Of the many memories which remain intact from the pre-school period in my life, nap time rates among the worst. Shots? I remember so very little (There was, however, one blonde nurse I recall asking me to pull down my pants and hold my breath. Harbinger.) Of all the things that happened in my life before I started spending my days in school, nap time is the one consistent smudge in that block of gray matter.
My mother needed me to nap. She needed to nap. It was worth doling out a spanking when she met resistance. It occasionally even enlisted her presence lying down beside me trying to get me to sleep. Definitely not so good when the neighbor boy is hiding in the closet , the plan being to come out and play after Mom falls asleep. Especially when he starts humming in the closet to pass the time, "What's that?" "What?" It did not play out well at the time although Mom was able to find a bit of humor in the episode--- 15 years later.
In my own home Tam and I have decided we won't get into pissing matches with Evan over nap time. If he doesn't want to sleep, okay. He is only asked to rest, read, or play quietly for a half hour. Sometimes he sleeps. Other times, like today, he just gets involved with his fleet of airplanes and plays quietly for a half hour or so.... while his Mom falls asleep on the couch and his Dad on the carpet. Mom would be so proud.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
A Useful LIfe
I saw a woman today who was just a few weeks shy of 90. She was plain, plump and pleasant. That she cared for herself was obvious in her dignified appearance, simple clothing and careful grooming. That she had lived a simple and unassuming life was equally obvious. She also had a satisfied aire which, I felt, probably came with the unpretentious knowledge she had lived a useful life. Her's is a dying generation. My parents were of the early part of that generation while people now in their eighties and nineties are those at the tail end. Tom Brokaw, in his book of the same name, called it The Greatest Generation. In his book he looks at the many battles, trials and accomplishments of those who came to maturity during the 30's and 40's.
In my practice I see members of this generation week in and week out. Their numbers are definitely dwindling and, visiting with this woman today, this woman of advanced years who has weathered so many years with such dignity and selflessness, I was left to wonder what we are truly in the process of losing. That, and what will come next.
In contrast, a great deal of my practice is also made up of individuals born in the last 3 decades. I see too many members of this rising generation who strike me as completely self-absorbed. They don't appear to have any sense of duty or responsibility beyond themselves. No sense of community. No sense of country. No spiritual sense. Even with their children and partners it seems frighteningly common that the sense of self supersedes even these critical relationships and responsibilities. Whether wealthy or impoverished it seems to make little difference. It seems to be about "I want" and "I need." "That's mine" and "Give me." At times I am convinced they don't even understand their responsibility to themselves, demonstrating completely infantile and unhealthy eating and personal habits which, regardless of resources, is best described as indulgent.
We are losing a segment in this country which was concerned with family, community, country, and self; and frequently in that order. These were people who found satisfaction in the success of their family members. These were people who took pride in a successful community. These were people satisfied with a job well done, who had little or no use for personal success measured with any yardstick beyond how well their lives impacted others.
Not every member of the new generation is self-centered, selfish, lacking a moral compass and without any sense of concern for others. I suppose, and hope, there are a great many young people today who are concerned with family, community, and country. I hope the number is sufficient such that this rising generation will also be remembered someday for the good they accomplished and not as that which deserted all responsibility for others while immersed in the whirlpool of Narcissism.
In my practice I see members of this generation week in and week out. Their numbers are definitely dwindling and, visiting with this woman today, this woman of advanced years who has weathered so many years with such dignity and selflessness, I was left to wonder what we are truly in the process of losing. That, and what will come next.
In contrast, a great deal of my practice is also made up of individuals born in the last 3 decades. I see too many members of this rising generation who strike me as completely self-absorbed. They don't appear to have any sense of duty or responsibility beyond themselves. No sense of community. No sense of country. No spiritual sense. Even with their children and partners it seems frighteningly common that the sense of self supersedes even these critical relationships and responsibilities. Whether wealthy or impoverished it seems to make little difference. It seems to be about "I want" and "I need." "That's mine" and "Give me." At times I am convinced they don't even understand their responsibility to themselves, demonstrating completely infantile and unhealthy eating and personal habits which, regardless of resources, is best described as indulgent.
We are losing a segment in this country which was concerned with family, community, country, and self; and frequently in that order. These were people who found satisfaction in the success of their family members. These were people who took pride in a successful community. These were people satisfied with a job well done, who had little or no use for personal success measured with any yardstick beyond how well their lives impacted others.
Not every member of the new generation is self-centered, selfish, lacking a moral compass and without any sense of concern for others. I suppose, and hope, there are a great many young people today who are concerned with family, community, and country. I hope the number is sufficient such that this rising generation will also be remembered someday for the good they accomplished and not as that which deserted all responsibility for others while immersed in the whirlpool of Narcissism.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Huh?
I’m going deaf. It seems more acute entering my fifties. I’m not certain I could be considered impaired but my wife certainly notices. And I’m not referencing any old marriage jokes here.
Generation Z, however, is screwed. I’m sitting on an airplane and I can hardly hear myself think for the nonstop mechanized percussion emanating from across the aisle where the guy’s earpieces are plugged deep in his auditory orifices and yet insufficient to contain the volume. And if I turn to my left I get a double dose from the two teens behind me. Ear Candy, my ass!
When I was 15 (I know, here we go...) I didn’t have headphones. When my parents weren’t home I would fashion a listening station for myself: Two Grundig stereo speakers lying face up on the floor to either side of the chair in which I was seated. Zepplin, Tull, Jeff Beck, let it rip! I was only able to indulge in this excess a few times and so, while toxic for my ears, the exposure was minimal. But, just to be clear, one does need to understand that I realize, sometimes, music is just better loud.
