Bullying, we are all victims and participants....

When I was a younger man, probably around 25 or 26, I played Church League softball.  The team I played on was terrible; horrible; god-awful.  We routinely lost in huge fashion.  I distinctly remember one game during which I played left field and the opposing team hit so many home-runs into the woods behind me that I eventually stopped going in there to fetch the ball. Play had to be suspended until they could talk somebody's little brother into braving the woods and the mud and mosquitoes and collecting all the balls that were smacked out there.  We were horrible.

So, it was with no small sense of wonder that in a game against Ward Presbyterian, our arch-rival, we were actually within striking distance in the bottom of the final inning with two runners on and me up to bat.  I was never any kind of speed merchant on the base paths.  Rusty Staub like speed probably best describes me.  But, the times we played on fields without fences, I could usually hit the ball hard enough once or twice a game that, even with my diminished foot speed, I could lumber around for a homer.

The game I am remembering, there were runners on second and third with two outs and I was up for my team's last at bat - and we were down by three runs.  I put every ounce of my then 6 foot, 265 pound frame into a long, hard line drive to deep left field that rolled forever and started my journey around the bases.

As I rounded second, I noticed the left fielder searching for the ball in tall grass and recall feeling like I was going to tie the game for sure.  As I rounded third, the third base coach told me the ball was coming and to run harder.  I looked up and saw that the other team's catcher, a child of 12 or 13, was standing in perfect position to block the plate and I said a small prayer for the relay throw to miss him by a mile.  It didn't, it bounced once, hard, on the dry clay in front of the plate and skipped right into his mitt like he was a goalie making a glove save on a hard slap-shot.

"Crap," I thought as I came churning down the base-path.  Either I had to kill the kid, or not.  The kid, to his great credit, looked up with a face ashen with fear and apprehension as I churned down on him, but did not yield his position blocking home plate.

In the end, I dodged lamely  to the left and was tagged out - standing chest to chest with the diminutive catcher.  As he tagged me out, we each smiled as my teammates erupted with alarm and anger.  "You should have creamed him!" screamed the players from the bench.  "You cost us the game!" yelled another.

My face crimson, I turned toward the crowd and found my girlfriend (now my wife) who was the only other smiling face in the crowd.  She understood.  As I deadfooted it back to the bench, a solitary old man - his hands as soft as velvet - took up my hand in both of his and shook it firmly; meeting my gaze as only those from older generations seem to be able to do.

"Mister, that was the finest act of sportsmanship I have ever seen; and I just wanted to say "thank you."  That boy is my grandson, and, well, I just wanted to say "thanks."  His clear blue eyes peered right into mine, and I knew of course he was thanking me for not smooshing his grandson, a kid less than 1/3 my size (who never should have been playing catcher in the first place). He was thanking me for realizing that this was only a game and it wasn't worth anyone getting hurt over.

So, that night, I went from hero, to goat, to hero in the space of about 3 minutes.  But walking back to my car I felt slightly taller; slightly more affirmed.  My team, sensing that a rare opportunity for a win had evaporated into thin air but had also left behind an even more rare opportunity to celebrate the right thing, welcomed me back with open arms and we all had a good laugh about it.

So, what does this story have to do with bullying you might wonder.  Well, we all have choices. We all can decide to smear the little kid playing catcher and win the game, or realize it is just a game and there are far more important things in the overall scheme of things, and then seize upon that knowledge and do the right thing.

A bully thrives on the idea that most people will not do the right thing; most people won't say "well, you invited all of us to the party but excluded this other one - I'm not letting you get away with that."  Maybe more of us should.  Most parents are so happy to have their child included with the "in-crowd" that they never think to confront the "in-crowd" on the very fact that they are guilty of creating an "out-crowd."  Maybe, as a responsible parents, we ought to stop and consider that dynamic before we stand idly by and let the other kids feel heart-broken and alone in a small town.

A bully loves to pick on the little kid, or the disenfranchised, or the different or unpopular kid. And kids, at least kids whose parents don't work to confront and dilute the power of a bully by leading their kids to higher ground than that occupied by the bully, adopt a pack-like mentality just out of a sense of self-preservation. Well, what kind of world would we have if all of us taught our kids to say to the bullies “you're not getting away with that, I won't let you. I see what you're doing and we all know it's wrong.” What kind of world might we live in if we worked harder at inclusion than the petty bullies and deficient parents do at exclusion?

So that's what it has to do with bullying - we all see the choices around us.  What separates the inspirational from the frustrating and ordinary and honestly pathetic is how we choose to confront those hard choices.  We cannot begin to get serious about confronting the bullies of the world; physical and emotional, without also challenging ourselves to say "I will not tolerate this."  Until we do that, it's all just empty talk.

So, thanks for stopping by my blog today. I hope wherever you are, whoever you are with, you look at those you love and see those who will grow into the people who will craft a better world for all of us; and that you move boldly and firmly and in the full light of day to make that happen.

Dennis

smalltowndad@hotmail.com

10 years after September 11…

I have very few ritual traditions in my life.  There are the usual – Christmas and all the holiday trappings. We have a tree, and hang stockings, and usually I try and squeeze in time to see the musical version of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” – titled “Scrooge.”  For Thanksgiving there are the meals, and the phone calls to loved ones, and of course football.  But the exercise of these holidays comes without much in the way of lock-step tradition.

There are no special dishes that we MUST have; no special piece of china that occupies the high ground of tradition.  I guess there is a prayer that I try and say on each of these special occasions – Robert Louis Stevenson’s Prayer of Thanksgiving:

Lord, behold our family here assembled. We thank Thee for this place in which we dwell; for the love that unites us; for the peace accorded us this day; for the hope with which we expect the morrow; for the health, the work, the food, and the bright skies that make our lives delightful; and for our friends in all parts of the earth. Amen

I say that I try and say it because, invariably, the words are muted by my gratitude.  But, in terms of ritual, it is about as close as I get.

