too old for trick or treating. That’s like saying you don’t want Christmas presents. Before I could talk him out of being that crazy, my eyes got drawn into the dark windows of a little brown gingerbread type house with crisscross white latices. In the middle of the front lawn was a sign hanging on a chain. ‘The 66 Bells’. I loved that sign. I loved that house. It had eyeball magnets that made me look every time I walked past. Debbie Bell lived there. She had blue eyes and a pink bow tie barrette in her brown hair. We’d been in the same class for three years and every morning when I passed her house I imagined her getting up and having her breakfast and I got goose bumps. She probably didn’t remember my name but that was okay.
Alec start singing under his breath, “John and Debbie sitting in a tree K. I. S. S. I.---”
“Shut up,” I hated that tease. “I do not.”
He laughed. “Then why do you moon at her house every day? It must be love. Poor Wendy will be heartbroken.”
I slapped his arm and looked back down the street hoping I wasn’t turning red. “Shut up. Wendy’s just a friend.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Shut. Up.” I slapped him again and he pretended that he was mortally wounded. He was thirteen I was nine and we probably looked funny going everywhere together. But we didn’t care.
“We could invite Debbie trick or treating...”
“Ha. Ha. Why don’t you just tell me why you’re not going out on Halloween?”
“I told you already. I’m too old. You’ll know you are too when the time comes. But I have a plan. I was thinking I could be your manager.”
“Manager?” I didn’t even know what that meant. “What for?”
“The way I see it, if we get some business sense into this Halloween thing, we could clean up. I could design your costumes and plan out the best route for you to go. Like up on Glen Manor Drive where the big houses are. They give out those huge chocolate bars, not just candy kisses and apples.”
“You don’t think I can do that myself? Why do I need you?”
His look showed me why and I didn’t argue. “You need really good costumes to go up there. They don’t give away all that good candy to just anybody. Think about it. Every year you go up and down this same street and come home with the same crappy loot: spotty candy apples, mini Tootsie Rolls, Sweet Tarts, and stale break-your-jaw caramel kisses. I’m talking about a real big score. Full sized Coffee Crisps, packs of Juicy Fruit, Smarties, you name it.”
“They give away stuff like that?”
“Yup. And here’s the beauty part, little brother. We’ll design two costumes so you can go out twice to the best houses that give out the best stuff. See, you go out early in one costume and then change into a different one to go around again and score a second bag of goodies. That way you get all chocolate and bubble gum and no apples or junk. Is that a plan, or what?”
A second bag of bars! I could almost feel the weight of it in my hands. Sometimes it took me ten minutes to decide which chocolate bar to spend my allowance on. Imagine having two bags full of all the best ones. “But what if I get caught? I mean...”
“Not a chance. I thought of everything. When you go around the first time, you wear a mask. If they ask you to show your face to get a treat, you don’t go back there the next time. If they don’t, you can go back for a second score. I’ll be waiting on the corner and keep track of which is which.” He smiled at me like he was offering to clean up our room for nothing. There was a catch, I just didn’t know what it was. Yet.
“Don’t you think that’s like cheating?” I asked.
“Naw. What do you think those people do with all the leftover candy they have? They just throw it away. Grownups don’t keep that kind of stuff around.”
I sure knew our parents didn’t keep it around. The only chocolate that stayed in our kitchen was the barf from one bite unsweetened baker’s stuff that Mom made cakes with. It was so bitter it could make a dragon gag. The only way I could eat it was to slobber up a square with spit so it would snag a gooey coat of sugar out of the bowl. Then I’d just sort of grind a layer off with my teeth. It was a lot of work for chocolate. “Why doesn’t everyone do that if it’s such a great idea?” I asked.
“Who knows? Why wasn’t the car invented two hundred years ago? Why did it take Einstein to discover the atom? You don’t question genius when it happens.”
That was a good point. Alec was a genius. “What do you get out of it?” I asked.
“A modest thirty percent of your haul. I’ll design and make the costumes, plan the best route, get you over there and hang around so you don’t go twice to the wrong places.”
I couldn’t think up a down side. “It’s a deal,” I said. “What costumes?”
“I’m working on that.”
At the bottom of Scarborough Road we turned along Queen Street. This was the main business street of the Beaches. Streetcars ran along here twenty-four hours a day and I knew every store, every alley, where all the gumball machines were, and just about every crack in the sidewalk from the Neville loop to the Fox Theatre at Beech. Our first stop was Cirrone’s market at the top of Munro Park.
During the summer and fall, Joe Cirrone just pulled a green canvass over his outside tables of fresh produce. At six in the morning, the store was still closed so I stood lookout while Alec reached under the tarp to grab some fruit. As soon as an empty streetcar clicked by to turn around at Neville, we laid a string of peaches out on the tracks to watch them get mowed down when it came back up.