Of the several possible conditions that come with age being a grumpy old curmudgeon is not a moniker I would cherish wearing. Even at this stage of the game I am, I say, far too hip to be square. Be that as it may I’m willing to risk the label because guys like those on the plane are going to have substantial hearing loss by the age of 25. Substantial. We need a national movement to turn it down (Just Say Low?) or we will end up with a generation that cannot hear by the time they're in their 30's.
Maybe this really isn’t a problem at all: If you only communicate by text message who needs ears?
Generation Z, however, is screwed. I’m sitting on an airplane and I can hardly hear myself think for the nonstop mechanized percussion emanating from across the aisle where the guy’s earpieces are plugged deep in his auditory orifices and yet insufficient to contain the volume. And if I turn to my left I get a double dose from the two teens behind me. Ear Candy, my ass!
When I was 15 (I know, here we go...) I didn’t have headphones. When my parents weren’t home I would fashion a listening station for myself: Two Grundig stereo speakers lying face up on the floor to either side of the chair in which I was seated. Zepplin, Tull, Jeff Beck, let it rip! I was only able to indulge in this excess a few times and so, while toxic for my ears, the exposure was minimal. But, just to be clear, one does need to understand that I realize, sometimes, music is just better loud.
Of the several possible conditions that come with age being a grumpy old curmudgeon is not a moniker I would cherish wearing. Even at this stage of the game I am, I say, far too hip to be square. Be that as it may I’m willing to risk the label because guys like those on the plane are going to have substantial hearing loss by the age of 25. Substantial. We need a national movement to turn it down (Just Say Low?) or we will end up with a generation that cannot hear by the time they're in their 30's.
Maybe this really isn’t a problem at all: If you only communicate by text message who needs ears?
A Well Fitting Bra
Recently I accompanied my wife while bra shopping. Much better than going with your daughter which I've also done. With your wife the experience holds promise, with your daughter it offers nothing but nightmares. I was amazed at the cost of a decent bra but equally amazed at how beneficial a well fitting bra can be to a woman's appearance in, say, a tee shirt. Again, a thought better considered of one's partner than one's daughter.
This experience led me to reflect on just how different men and women are in their approach to fashion and appearance. It is remarkable the number of times a person can go out for dinner at a nice restaurant and frequently find the women uniformly well dressed, obviously having worked to look attractive and appealing. A dress, a skirt, pants, even jeans, it doesn't matter: if they wear it for show they've made an effort and it is apparent. The men on the other hand usually show up in anything.
The most popular choice in the line of date dress attire among males, say age 20 - 50, the past few years has been the jeans with a well pressed french cuff shirt, worn open at the neck and untucked. You know you've seen this. It's slob chic and often completed with an expensive oversize watch and a casual loafer, socks optional. The other end of the spectrum is the guy who wears his favorite logo tee shirt with shorts or jeans, the choice usually (but not always) dictated by the season. Bellies seem to go well with any of it. God forbid you should see a sport coat.
Thinking about this I've come to realize: Women like to dress like grown ups and men tend toward their best year in high school or something borrowed from a patron at a Vegas craps table, aka, mobster chic. Women show up in dresses and men show up in jeans.
I guess, as a woman, you learn to take what you can get. As men, I know we learn to do the same. That's biology. But whatever happened to the spectacular male? Let's hear it for more rooster and less cock.
This experience led me to reflect on just how different men and women are in their approach to fashion and appearance. It is remarkable the number of times a person can go out for dinner at a nice restaurant and frequently find the women uniformly well dressed, obviously having worked to look attractive and appealing. A dress, a skirt, pants, even jeans, it doesn't matter: if they wear it for show they've made an effort and it is apparent. The men on the other hand usually show up in anything.
The most popular choice in the line of date dress attire among males, say age 20 - 50, the past few years has been the jeans with a well pressed french cuff shirt, worn open at the neck and untucked. You know you've seen this. It's slob chic and often completed with an expensive oversize watch and a casual loafer, socks optional. The other end of the spectrum is the guy who wears his favorite logo tee shirt with shorts or jeans, the choice usually (but not always) dictated by the season. Bellies seem to go well with any of it. God forbid you should see a sport coat.
Thinking about this I've come to realize: Women like to dress like grown ups and men tend toward their best year in high school or something borrowed from a patron at a Vegas craps table, aka, mobster chic. Women show up in dresses and men show up in jeans.
I guess, as a woman, you learn to take what you can get. As men, I know we learn to do the same. That's biology. But whatever happened to the spectacular male? Let's hear it for more rooster and less cock.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Diaper Butt
It's not my fault. I'm of that generation that was born stuck between old conventions and the new ways. My Dad and his peers wore suits, slacks, sweaters, sport coats and hats. Clothes were tailored but fit in a manner to look trim but not to showcase the anatomy.
I guess if you're the type to blame Roosevelt for the fall of democracy you can blame Kennedy for the fall of the traditional male clothes culture. Kennedy was the President who showed up without a hat. He was the President who let his hair grow out, even if only a tinse. And it was he who photographed so well in all that casual sports and yachting attire. Thus it was he, so popular with the press and the public, so fit and photogenic, who moved American males away from the well tailored and hatted 40's and 50's and into what we now appreciate as contemporary attire. My Dad was 48 when I was born. I was 3 when Kennedy was elected. I grew up with an awareness of men's fashions which, at that time, were fixtures in our household but soon to be discarded by the male public at large.
So there I was in Carter's, a traditional men's store the other day. I was trying on a pair of Bills Khakis, the best and made in Pennsylvania, US of A. The salesman explained how they now come in 3 cuts: M1, M2, and M3 with the first being the original, traditional, and most roomy cut, the latter being the newest and most anatomically fitting. Trying on the first pair was fabulous. Those M1s are like cotton drapery hanging from the waist. Just like God intended and as they were in the 50's. I was pretty much ready to check out when Tam walks in.