I heard the Cachunkaka-chunkaka-chunkaka of the steel wheels coming up the hill and hollered. “Here it comes! Hurry up.” Alec was still balancing the last one on the rail. I grabbed his arm and we ran to the sidewalk to wave and smile at the driver as he plowed all the peached down. Poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot-poot. What a great sound.
“Can I get you some freshly squeezed peach juice?” Alec asked.
“Is that with or without fuzz?”
All the pits but one got squooshed along with the pulp. I put it in my pocket and we moved along the street to peer in the window of the Willow Fish and Chip shop. They made the best potato fritters in the world: all greasy and covered in salt and vinegar and wrapped up warm in newspaper. Across the street was The Goof restaurant. It had a neon sign with a light out. Instead of saying GOOD FOOD it read GOO FOOD. So everyone who was anyone called it The Goof. Just outside the barber shop, I took a shot on a penny candy machine, hoping to get a toy but got the usual handful of Hot Shots. I got Troll out of that machine almost a year ago. But he lost an arm during a battle with a Krag monster and I was hoping to get another.
Finally, we got to the corner of Beech where our newspaper bundles were waiting outside the Fox Theatre. There was a new James Bond film playing with a picture of Bond riding a tiny helicopter. Alec and I spent weeks dreaming of where we’d go if we had that chopper. He untwisted the wire around our paper bundles and stuffed thirty-five papers mostly for Beech and Willow in his bag and six in mine for Fernwood and Balsam. Most mornings my route took about two hours.
“I’ll meet you back home,” Alec said and we parted. “Don’t go too slow. You know what George said.”
“I’ll try.”
George was our boss and he said I lost two customers recently because they complained that they didn’t get their paper early enough. It wasn’t my fault if they wanted today’s paper last night. Besides, I couldn’t go any faster. I headed down Hazel and right into my favourite daydream about being rock star/super hero, Fantam. With my sidekick, Fleagle, we saved the world by day and sang rock and roll to crowds of screaming girls at night. The Fantam Mobile was a souped up E-type Jaguar loaded with so many secret agent gadgets the tires should have popped every time we jumped in. But my role model was Secret Squirrel and if he could stuff all those weapons in his hat, I could get them into my car.
That morning, I was working for Interpol to capture a gang of diamond smugglers...
11.17.2011
I've been outed
The boys go to 3 different schools. That's 3 different administrations, 3 different open houses, 3 completely different sets of teachers, and 3 wildly different aged kids. In all of that I figure I could still stay lost in the crowd. Fat chance.
A few weeks ago I was relaxing in the Jeep waiting for Tio to finish football on a sunny afternoon. Without opening my eyes I heard the boys all going past me towards the locker room. One voice chimed out "Dude! Tio's dad is snoozing one off in his car." Okay, so I get that the team all know who I am because I drop him off and I've been at the games and so forth. But I was a bit more surprised when I picked Kit up after school today. There was a band practice in his usual room and I was redirected upstairs. While I walked off down the hall I heard the band director ask "Who was that?" Almost every kid in the room, all strangers to me, said, "That's Tio and Kit's grandfather."
Maybe I should grow a beard.
A few weeks ago I was relaxing in the Jeep waiting for Tio to finish football on a sunny afternoon. Without opening my eyes I heard the boys all going past me towards the locker room. One voice chimed out "Dude! Tio's dad is snoozing one off in his car." Okay, so I get that the team all know who I am because I drop him off and I've been at the games and so forth. But I was a bit more surprised when I picked Kit up after school today. There was a band practice in his usual room and I was redirected upstairs. While I walked off down the hall I heard the band director ask "Who was that?" Almost every kid in the room, all strangers to me, said, "That's Tio and Kit's grandfather."
Maybe I should grow a beard.
11.15.2011
Live long and prosper
 |
| Live long and prosper |
When Tio and Kit were younger, and Doc barely born, the three of us had a club that started when Kit first learned to ride a bike. We'd race around the 'stoneyard' (local cemetery), go for long rides, and explore around the river. Tio, age 7, wanted to call the gang "The Killer Warriors from Blood" or something like that. Kit wanted to call us "The Fancy Boys" which shows where he was headed even at 5. I chose something in the middle.
Here we are years later using Star Trek hand signs and clichés. I'll make good little geeks of them yet!
11.14.2011
The third shoe just dropped
Doc's biggest learning issue is his speech. He's come a long way but he's in a habit of speaking too quickly and slurring words together. In particular, he doesn't do well with double consonants like Th, Sm and Pl. In particular the Br sound - he says bah-roken (broken), bah-ring (bring) and so on. I correct and cajole and nudge him along but without cooperation it's just another thing he's being told to do and becomes part of the background noise of his 6 year old noodle.
But then comes Christmas. Tio got a scooter and little Doc is just drooling over the idea of having one, too. Time to bargain. Yesterday I said, "I'll get you a scooter for Christmas if you work on your words."
"What if I forget?" he asked.
"If you can remember a scooter all the time, then you can remember to be careful with your speech." That was Kit sitting in the seat next to him.
I couldn't tell if he would take the bait or not. But today while I was hanging laundry I heard him in the next room going "br br brrrrrmmmm bah-room, brrrooom. Broom. Broom. Broom."
It's going to be a very nice Christmas.
But then comes Christmas. Tio got a scooter and little Doc is just drooling over the idea of having one, too. Time to bargain. Yesterday I said, "I'll get you a scooter for Christmas if you work on your words."
"What if I forget?" he asked.
"If you can remember a scooter all the time, then you can remember to be careful with your speech." That was Kit sitting in the seat next to him.
I couldn't tell if he would take the bait or not. But today while I was hanging laundry I heard him in the next room going "br br brrrrrmmmm bah-room, brrrooom. Broom. Broom. Broom."
It's going to be a very nice Christmas.
11.13.2011
You can't tell where your heart will take you
I'm in love!
I don't know if my wife will understand but how can you control your heart? I know I promised to to be true but circumstances change, the road becomes confusing, and the future unpredictable.
It's the new dishwasher. She's a beaut. She's industrious, self sacrificing and technosavvy (just what every guy needs, right?). I don't know how I lived so long without her. There I was year after year scrubbing away when she was there waiting in the wings all along. My life is so much easier now and she doesn't complain or leave half the dishes dirty, or say it's someone else's turn that night.
In the comic strip Robotman by Jim Meddick, a robot from another planet lives quietly with a suburban family. Robotman falls in love with the family washing machine (they were both of like minds and machinery, he thought). But it bothered poor R-man that she was inattentive, always let him carry the conversation, and he felt neglected. So he regularly took back the gifts he'd given her - a motor belt, a bit of hose, etc.. After that happens we always see the family with a stench rising off them in their rumpled unwashed clothes. Someone says, "I see the washing machine has broken R-man's heart again. Whose turn is it to get them back together?"
That's a cautionary tale. If I get a clothes dryer do you think the dishwasher will get jealous?
I don't know if my wife will understand but how can you control your heart? I know I promised to to be true but circumstances change, the road becomes confusing, and the future unpredictable.
It's the new dishwasher. She's a beaut. She's industrious, self sacrificing and technosavvy (just what every guy needs, right?). I don't know how I lived so long without her. There I was year after year scrubbing away when she was there waiting in the wings all along. My life is so much easier now and she doesn't complain or leave half the dishes dirty, or say it's someone else's turn that night.
 |
| robotman |
That's a cautionary tale. If I get a clothes dryer do you think the dishwasher will get jealous?
11.12.2011
Two down, one to go.
Kit made the honor roll. Talk about a turnaround. He was struggling so hard with his math and reading comrehension this past year but his first quarter report came in and he's on the honor roll with all As and Bs. He's also in good spirits and his sense of humor has blossomed (he always had one, but how far can you go on knock-knock jokes?). The meds have really helped but there's more to it. Like Tio, he's responding to positive reinforcement (trading rewards for good behavior) and he doesn't want to create drama with his friends any more (last year he loved to stir it up). I think he's getting enough satisfaction from what's going on around without having to stir up more. It feels like his maturity has caught up to his age.
A good thing to reach before the froth of puberty sets in.
A good thing to reach before the froth of puberty sets in.
11.11.2011
Armistice Day - Poppy Day - Veterans Day. Thank you all.
I grew up in Canada until the age of 21. I was a young boy during the Vietnam war and it didn't really come into my radar. We had no guns in our house and even though we were a political family there was never any talk about "the right to bear arms" (a singularly American debate). My brother served in the navy and my father harkened back often to his fellow veterans of WWII. None of that prepared me for the level of patriotism and military tradition in the United States.
I arrived in America, a brand new citizen with passport in hand, in the summer of 1979. Six months after my arrival President Carter was considering a military draft for young men to serve in Afghanistan. It meant I would have to register and possibly go to war. I was a newly minted American with nothing at stake in this. I was primarily a pacifist and strongly against military intervention. I was facing a moral dilemma larger than I ever had before. If I didn't want to serve then I should catch the next bus home and leave America for the Americans to defend. On the other hand, I came here looking for all the privileges that American society had to offer. Should I expect it comes at no cost? Would I feel better about serving after I reaped many benefits from my new country? If the answer was yes, then maybe I was being tested by having to pay my dues up front. If the answer was no, then what the hell was I doing here in the first place. What then is the measure of myself if I was willing to takes the rewards and shirks the cost? As a dual citizen my family history goes back to the 1830's in the US on my mother's side. I have cousins and aunts and uncles across this land. It was only geography, I argued with myself, that I was born a few scant miles north of an arbitrary line.