Foolishly, I slip on the M1s for her approval. Simple assessment: "No Way! Those give you that old man diaper butt." I'm sorry, that what? One look in the 3-way mirror and I knew what she meant and, reluctantly, had to agree. Luckily for me the M3 model looked just as bad but in the other extreme. So, no flagship model No.1 pant for me. And no capitulating to the modern scourge of snug fitting pants capable of raising my voice 3 octaves either. I remain a loyal member of that between generation: I ended up leaving with a new pair of M2s which provide the roominess I desire and yet spare me from the heartbreak of old man diaper butt. From either side I look good, can walk proud, and still honor my heritage.
This:
Not this:
I guess if you're the type to blame Roosevelt for the fall of democracy you can blame Kennedy for the fall of the traditional male clothes culture. Kennedy was the President who showed up without a hat. He was the President who let his hair grow out, even if only a tinse. And it was he who photographed so well in all that casual sports and yachting attire. Thus it was he, so popular with the press and the public, so fit and photogenic, who moved American males away from the well tailored and hatted 40's and 50's and into what we now appreciate as contemporary attire. My Dad was 48 when I was born. I was 3 when Kennedy was elected. I grew up with an awareness of men's fashions which, at that time, were fixtures in our household but soon to be discarded by the male public at large.
So there I was in Carter's, a traditional men's store the other day. I was trying on a pair of Bills Khakis, the best and made in Pennsylvania, US of A. The salesman explained how they now come in 3 cuts: M1, M2, and M3 with the first being the original, traditional, and most roomy cut, the latter being the newest and most anatomically fitting. Trying on the first pair was fabulous. Those M1s are like cotton drapery hanging from the waist. Just like God intended and as they were in the 50's. I was pretty much ready to check out when Tam walks in.
Foolishly, I slip on the M1s for her approval. Simple assessment: "No Way! Those give you that old man diaper butt." I'm sorry, that what? One look in the 3-way mirror and I knew what she meant and, reluctantly, had to agree. Luckily for me the M3 model looked just as bad but in the other extreme. So, no flagship model No.1 pant for me. And no capitulating to the modern scourge of snug fitting pants capable of raising my voice 3 octaves either. I remain a loyal member of that between generation: I ended up leaving with a new pair of M2s which provide the roominess I desire and yet spare me from the heartbreak of old man diaper butt. From either side I look good, can walk proud, and still honor my heritage.
This:
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Not this:
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Friday, July 15, 2011
Biker Dreams
I've told you before, it's crazy, but I bought a BMX bike a few weeks back. It's a hideous tangerine orange and not a super high quality model. But, it is crazy fun to ride. Somehow I got it in my mind I need to get a banana seat on this baby so I can really start jumping off curbs and doing wheelies. Let me just say this: The dream is over.
Thursday I went to a couple of different bike shops out here in Phoenix where one has their choice of several fine specimens. It did not go well. I went to 3 different shops in search of a banana seat and sissy bar for my bike.
At the first, filled to the roof with 4 figure mountain bikes and road bikes weighing in at 19 pounds I didn't have the nerve to ask. Kind of like walking into a Ferrari showroom. "You wanna do what?."
At the second shop the repair guy, in his late 30's and super nice, looked at me and asked if the bike I was talking about was mine or my son's. When I answered he looked at me with a half smile that was half amused and half sympathetic and fully directed at a man he felt had pathetically lost touch. "I've never seen a guy your age ride a BMX." He went on to explain that his shop didn't have any banana seats but he recommended one that did. And then he told me where the BMX tracks were around here. He offered me the addresses on his Droid. He, in his 30's, is a BMX guy. I have to tell you, there are times at 54 I feel very close to 30. And others when I feel far removed.
The next shop was better.....and worse. "Can I help you?" Oh, crap. The "salesman" is about 14 and obviously the genuine article when it comes to BMX. I ask if they have banana seats and he shows me their selection of 5. Eureka! Then he asks me what I want it for and I explain how I have this BMX bike, a crappy cheap one, and how I want to put a banana seat on it so I can cruise around and do wheelies, and his face goes to this sickening blank. A fourteen year-old and he's freakin' speechless at this. He's looking at me and I can feel all the happy running out of my body as he calls one of the other guys over.
Guy number 2 is in his late 20's or so. He's super nice and ask's, "What can we do for you?" Meanwhile, the 14 year old is still standing there. He can't wait to see how this is going to play out. So, I explain to guy #2 that I have this crummy BMX bike and tell him about how I want to put a banana seat on the thing. His face doesn't drain of all color like mister 14 year-old. No. Instead he swallows hard and says, "Well, we'll need to have a sissy bar to attach it." He comes back a moment later with a happy look. "We've got it!" I tell him I'll be back in a flash with the bike. I'm feeling great! Screw the 14 year old.
Upon returning, tangerine bike in hand, bad news: My bike has the wrong size axles to allow the sissy bar to be attached. In short, no sissy bar, no banana seat. The 14 year old had that immediate look of relief like a 16 year old hearing his girlfriend was only "late," not pregnant. I must have looked completely demoralized: Guy #2, who it turns out, has a collection of more than 20 bikes of all types he regularly rides, asks me: "When was the last time you rode on a banana seat?" He went on to explain how they are made with a thin metal frame that runs the length of the sides of the seat and digs into your "butt bones" in an incredibly uncomfortable fashion.