So I stayed, scared to death of the idea of going to war but not willing to run away. In the end was never required to register and we didn't go to war with the Soviet. Years and years have passed since then and I've gone through contortions on my mixed feelings about military service and patriotism. I've been very uncomfortable having to express and declare patriotism, feeling it was self aggrandizing, while I've served my country and community in many nonmilitary ways. I spent a great deal of time over the years arguing against the military complex while not really understanding the nature of the soldier and veteran in America.
On 9-11 2001, 22 years later, I knew in one horrific moment that I was an American in heart and soul. I was outraged, crushed and sickened, and felt personally violated by the terrorist attack. I visited my Canadian home that winter and the disdain my siblings and friends poured out about arrogant American society and our 'deserved' retaliation from the Middle East for this and that and the other thing cut me to the bone. It physically hurt. They might as well have called me a leper and cast me into the snow.
In the past decade I have paid more attention to the men and women who serve our country and learned a lot. A humbling lot. A lot of respect for the complexity of how and why they serve, the lives of veterans, and the powerful role they play in the American heart and spirit.
All of which brings me to today when I sat the 3 boys down at 10 o'clock to tell them about military service, Armistice Day, and the importance of honoring those who have served. I took them to the town celebration where we heard a couple of speeches, prayers and a 150 year old cannon go off. They were respectful and quiet through the whole 45 minutes (even Doc - which was the big surprise) even though the cold wind through the trees kept us from hearing almost all of it except the cannon. I'm sure we'll talk about these things again. My views, while still evolving, are much more nuanced than ever before and I hope as time goes by the boys will pick up on that.
Thank you, on this Veterans Day, to all the men and women who serve and have served our country, for your willingness to work so hard for so little at such personal cost. You have my respect and support.
So I stayed, scared to death of the idea of going to war but not willing to run away. In the end was never required to register and we didn't go to war with the Soviet. Years and years have passed since then and I've gone through contortions on my mixed feelings about military service and patriotism. I've been very uncomfortable having to express and declare patriotism, feeling it was self aggrandizing, while I've served my country and community in many nonmilitary ways. I spent a great deal of time over the years arguing against the military complex while not really understanding the nature of the soldier and veteran in America.
On 9-11 2001, 22 years later, I knew in one horrific moment that I was an American in heart and soul. I was outraged, crushed and sickened, and felt personally violated by the terrorist attack. I visited my Canadian home that winter and the disdain my siblings and friends poured out about arrogant American society and our 'deserved' retaliation from the Middle East for this and that and the other thing cut me to the bone. It physically hurt. They might as well have called me a leper and cast me into the snow.
In the past decade I have paid more attention to the men and women who serve our country and learned a lot. A humbling lot. A lot of respect for the complexity of how and why they serve, the lives of veterans, and the powerful role they play in the American heart and spirit.
All of which brings me to today when I sat the 3 boys down at 10 o'clock to tell them about military service, Armistice Day, and the importance of honoring those who have served. I took them to the town celebration where we heard a couple of speeches, prayers and a 150 year old cannon go off. They were respectful and quiet through the whole 45 minutes (even Doc - which was the big surprise) even though the cold wind through the trees kept us from hearing almost all of it except the cannon. I'm sure we'll talk about these things again. My views, while still evolving, are much more nuanced than ever before and I hope as time goes by the boys will pick up on that.
Thank you, on this Veterans Day, to all the men and women who serve and have served our country, for your willingness to work so hard for so little at such personal cost. You have my respect and support.
11.10.2011
"Freedom's just another word for nothin left to lose..." - from Me and Bobbie Mcgee by Kris Kristofferson
I think Tio is starting to get the hang of earning rewards. We finally have a reward he wants: freedom to choose. He wants to go to the skate park, hang out with his friends, have a facebook, and control a bit more of his destiny. Last month I mentioned that I arranged a point system for him to get graded on his behavior with each teacher. He's doing fairly well with it but what is new is that I can say "I want to see nothing below a 4 tomorrow or you don't get to ..." whatever he's looking for. So he comes home with 5s and 4s, coupled with high performance on his school grades, ands gets the earned freedoms. When he wants to- he succeeds.
This puts him squarely in the 'I can manage this' column instead of the 'I'm screwing it up so why bother' section and he knows the difference. That means the issues are finally coming under his own control. And so is is his free time.
Everybody wins.
This puts him squarely in the 'I can manage this' column instead of the 'I'm screwing it up so why bother' section and he knows the difference. That means the issues are finally coming under his own control. And so is is his free time.
Everybody wins.
11.09.2011
Wassup with that, my brother!
What is it with these rural white boys puttin' on the dawg and acting like they're some kind of killer drug dealer pimp from a black urban slum? I know, I know, rap music, videos, pop culture and all that razzmatazz. Still, how much stupider can a 13 year old possibly look than to have their jeans hanging down below their asses showing their Spongebob tighty-whiteys, cap on sideways, shoes so big that even if they did lace them up (and they don't) their feet still slide around with every step, and swaggering along with one arm hanging straight down like they broke it and the other up over their chest, flicking their wrist like they got a booger stuck to it. This is the height of style? With different clothes, in the 70's it was superfly and in the 40‘s it was the zoot suit. Same swagger, different times. But it was always black.