Funny thing, although Mr. 14 year-old was now smirking in the distance, happy but still somewhat disbelieving of what had almost happened at his shop, guy #2's words had the ring of familiarity. I could, in truth, recall the very discomfort of that seat as it dug into my 13 year-old "butt bones" riding one for hours 6 days a week while delivering the Evening Outlook.
All in all, I guess that was a good trip to the bike shop. I'm still a little disappointed. And worried: If that 14 year-old ever catches me in public on my orange BMX bike I'm fairly certain he is going to crash my ass!
Thursday I went to a couple of different bike shops out here in Phoenix where one has their choice of several fine specimens. It did not go well. I went to 3 different shops in search of a banana seat and sissy bar for my bike.
At the first, filled to the roof with 4 figure mountain bikes and road bikes weighing in at 19 pounds I didn't have the nerve to ask. Kind of like walking into a Ferrari showroom. "You wanna do what?."
At the second shop the repair guy, in his late 30's and super nice, looked at me and asked if the bike I was talking about was mine or my son's. When I answered he looked at me with a half smile that was half amused and half sympathetic and fully directed at a man he felt had pathetically lost touch. "I've never seen a guy your age ride a BMX." He went on to explain that his shop didn't have any banana seats but he recommended one that did. And then he told me where the BMX tracks were around here. He offered me the addresses on his Droid. He, in his 30's, is a BMX guy. I have to tell you, there are times at 54 I feel very close to 30. And others when I feel far removed.
The next shop was better.....and worse. "Can I help you?" Oh, crap. The "salesman" is about 14 and obviously the genuine article when it comes to BMX. I ask if they have banana seats and he shows me their selection of 5. Eureka! Then he asks me what I want it for and I explain how I have this BMX bike, a crappy cheap one, and how I want to put a banana seat on it so I can cruise around and do wheelies, and his face goes to this sickening blank. A fourteen year-old and he's freakin' speechless at this. He's looking at me and I can feel all the happy running out of my body as he calls one of the other guys over.
Guy number 2 is in his late 20's or so. He's super nice and ask's, "What can we do for you?" Meanwhile, the 14 year old is still standing there. He can't wait to see how this is going to play out. So, I explain to guy #2 that I have this crummy BMX bike and tell him about how I want to put a banana seat on the thing. His face doesn't drain of all color like mister 14 year-old. No. Instead he swallows hard and says, "Well, we'll need to have a sissy bar to attach it." He comes back a moment later with a happy look. "We've got it!" I tell him I'll be back in a flash with the bike. I'm feeling great! Screw the 14 year old.
Upon returning, tangerine bike in hand, bad news: My bike has the wrong size axles to allow the sissy bar to be attached. In short, no sissy bar, no banana seat. The 14 year old had that immediate look of relief like a 16 year old hearing his girlfriend was only "late," not pregnant. I must have looked completely demoralized: Guy #2, who it turns out, has a collection of more than 20 bikes of all types he regularly rides, asks me: "When was the last time you rode on a banana seat?" He went on to explain how they are made with a thin metal frame that runs the length of the sides of the seat and digs into your "butt bones" in an incredibly uncomfortable fashion.
Funny thing, although Mr. 14 year-old was now smirking in the distance, happy but still somewhat disbelieving of what had almost happened at his shop, guy #2's words had the ring of familiarity. I could, in truth, recall the very discomfort of that seat as it dug into my 13 year-old "butt bones" riding one for hours 6 days a week while delivering the Evening Outlook.
All in all, I guess that was a good trip to the bike shop. I'm still a little disappointed. And worried: If that 14 year-old ever catches me in public on my orange BMX bike I'm fairly certain he is going to crash my ass!
Day Care Paybacks
This week in Phoenix my wife and I have been scouting day care facilities for Evan. He is a preschool regular at home in Michigan. He loves having a few hours every day to hang out with other kids and has a good time playing with others. So, we wanted to find a similar place here in Arizona that he would enjoy, be well taken care of, and look forward to visiting on return.
Yesterday we looked at a couple more places. Tam and I are pretty picky. We don't know for sure what we're looking for but, for sure, we recognize what we don't. As we left the one program housed in a beautiful old church school we both commented on the fact that facility looked a bit neglected. The classrooms were messy beyond what we'd expect for a room full of 4 year olds. The staff was not particularly well kempt. And the little miniature grade school version of a bathroom was messy. Cute, but messy.
As we left I was struck with a somewhat unsettling thought: God, I hope he spends as much time and effort investigating my "daycare" some day. Especially since he may be shopping residential facilities. Yikes. I guess I can only hope it's true: What goes around, comes around. Meanwhile, we'll keep looking.
Yesterday we looked at a couple more places. Tam and I are pretty picky. We don't know for sure what we're looking for but, for sure, we recognize what we don't. As we left the one program housed in a beautiful old church school we both commented on the fact that facility looked a bit neglected. The classrooms were messy beyond what we'd expect for a room full of 4 year olds. The staff was not particularly well kempt. And the little miniature grade school version of a bathroom was messy. Cute, but messy.
As we left I was struck with a somewhat unsettling thought: God, I hope he spends as much time and effort investigating my "daycare" some day. Especially since he may be shopping residential facilities. Yikes. I guess I can only hope it's true: What goes around, comes around. Meanwhile, we'll keep looking.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Owosso Tour de Eight
This is turning out to be the summer of the bike. Here in Michigan Evan is busy working on his balance and coordination while tooling around on a pedal-less two-wheeler. He's good on his scooter as well. On the big bike, however, he remains a prisoner of his training wheels. While his training wheels were off this past week for servicing on the campout he snuck off on his own to give it a try. Not so good.
Tam has a nice road bike now along with the shirts, shorts and gloves to go with. It's all good because she is really starting to dig it and is beginning to lobby for some bike trips.
The past week or so I've started to get hooked on watching the Tour de France. I can't believe the strength of these guys and the challenges the race presents. The whole entourage thing is a bit much with the motorcycles and support cars but, all in all, I'm getting sucked in for a hour or so most nights it's broadcast.
The other thing going on lately is that Ev and I head out on the driveway to ride bikes together for a hour or so each evening after dinner. Lazy eights, out and back, round and round. We wear our helmets and the neighbors must think we're crazy going nowhere but we have a good time.
And that last activity has given me my latest stroke of genius: I'm thinking about doing the entire Tour de France right here in my driveway. I don't know what kind of distance I'll be able to cover but I'll commit the same number of days and hours cruising around the driveway making my lazy eights. With any luck I'll find a sponsor like Volvo or Gatorade. I won't have to worry about chase vehicles- there's just no room unless someone shows up in a Shriner's clown car. Perhaps ESPN 3, or 4, will even find a slot or two to broadcast the Owosso Tour de Eight. Stay tuned.
Tam has a nice road bike now along with the shirts, shorts and gloves to go with. It's all good because she is really starting to dig it and is beginning to lobby for some bike trips.
The past week or so I've started to get hooked on watching the Tour de France. I can't believe the strength of these guys and the challenges the race presents. The whole entourage thing is a bit much with the motorcycles and support cars but, all in all, I'm getting sucked in for a hour or so most nights it's broadcast.
The other thing going on lately is that Ev and I head out on the driveway to ride bikes together for a hour or so each evening after dinner. Lazy eights, out and back, round and round. We wear our helmets and the neighbors must think we're crazy going nowhere but we have a good time.
And that last activity has given me my latest stroke of genius: I'm thinking about doing the entire Tour de France right here in my driveway. I don't know what kind of distance I'll be able to cover but I'll commit the same number of days and hours cruising around the driveway making my lazy eights. With any luck I'll find a sponsor like Volvo or Gatorade. I won't have to worry about chase vehicles- there's just no room unless someone shows up in a Shriner's clown car. Perhaps ESPN 3, or 4, will even find a slot or two to broadcast the Owosso Tour de Eight. Stay tuned.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Little Britches
Living where we do we see the life and culture of agriculture all around us. While not as prevalent here as one might find out west in places like Nebraska, Montana, Utah, Wyoming, and the eastern side of the Cascades, every now and then you find a amateur rodeo.
Coming back from fixing a broken ankle yesterday morning I saw the pasture surrounding Tom's Western Store filled with trailers, campers, and horses. The reader board sign on the store read: MLBRA Finals July 9. I wasn't sure what those initials stood for but I was pretty certain it involved rodeo.
In another life I lived out in Yakima, Washington. Rodeo had real presence out there and I got to enjoy an occasional hot summer afternoon sitting on a sun soaked well worn bleacher seat, the smell of horses, the tight jeans, bloused shirts, buckles, hats and boots. I still have the hat and boots to prove it. I was, and am, what was pitifully referred to as, "all hat and no horse." But it was fun to hang out and watch. As is said these days, it was an "authentic experience."
Anyway, a quick call to Tom's informed me the Little Britches Rodeo would start at 5. "Wow," I thought, "this will be great." Ev and Tam would be home soon and we could all head out around 4:30, settle into the bleacher seats and I could turn them on to one of rural America's great pass-times. Brilliant.
Little Britches Rodeo is for kids learning to do rodeo and it can be a whole lotta fun. On video. Without commercials. With none of the lengthy pauses between the action. Without the sun directly in your face.
We found the bleacher seats okay. I still love my boots and Ev and Tam looked like a million bucks in theirs. But after 50 minutes sitting in the hot sun and seeing only about 1 performance every 6 to 8 minutes, I thought it might be closing on time to go. And then the young teen came racing out on his high performance cow horse, roped a calf, dismounted, and tied the calf's legs all in less than 20 seconds. What a show stopper! Literally. "Wow! What a ya think of that, Ev?" "That's sad." he answered, somewhat disappointed and concerned with animal welfare.
On that note, we mounted our vehicle, headed to town, and lassoed three ice cream cones in under 20 minutes. More fun but nothing whatsoever to do with keeping britches little.
Coming back from fixing a broken ankle yesterday morning I saw the pasture surrounding Tom's Western Store filled with trailers, campers, and horses. The reader board sign on the store read: MLBRA Finals July 9. I wasn't sure what those initials stood for but I was pretty certain it involved rodeo.
In another life I lived out in Yakima, Washington. Rodeo had real presence out there and I got to enjoy an occasional hot summer afternoon sitting on a sun soaked well worn bleacher seat, the smell of horses, the tight jeans, bloused shirts, buckles, hats and boots. I still have the hat and boots to prove it. I was, and am, what was pitifully referred to as, "all hat and no horse." But it was fun to hang out and watch. As is said these days, it was an "authentic experience."
Anyway, a quick call to Tom's informed me the Little Britches Rodeo would start at 5. "Wow," I thought, "this will be great." Ev and Tam would be home soon and we could all head out around 4:30, settle into the bleacher seats and I could turn them on to one of rural America's great pass-times. Brilliant.
Little Britches Rodeo is for kids learning to do rodeo and it can be a whole lotta fun. On video. Without commercials. With none of the lengthy pauses between the action. Without the sun directly in your face.
We found the bleacher seats okay. I still love my boots and Ev and Tam looked like a million bucks in theirs. But after 50 minutes sitting in the hot sun and seeing only about 1 performance every 6 to 8 minutes, I thought it might be closing on time to go. And then the young teen came racing out on his high performance cow horse, roped a calf, dismounted, and tied the calf's legs all in less than 20 seconds. What a show stopper! Literally. "Wow! What a ya think of that, Ev?" "That's sad." he answered, somewhat disappointed and concerned with animal welfare.