Racism is such an odd paradox in this country. While it is still alive and flourishing in so many ways, white culture, youth especially, has been embracing and integrating black cultural creativity for the past century. Jazz music, rock and roll, R&B, rap and the lifestyles they rode in with are all born of American black society. At first white acceptance came only after white musicians picked up the beat but that facade is gone. What bothers me about this rap/hip-hop clothing trend isn’t the absurdity of the costume. It's the complete disconnect between what and where the urban black is that bore this 'style' and the white posers who immitate a look who's roots they don't understand in the least. The same was true of jazz in the 1920's. The difference was jazz and blues were an attempt to rise up and feel better about life through the music - a message everyone could share. Rap wallows in it, takes you down there and celebrates some fairly unkind and unsavory behavior. Big difference.
But the message and influence of the message is lost on the white boys. They think it means being a lost soul caught between violence and poverty is cool. 'Gonna pop a cap in yo face' is an empty expression of pride. Pride. Think of that. I'm going to shoot you in the face for no reason. Whatever happened to becoming astronauts, cowboys, and firemen? At least in cowboys and indians, you didn't shoot the other "good guys" - for all the other racial stigma it carried - and it was a game of bygone eras. In druglords and pimps everyone is a bad guy and they inhabit 21st century American streets.
There is huge gap between the black and white poverty rates, domestic violence, education and other cultural success indicators that make it clear we live in 2 different Americas. I think if our kids are going to buy the music, imitate the trappings and pretend that they can in any way relate to the American black experience, they should understand the reality of it. Otherwise boys, go back to your chinos, tees and skateboards. You should never mimic what you don't understand.
Racism is such an odd paradox in this country. While it is still alive and flourishing in so many ways, white culture, youth especially, has been embracing and integrating black cultural creativity for the past century. Jazz music, rock and roll, R&B, rap and the lifestyles they rode in with are all born of American black society. At first white acceptance came only after white musicians picked up the beat but that facade is gone. What bothers me about this rap/hip-hop clothing trend isn’t the absurdity of the costume. It's the complete disconnect between what and where the urban black is that bore this 'style' and the white posers who immitate a look who's roots they don't understand in the least. The same was true of jazz in the 1920's. The difference was jazz and blues were an attempt to rise up and feel better about life through the music - a message everyone could share. Rap wallows in it, takes you down there and celebrates some fairly unkind and unsavory behavior. Big difference.
But the message and influence of the message is lost on the white boys. They think it means being a lost soul caught between violence and poverty is cool. 'Gonna pop a cap in yo face' is an empty expression of pride. Pride. Think of that. I'm going to shoot you in the face for no reason. Whatever happened to becoming astronauts, cowboys, and firemen? At least in cowboys and indians, you didn't shoot the other "good guys" - for all the other racial stigma it carried - and it was a game of bygone eras. In druglords and pimps everyone is a bad guy and they inhabit 21st century American streets.
There is huge gap between the black and white poverty rates, domestic violence, education and other cultural success indicators that make it clear we live in 2 different Americas. I think if our kids are going to buy the music, imitate the trappings and pretend that they can in any way relate to the American black experience, they should understand the reality of it. Otherwise boys, go back to your chinos, tees and skateboards. You should never mimic what you don't understand.
11.08.2011
Does Daffy Duck ever listen to what he says?
Watching Looney Tunes last night with Kit. He's decided that Daffy Duck is his favorite character because he never shuts up and says the most outrageous things. He interupts everyone and is totally insulting. But always funny. After completely dressing down some goofball stuckup dog hotel manager Kit said "Do you think Daffy Duck ever listens to what he says."
"He's a cartoon character," Grammo said.
"Congratulations," says I "you have just hit on the classic definition of a total bore: someone who never hears a word they say."
"He's a cartoon character," Grammo said.
"Congratulations," says I "you have just hit on the classic definition of a total bore: someone who never hears a word they say."
11.07.2011
Welcome aboard flight 99 around the Sun
Tish and I spent the morning at the hospital while she had a battery of tests done, some routine, some looking at lumps and spots and all the other things that come with age. I went along because it's what I do. She said she could go alone but, what the hell, we're in this together and when crap comes along for one of us, it comes for us both.
Waiting through her first test, I started dozing (only got 3 hours sleep so far last night) and I had the uncanny sensation of being in the cabin on an airplane. We've all been there, right? Oxygen rich air, quiet voices all around, the odd buzzer or 'ding' going off, and having to try and make yourself comfortable in a not too comfy straightbacked chair for an extended time. Well, waking up in a hospital waiting room when you think you're flying to Bermuda is quite the rude awakening.