On that note, we mounted our vehicle, headed to town, and lassoed three ice cream cones in under 20 minutes. More fun but nothing whatsoever to do with keeping britches little.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
VBS
While out driving this evening I passed a sign for vacation bible school at one of the local churches. We're a God fearing bunch in these parts and there's nothing unusual about seeing a roadside yard placard advertising the Sunday School equivalent of summer school. What caught my eye was the sign splashed with large yellow letters, "Sports Camp-Vacation Bible School."
"Nice try," I thought. Maybe if they cloak the religious piece in sports it will be easier to fill seats around the table. The thought really channeled my inner cynic. These days it seems sports is the most respected occupation and spectacular aspiration achievable in the eyes of most American youth. In my generation it could have been "Jet Camp-Vacation Bible School."
But then I thought a bit further and realized not that much has really changed. Not that I had any choice in the matter. For me VBS, as it was deftly referred to, casually tossed out in conversation like a Wall Streeter discussing credit default swaps, VBS was the 4 hours per day in one week of the summer vacation when our Mom would not have to wonder where we were or what we were doing. And for us it was four hours per day in that one week of summer vacation when we didn't have to ask each other, "so, whata ya wanna do?" But best of all, and I recalled this today seeing that sign marrying sports camp and VBS, I remembered every year that VBS meant two things I loved and would never have at home: real Koolaid and store bought cookies for snack time. And those were the two very best reasons to show up for VBS. Koolaid and store bought cookies inspired me to grow up and become that man who could have Koolaid and store bought cookies whenever he wanted!
"Nice try," I thought. Maybe if they cloak the religious piece in sports it will be easier to fill seats around the table. The thought really channeled my inner cynic. These days it seems sports is the most respected occupation and spectacular aspiration achievable in the eyes of most American youth. In my generation it could have been "Jet Camp-Vacation Bible School."
But then I thought a bit further and realized not that much has really changed. Not that I had any choice in the matter. For me VBS, as it was deftly referred to, casually tossed out in conversation like a Wall Streeter discussing credit default swaps, VBS was the 4 hours per day in one week of the summer vacation when our Mom would not have to wonder where we were or what we were doing. And for us it was four hours per day in that one week of summer vacation when we didn't have to ask each other, "so, whata ya wanna do?" But best of all, and I recalled this today seeing that sign marrying sports camp and VBS, I remembered every year that VBS meant two things I loved and would never have at home: real Koolaid and store bought cookies for snack time. And those were the two very best reasons to show up for VBS. Koolaid and store bought cookies inspired me to grow up and become that man who could have Koolaid and store bought cookies whenever he wanted!
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Summer Road
It's summertime. I'm not on vacation; not on a road trip. But today came close.
Every week or so I have to make a trip and back to St. Johns, a small town about the furthest 18 miles away there could ever be. The drive takes 25 minutes tops but seems like 26. Or 30. Or more. It just seems a whole lot further than the 18 miles claimed on the highway sign. But, like when I was a student in L.A., sometimes a little drive time lets your head work through things and, on occasion, good things come of it. Like today.
At noon I set out for St. Johns to visit a patient there. It was a beautiful, beautiful day. Sunshine and the big white clouds that are such a massive and distinctive feature of a summer's sky here in Michigan. The fields, those that survived our late spring deluge, are beginning to fill with waist-high corn and golden wheat and driving along you feel fortunate to live among this great agricultural bounty.
And then the traffic starts to back up. There are only a dozen cars headed west between my town and the next but they are all starting to queue up behind the large open box hauler who is trudging along at 52 miles an hour.......he behind the couple in the little van he can't pass. And suddenly I'm becoming annoyed and my thoughts turn to the need for a super fast car to pass the whole lot and zoom ahead.
While thinking that way, draping my hand over the top of the steering wheel, impatiently proceeding along my 18 mile course, I started to think about summer drives long, long ago. Back then I was small fry in the back seat. Up front was my Dad, pipe gritted between clinched teeth, silent, wing-window whistling and ineffectively cracked open in deference to the smoke. (This window was cranked just enough to accommodate the width of the matches he would eject.) His hand lay over the top of the steering wheel; periodically he would lift it just enough to allow a glance down at the speedometer as it faltered in the lowest ranks. He would lay back, watch, and study, waiting for the moment when his big yellow Impala could spring to life and launch us ahead of the pack. And when that moment presented itself, launch he would. He would pop to life, sit forward in the seat, and use full scale body language to urge that big Chevy along. His foot would snap that gas pedal to the floor and we'd be off! More than once Mom would find need to reach forward and steady herself placing one hand on the dash. And, on occasion, there would be a well measured comment, born of annoyance more than fear, from Mom on the the risky nature of more than a few of those launches.
We survived every one of his summer missile launches into oncoming traffic-- and all the many miles he chauffeured us up and down the west coast. Happy to report, I might add.
Enjoy your summer road. Launch some happy memories
Every week or so I have to make a trip and back to St. Johns, a small town about the furthest 18 miles away there could ever be. The drive takes 25 minutes tops but seems like 26. Or 30. Or more. It just seems a whole lot further than the 18 miles claimed on the highway sign. But, like when I was a student in L.A., sometimes a little drive time lets your head work through things and, on occasion, good things come of it. Like today.
At noon I set out for St. Johns to visit a patient there. It was a beautiful, beautiful day. Sunshine and the big white clouds that are such a massive and distinctive feature of a summer's sky here in Michigan. The fields, those that survived our late spring deluge, are beginning to fill with waist-high corn and golden wheat and driving along you feel fortunate to live among this great agricultural bounty.
And then the traffic starts to back up. There are only a dozen cars headed west between my town and the next but they are all starting to queue up behind the large open box hauler who is trudging along at 52 miles an hour.......he behind the couple in the little van he can't pass. And suddenly I'm becoming annoyed and my thoughts turn to the need for a super fast car to pass the whole lot and zoom ahead.
While thinking that way, draping my hand over the top of the steering wheel, impatiently proceeding along my 18 mile course, I started to think about summer drives long, long ago. Back then I was small fry in the back seat. Up front was my Dad, pipe gritted between clinched teeth, silent, wing-window whistling and ineffectively cracked open in deference to the smoke. (This window was cranked just enough to accommodate the width of the matches he would eject.) His hand lay over the top of the steering wheel; periodically he would lift it just enough to allow a glance down at the speedometer as it faltered in the lowest ranks. He would lay back, watch, and study, waiting for the moment when his big yellow Impala could spring to life and launch us ahead of the pack. And when that moment presented itself, launch he would. He would pop to life, sit forward in the seat, and use full scale body language to urge that big Chevy along. His foot would snap that gas pedal to the floor and we'd be off! More than once Mom would find need to reach forward and steady herself placing one hand on the dash. And, on occasion, there would be a well measured comment, born of annoyance more than fear, from Mom on the the risky nature of more than a few of those launches.
We survived every one of his summer missile launches into oncoming traffic-- and all the many miles he chauffeured us up and down the west coast. Happy to report, I might add.
Enjoy your summer road. Launch some happy memories
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Home Alone
My wife and son are gone camping. It's great. I think it's so important for a young boy growing up to learn about the outdoors-- waking up to pancakes and bacon, fishing for bluegill and perch, bike rides, campfire, roastin' marshmallows and makin' s'mores in the evening. With his Mom. While his father is home baking cookies.
It's not my fault. I'm on call this week so being off on a camping trip is off limits. Lucky for me. My idea of roughing it is, as the saying goes, a hotel without room service. Tam knows it and that's why she chose this week.
So being home for a couple of days without the wife and son should be, whoo hoo!, big time fun. You know, clothes on the floor, bed unmade, Cheerios and chips, dishes in the sink: Sit back, watch TV and relaaaaax.
As good as that may sound to some it doesn't work for me. In the old days when I was single and in top shape living alone it would have been no problem. Music up, make some dinner, get on the phone, drunk dialing by midnight, bed by 2, up by 6. That was bad Mickey.
So tonight I get home from work, empty the dishwasher, clean up some dishes from the morning, check my e-mail, heat up some left-overs, and then?? Bake cookies. Seriously. Like a mother hen with an empty nest I don't know what to do. All those times when I just needed an hour alone to get some work done on a drawing or some writing or reading. Poof!
So tonight I bake cookies. Ginger snaps. Maybe I'll run the vacuum tomorrow. Is there a lesson here for my son?
It's not my fault. I'm on call this week so being off on a camping trip is off limits. Lucky for me. My idea of roughing it is, as the saying goes, a hotel without room service. Tam knows it and that's why she chose this week.
So being home for a couple of days without the wife and son should be, whoo hoo!, big time fun. You know, clothes on the floor, bed unmade, Cheerios and chips, dishes in the sink: Sit back, watch TV and relaaaaax.
As good as that may sound to some it doesn't work for me. In the old days when I was single and in top shape living alone it would have been no problem. Music up, make some dinner, get on the phone, drunk dialing by midnight, bed by 2, up by 6. That was bad Mickey.
So tonight I get home from work, empty the dishwasher, clean up some dishes from the morning, check my e-mail, heat up some left-overs, and then?? Bake cookies. Seriously. Like a mother hen with an empty nest I don't know what to do. All those times when I just needed an hour alone to get some work done on a drawing or some writing or reading. Poof!
So tonight I bake cookies. Ginger snaps. Maybe I'll run the vacuum tomorrow. Is there a lesson here for my son?
Monday, July 4, 2011
Fireworks
The Fourth always strikes me as one of the most peculiar holidays. Its significance is well taught. Its observation is another matter. The contemporary Fourth is observed in all manner of rituals: cookouts, fireworks, parades, shopping, sports. Like so many acts of patriotism these days, proper and contemporary observance seems to involve retail spending.
My brother Dan sent an e-mail yesterday which brought to mind happy memories of our family's observation of the Fourth while growing up in Portland. As kids we were lucky if we got to go with Mom and Dad up for a visit at our friends' cabin in the Mt. Hood forest in Oregon. There we would have a large watermelon (the kind with seeds) secured with a ring of well placed stones in the ice cold creek out back. And stubby bottles of beer for the grown-ups.
Fireworks were a known hazard and we were cautioned from an early age as to the inherit danger and criminal nature associated with the use of firecrackers, magnums, and cherry bombs. Explosive devices were off limits but sparklers presented an acceptable level of risk and were available by the boxfull. Ditto snakes, although Dad always insisted they be used in a place where he would not have to clean up the ash remains. As for late night fireworks displays, that evoked a "we'll see" response from Mom. Although I was afraid of the loud noise that came with the show, I was always excited when we got to go, even if it meant we had to put on our pajamas first.
Here at home this Fourth we'll attend a community cookout at the airport. Most will stay to watch the fireworks set off from the park across the way. Me, I'll probably head home before they start. I'll get Evan to bed and then watch the fireflies put on one of summer's truly great firework displays. It starts at dusk, has no commercial sponsor, runs for about 3 hours, and doesn't make so much as a single pop. Happy Fourth of July.