On the second leg of our flight (in a different waiting room) I heard a nearby couple discussing their dinner menu until I realized the man was going under the knife and it was his post surgery hospital dinner they were choosing. They spoke with intimate casual and mutual concern. Her for his comfort and health, he for the food. It was typical middle married conversation where a woman speaks her mind about what's going on and the husband resorts to dealing with his fears and anxieties by concentrating on an irrelevant issue. So she tries to join his concern over food in an attempt to say it'll be okay. To my surprise, when they walked past me I saw that they weren't that old and it sounded like they hadn't been together that long. Interesting how the patterns of relationships work.
The final leg of our flight landed us in echocardioland and we settled down to wait for Tish to take a turn on the ride. We found ourselves next to a couple, probably in their 80's, who looked faintly familiar, not that we knew them in the least. As they left Tish said, "that looked just like my mother. Same style of clothes and choice of color, same small frail frame." She was right. The woman was wearing a robin's egg pants suit, had hairdresser coiffed teeth-white hair and walked like a southern breeze might knock her down. "Hmmmm," I replied, "the husband looks like I might by that age." Solid, stooped a bit from sitting too long on a bad back, and dressed without any particular style (no golfing pants, or elderly jeans, etc). "It's us in 25 years."
Without another word I could tell we were both jumping the quarter century ahead to whatever might be waiting for us. Not an uncommon thing, I would suppose, when you see so many older people gathered in one place to look after their ills. I wondered about the grandkids at middle age and what experiences will have scored life into their eyes and face. There's no way when our kids were small that I'd have predicted Buddy in the world he inhabits and Sugar settled down in a mobile home with a low end management job. We dreamed of much more for them. They just didn't dream it for themselves.
We deplaned and drove off to get some lunch. That's the problem with growing old. It seems so far off but it's not. Just a few more of these flights around the Sun and it'll all be over.
Waiting through her first test, I started dozing (only got 3 hours sleep so far last night) and I had the uncanny sensation of being in the cabin on an airplane. We've all been there, right? Oxygen rich air, quiet voices all around, the odd buzzer or 'ding' going off, and having to try and make yourself comfortable in a not too comfy straightbacked chair for an extended time. Well, waking up in a hospital waiting room when you think you're flying to Bermuda is quite the rude awakening.
On the second leg of our flight (in a different waiting room) I heard a nearby couple discussing their dinner menu until I realized the man was going under the knife and it was his post surgery hospital dinner they were choosing. They spoke with intimate casual and mutual concern. Her for his comfort and health, he for the food. It was typical middle married conversation where a woman speaks her mind about what's going on and the husband resorts to dealing with his fears and anxieties by concentrating on an irrelevant issue. So she tries to join his concern over food in an attempt to say it'll be okay. To my surprise, when they walked past me I saw that they weren't that old and it sounded like they hadn't been together that long. Interesting how the patterns of relationships work.
The final leg of our flight landed us in echocardioland and we settled down to wait for Tish to take a turn on the ride. We found ourselves next to a couple, probably in their 80's, who looked faintly familiar, not that we knew them in the least. As they left Tish said, "that looked just like my mother. Same style of clothes and choice of color, same small frail frame." She was right. The woman was wearing a robin's egg pants suit, had hairdresser coiffed teeth-white hair and walked like a southern breeze might knock her down. "Hmmmm," I replied, "the husband looks like I might by that age." Solid, stooped a bit from sitting too long on a bad back, and dressed without any particular style (no golfing pants, or elderly jeans, etc). "It's us in 25 years."
Without another word I could tell we were both jumping the quarter century ahead to whatever might be waiting for us. Not an uncommon thing, I would suppose, when you see so many older people gathered in one place to look after their ills. I wondered about the grandkids at middle age and what experiences will have scored life into their eyes and face. There's no way when our kids were small that I'd have predicted Buddy in the world he inhabits and Sugar settled down in a mobile home with a low end management job. We dreamed of much more for them. They just didn't dream it for themselves.
We deplaned and drove off to get some lunch. That's the problem with growing old. It seems so far off but it's not. Just a few more of these flights around the Sun and it'll all be over.
11.06.2011
'I did WELL' not 'I did good.'
All their lives I've been correcting the kids grammar and speech. Every day there a 'well not good' 'I've not I' and so forth. With Doc, it's still a lot of basic pronounciations (supposed, not 'opposed to do that') and Kit has taken on an affectation where he drops Ts (buh-ins instead of buttons, nuh-in for nothing and so on). Some of it is an impossible reach, after all even newscasters have completely dropped the correct use of the word 'well' for 'good', and a lot of people don't care. Tio has taken to saying, "Potato - Potah-to" as though it makes no difference. So why should I care?
There are a lot of reasons for kids to learn proper speech. First, learning proper speech enhances their vocabulary and improves their communication. Second, when you speak properly, people take you more seriously. Being taken seriously by their grammar may not be something they need now but it will be important in the future. Thirdly, people assume you are more educated when you use good speech and that can open doors with employers and social connections (depending on what social circles you move in). Again, not something critical right now but it will be before long. These things are hard to impart to young boys who can barely see a month out, let alone their adult life. I explain it to them anyway and insist they comply because it's part of what parents do to prepare their kids for the world.
But there's one other reason I teach them good grammar: respect. I believe that speaking well is part of the respect we show ourselves and each other. It's like wearing the right clothes to work, or putting on a suit for a funeral, or shaking hands, and saying 'please' and 'thank you'. Manners do matter. Good grammar doesn't take more time to learn or do, it just takes more effort, which is the same with all forms of sharing respect.
There are a lot of reasons for kids to learn proper speech. First, learning proper speech enhances their vocabulary and improves their communication. Second, when you speak properly, people take you more seriously. Being taken seriously by their grammar may not be something they need now but it will be important in the future. Thirdly, people assume you are more educated when you use good speech and that can open doors with employers and social connections (depending on what social circles you move in). Again, not something critical right now but it will be before long. These things are hard to impart to young boys who can barely see a month out, let alone their adult life. I explain it to them anyway and insist they comply because it's part of what parents do to prepare their kids for the world.
But there's one other reason I teach them good grammar: respect. I believe that speaking well is part of the respect we show ourselves and each other. It's like wearing the right clothes to work, or putting on a suit for a funeral, or shaking hands, and saying 'please' and 'thank you'. Manners do matter. Good grammar doesn't take more time to learn or do, it just takes more effort, which is the same with all forms of sharing respect.
11.05.2011
Sarah Josepha Who?
Lunch at McDulgence with 2 boys (their idea of a treat, not mine) and figured I'd blog on some peripherals since all seems well with the kids.
This past week I wrote a few times about some women I love and respect. They are but a small fraction of the women I look up to in this life, both those I know and those who inhabit the larger world now and through history. As I'm sure my regular readers know, I want the boys to have a clear and strong respect for women but it's not so easy because of this still is a world defined by men. For a school aged girl to assert herself as an equal with boys she has to do it through the prism of being demure, constantly pretty and appearing less intelligent. Not only does that make her less equal, but creates the frame that young boys must see her through. Sure, life is more equal than ever before but the rules still demand girls fit a man's role for her before she can then be herself. Imagine a boy and girl toddlers dropped on the proverbial desert island to survive there alone. Would the boy automatically assume the dominant role? Would the girl decide that primping and cooking were her best features? Is there any other species on Earth that we assign female traits like those we impose on women? The answer to all three questions of course is a resounding obviously not. Yet that's the world we inhabit.
Our town is the birthplace of Sarah Josepha Hale, a nineteeth century writer and editor, most remembered for writing Mary Had A Little Lamb, and a strong advocate for women. Sarah is a good example of a strong woman in a man's world. She helped increase women's ability to express themselves but only through the role provided by men.
I want the boys to grow up without seeing those trappings but that's a hard sell. It means accepting that girls can behave differently while wanting the same things boys do. It means the only way it will ever change is if men work with women to tear down those not so subtle walls.
This past week I wrote a few times about some women I love and respect. They are but a small fraction of the women I look up to in this life, both those I know and those who inhabit the larger world now and through history. As I'm sure my regular readers know, I want the boys to have a clear and strong respect for women but it's not so easy because of this still is a world defined by men. For a school aged girl to assert herself as an equal with boys she has to do it through the prism of being demure, constantly pretty and appearing less intelligent. Not only does that make her less equal, but creates the frame that young boys must see her through. Sure, life is more equal than ever before but the rules still demand girls fit a man's role for her before she can then be herself. Imagine a boy and girl toddlers dropped on the proverbial desert island to survive there alone. Would the boy automatically assume the dominant role? Would the girl decide that primping and cooking were her best features? Is there any other species on Earth that we assign female traits like those we impose on women? The answer to all three questions of course is a resounding obviously not. Yet that's the world we inhabit.
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| A bobble head of Sarah Hale |
I want the boys to grow up without seeing those trappings but that's a hard sell. It means accepting that girls can behave differently while wanting the same things boys do. It means the only way it will ever change is if men work with women to tear down those not so subtle walls.
Smelling the roses
I've put off writing while trying to think of a topic but nothing has come to mind. Then I realized that's a good thing. Of course, good writing is filled with drama and conflict but good living isn't. When things are going well, we need to let out a relaxed breath, recognize that things are good and enjoy it. Too many people live from one disaster to the next, worrying about what will go wrong, emersed in damage control so much they can't see daylight. But I'm an eternal optimist. Of course, there will be downturns again. Such is life. But everyone in this house is firing on all cylinders and it shows.