My brother Dan sent an e-mail yesterday which brought to mind happy memories of our family's observation of the Fourth while growing up in Portland. As kids we were lucky if we got to go with Mom and Dad up for a visit at our friends' cabin in the Mt. Hood forest in Oregon. There we would have a large watermelon (the kind with seeds) secured with a ring of well placed stones in the ice cold creek out back. And stubby bottles of beer for the grown-ups.
Fireworks were a known hazard and we were cautioned from an early age as to the inherit danger and criminal nature associated with the use of firecrackers, magnums, and cherry bombs. Explosive devices were off limits but sparklers presented an acceptable level of risk and were available by the boxfull. Ditto snakes, although Dad always insisted they be used in a place where he would not have to clean up the ash remains. As for late night fireworks displays, that evoked a "we'll see" response from Mom. Although I was afraid of the loud noise that came with the show, I was always excited when we got to go, even if it meant we had to put on our pajamas first.
Here at home this Fourth we'll attend a community cookout at the airport. Most will stay to watch the fireworks set off from the park across the way. Me, I'll probably head home before they start. I'll get Evan to bed and then watch the fireflies put on one of summer's truly great firework displays. It starts at dusk, has no commercial sponsor, runs for about 3 hours, and doesn't make so much as a single pop. Happy Fourth of July.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Happy 4th, I Think
My mid-MIchigan town is fortunate to still have a local paper published most days of the week. One of the great services provided, an American liberty and tradition to the core, is the paper's commitment to publish letters to the editor. Though not always elegant they almost always give the reader a very direct look into the lives of our residents.
This past Wednesday the Argus-Press ran a letter from a man that I found terribly disturbing and extremely noteworthy. As we celebrate the 235th anniversary of the birth of this country Monday, we do so for good reason: In spite of any comments to the contrary, we live in a nation where one can publically attack the policies of our government and its leaders without fear of arrest or threat to self or family. We live in a country where we can organize votes and corral opinions to initiate change. We still live in a country where the press is unfettered, even if sometimes not without bias. We still live in a country where we are free to come and go from region to region, to worship as we believe, to say what we will. Our liberties are, indeed, generous compared to so many other regions in the world today.
What we should all find troubling in that letter of June 29th is the tone of frustration with, and contempt for, our present political system. This may be one of the greatest threats to our democracy: I fear many Americans are losing faith in the present system itself. We have a growing population of unemployed and under-employed while we shrink our investments in education, social security and social services in the name of fiscal responsibility. At the same time we are putting in place programs and policies to encourage the growth and success of private business. After 235 years the United States of America is growing a population which does not hold this system in esteem because the system is failing them in their needs, i.e., failing to fulfill the functions they believe a government is obligated to meet. In short, we have a rapidly growing population left feeling marginalized. "We the people," ain't them.
From the perspective of this growing population, the current state of affairs can easily be perceived as abandonment of those in need as well as the middle class, the hallmark of democracy, in favor of promoting those in the upper income brackets. A failure on our part to recognize this trend could be catastrophic to the form and substance of American democracy we celebrate and claim to hold so dear. Since the time of the Civil War I do not believe the leadership of this country has been in a position which requires the depth of historical insight, awareness of contemporary issues, and social foresight that are required at this juncture in our nation’s history.
Every leader claims to recognize the difficult decisions he or she has had to make as budgets are tackled on national, state, and local levels. One only hopes our leaders have an inkling of just how significant the consequences of their decisions may be in the years that lie ahead. In his letter of the 29th, the young writer appears to have a rather angry and disheartened view of what lies ahead. From the year 1770 comes the cautionary verse, “Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.” Oliver Goldsmith, 1770, with thanks to the late Tony Judt.
A patriotic evening sky, 7/3/2011
This past Wednesday the Argus-Press ran a letter from a man that I found terribly disturbing and extremely noteworthy. As we celebrate the 235th anniversary of the birth of this country Monday, we do so for good reason: In spite of any comments to the contrary, we live in a nation where one can publically attack the policies of our government and its leaders without fear of arrest or threat to self or family. We live in a country where we can organize votes and corral opinions to initiate change. We still live in a country where the press is unfettered, even if sometimes not without bias. We still live in a country where we are free to come and go from region to region, to worship as we believe, to say what we will. Our liberties are, indeed, generous compared to so many other regions in the world today.
What we should all find troubling in that letter of June 29th is the tone of frustration with, and contempt for, our present political system. This may be one of the greatest threats to our democracy: I fear many Americans are losing faith in the present system itself. We have a growing population of unemployed and under-employed while we shrink our investments in education, social security and social services in the name of fiscal responsibility. At the same time we are putting in place programs and policies to encourage the growth and success of private business. After 235 years the United States of America is growing a population which does not hold this system in esteem because the system is failing them in their needs, i.e., failing to fulfill the functions they believe a government is obligated to meet. In short, we have a rapidly growing population left feeling marginalized. "We the people," ain't them.
From the perspective of this growing population, the current state of affairs can easily be perceived as abandonment of those in need as well as the middle class, the hallmark of democracy, in favor of promoting those in the upper income brackets. A failure on our part to recognize this trend could be catastrophic to the form and substance of American democracy we celebrate and claim to hold so dear. Since the time of the Civil War I do not believe the leadership of this country has been in a position which requires the depth of historical insight, awareness of contemporary issues, and social foresight that are required at this juncture in our nation’s history.
Every leader claims to recognize the difficult decisions he or she has had to make as budgets are tackled on national, state, and local levels. One only hopes our leaders have an inkling of just how significant the consequences of their decisions may be in the years that lie ahead. In his letter of the 29th, the young writer appears to have a rather angry and disheartened view of what lies ahead. From the year 1770 comes the cautionary verse, “Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.” Oliver Goldsmith, 1770, with thanks to the late Tony Judt.
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