Tio is conscientious about getting good grades and high marks for his behavior in each class. He's loving football and getting along well with this brothers. Kit is also doing well with his courses, enjoying good relationships with friends and showing signs of maturity that are age approriate. Doc is in a great mood most days, loves to go to school (lamenting today that he couldn't go on weekends), showing a great sense of humor. As for the adults? Tish started her full time job this week (which means a bit more money), Buddy is really pitching in to help out more and getting along great with the boys, and I'm looking forward to a busy winter keeping the household humming with my new kitchen, organization of the downstairs apartment and other projects I'm finally getting out of the way. At the same time, I'm totally engaged in the art I'm creating in the flute shop so that my creative imagination is satisfied.
It has taken 2 years of struggle and hope and hard work but we've come a long way and before we sail down into another trough, we need to recognize and celebrate how far we've come and where we are.
Pizza anyone?
Tio is conscientious about getting good grades and high marks for his behavior in each class. He's loving football and getting along well with this brothers. Kit is also doing well with his courses, enjoying good relationships with friends and showing signs of maturity that are age approriate. Doc is in a great mood most days, loves to go to school (lamenting today that he couldn't go on weekends), showing a great sense of humor. As for the adults? Tish started her full time job this week (which means a bit more money), Buddy is really pitching in to help out more and getting along great with the boys, and I'm looking forward to a busy winter keeping the household humming with my new kitchen, organization of the downstairs apartment and other projects I'm finally getting out of the way. At the same time, I'm totally engaged in the art I'm creating in the flute shop so that my creative imagination is satisfied.
It has taken 2 years of struggle and hope and hard work but we've come a long way and before we sail down into another trough, we need to recognize and celebrate how far we've come and where we are.
Pizza anyone?
11.03.2011
Maybe all it takes is some drywall screws, a stack of 2x4s and a bit of confidence
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| Bunkbed Buddies |
Busy coupla days. I got an early start sawing wood and so forth. A few early screw ups hammering some boards backwards but I got on the right track and by quitting time, I had the framing done. I couldn’t keep going because I had a 3 and a 5pm appointment and by the time I’d get home Doc would be in bed so I spent the rest of the evening at the pub writing and visiting a friend. (I even took the night off from the blog) I started with the same schedge this morning and by four I was all done. That was the easy part. The big questions remained: will Kit complain about sleeping under Doc? Will Doc be too scared to sleep so high off the ground?
I got the answers as soon as we all drove home from school. They ran downstairs and their excitement was like Christmas. Kit couldn’t be happier because the bunks are deep enough for some shelves for toys and stuff and Doc couldn’t contain himself. “Look, Grammo” he exclaimed as he jumped up and down the ladder, (which I made myself!) “I can go up this way or I can go up sideways, I can jump down, or climb down backwards.” He bubbled over with it so much that he wanted to go to bed a half hour early. “You know,” he said seriously, “so I can get a good night’s sleep.” I tucked him in while he organized all his books and stuffies around the bed and I got one of those world class happy smiles I was mentioning a few days back.
Maybe I’m not such a bad carpenter after all.
11.01.2011
Look out! He's got the measuring tape out again.
I guess successfully renovating the kitchen got me started. Last night I measured and drew and figured and measured again and scratched my head and measured a third and erased my first drawings and came up with a plan. Today, after a nice coffee reunion with a friend I haven't seen in quite some time, I motored over to H Depot and filled a cart with wood and brackets and rope. Then, to spare my poor little wagon too much strain on the roof I had the store cut up most of the wood into my third measurement segments and wheeled my way to the checkout (and only dropped one 4x8 particle board on my foot! Owwch).
Before you start thinking I'm building a gallows, I untwined the rope to tie the big bits on the roof. I putted home at 30 mph up bumpy roads and hills and unpacked my goodies in the breezeway that I cleaned out on Sunday. Tomorrow, the floundering carpenter is going to build bunk beds for Kit and Doc. Along the way I'll also hammer together a 3 segment boot box and coat rack to get us through the winter. However, my long term experience as a bad builder tells me I should be called "the wood chipper" not anything resembling the word carpenter. I know for a fact that by the end of the day, I'll have accomplished 3 things. My hands will have splinters and cuts, my temper will be completely spent, and there will be a pile of split wood, bent nails and empty beer bottles in my wake.
Whether I complete a bunkbed and boot chest is anybody's guess.
Before you start thinking I'm building a gallows, I untwined the rope to tie the big bits on the roof. I putted home at 30 mph up bumpy roads and hills and unpacked my goodies in the breezeway that I cleaned out on Sunday. Tomorrow, the floundering carpenter is going to build bunk beds for Kit and Doc. Along the way I'll also hammer together a 3 segment boot box and coat rack to get us through the winter. However, my long term experience as a bad builder tells me I should be called "the wood chipper" not anything resembling the word carpenter. I know for a fact that by the end of the day, I'll have accomplished 3 things. My hands will have splinters and cuts, my temper will be completely spent, and there will be a pile of split wood, bent nails and empty beer bottles in my wake.
Whether I complete a bunkbed and boot chest is anybody's guess.
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