On September 11, though, I have a ritual I have enacted since my oldest started school.  As I recall, the morning of September 11, 2001 was one of sterling beauty in mid-Michigan.  I distinctly remember walking out of my home and thinking it had been a long time since I had seen such a beautiful day.

Ten years later and we all know how that day ended.  As the events unfolded on that morning, I found myself back at home – hugging my wife and young son and telling them both that I love them.  I wondered then how I would ever explain that evil day to my son as he grew into a man.

Ten years later, that boy is now on the threshold of adolescence.  Lean and tall, kind-hearted and patriotic – he has been asking lots of questions about September 11, 2001.  His mom and I share with him that, at its heart, the story of 9/11 is a story of courage, and love, and heroism.  It is a story that warns us not to let hatred tear at our common sense; it is the story of triumph and resilience.  It is the story of how the passengers on flight 93 voted before they took action.  It is an American story and an intensely human story.

So it dawns on me that one tradition I have that is immoveable is this – each September 11, I play hooky from work a little bit and I swing by Michael’s school at about 9:00 am.  I go into the office and tell the secretary that I have to give him something I think he might have forgotten at home and ask would she please call him to the office.  Then I stand in the hallway and wait for my Lochinvar in tennis shoes to come bounding down the hallway.  What he gets is a kiss, a hug, and a reminder that his mom and I are immensely proud of him, love him and no matter what occurs ever, he should never forget that and he should never feel alone.

The tradition grew out of the idea that every person who was killed on 9/11 was just some person going about the details of leading their lives.  One person that was ultimately deprived of a last hug; a last kiss – a final reassurance they mean the world to someone else.

As traditions go, I think it’s a keeper.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today – posts are slowing down just due to the sheer busyness of us leading our extraordinary ordinary lives.  I hope wherever you are, however you mark the solemn occasion of 9/11’s sad anniversary – you do so among a crowd of those you love; and who love you, and that never far from your gaze this weekend is the beloved face of someone special to you.  Also, in honor of all who perished then and after, I hope you take the time to remind those you love how cherished they are.

Dennis

Smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Alone in a digital age, how is this possible?

When I was a young man, my dad's mother passed away.  That happens with grandparents - if all goes according to plan.  Not a single parent on the planet, regardless of faith, color or creed wants to outlive their children.  So that fact of her passing is not really remarkable.  Grandparents die.

What is remarkable is what I learned; and am learning, from it.  See, to say she was "unpleasant" as a person is perhaps the second greatest understatement of last 100 years.  The first greatest understatement of the last 100 years being that of Lieutenant Henry Wilde when he said "do you think?" to Captain John Smith of the RMS Titanic when Smith said "maybe we should go slower around this ice.".

She was extremely unpleasant. Hateful would be a better way of putting it.  And, as a consequence of her aggressive, intemperate life spent attacking everyone around her, she found herself, at the end of her life, completely alone.  Estranged from her only son, her brother, her grandkids who were the frequent targets for her venom and manipulation.  Her death came quietly, without any family near her, at a government subsidized nursing home.

After she died, I helped my dad pack up her stuff.  It was an extremely sad time.  Sadder still was what I discovered when I found her phone bill.  See - she died back at a time before there were cell phones or internet.  Looking at her itemized phone bill, the single number appearing - repeated over and over - was to the time.

Yes, "back in the day" it was possible to dial a number and have the phone company tell you "at the tone, the time will be 11 o'clock and thirty-five minutes....DING."  I can't remember what it cost, but I do remember that she was calling that number 75 to 100 times a day, every day.

I never had the nerve to ask my dad about it; it just seemed so crazy and sad. But after he passed away I mentioned it to my mother - who is very wise about the ways of people - and she told me "it was the only human voice in her life; we all need to hear a human voice.  At the end of her life, that was the only voice that could bear to talk to her..."

So today, hear I sit, decades removed from that lesson, in what you would otherwise think was a busy dad's paradise.  My wife and son are away with the Boy Scouts - a week of primitive camping, canoeing, and fishing in an area of the state so remote and beautiful that I am actually green with envy.  They will see trees whose roots date back to the time of Lincoln and whose shade protected the Ojibwe and their guests not as visitors to the forest, but as inhabitants.

Amazingly, or perhaps more accurately, blessedly - there is no cell phone coverage, no electronics, no digital anything.  Just life the way the scouts have been living it for the last 100 years - camping, cooking your catch over an open fire, stars by the divine multitude.  The week will become a colorful stripe woven forever into the tapestry of each of the lives of both mother and son. I am sure of it.

And my daughter, the 4 year-old magical human-tornado who never stops talking, is spending the week with her grandparents in "the Big City."  She will visit with her grandma and grandpa who spend their winters in Florida. She will see their friends and be shown off at church, doted over, be treated like the princess she is not permitted to be in my home. (no princesses here, this is a working household - she wants to grow up to be an astronaut, surgeon, or hard working stay at home mom - fine.  But no princesses allowed here - she is so much better than that). That being said, it's ok if she goes to grandma and grandpa's house to be a princess for a week.  All granddaughters ought to be their grandfather's princess I suppose.

So here I sit - the military channel on an infinite loop as I try and remember to do all of the stuff my wife usually does to keep this house together (water the cats, feed the plants, do the wash, mow the lawn, follow up with the doctors and dentists about appointments, pick up the trumpet from the music store...) in a house that has suddenly gone quiet.  In the last 48 hours I haven't really talked to anyone - haven't told anyone "eat your dinner, brush your teeth, don't run in the house, be careful..."  I think the only words I uttered in the last 48 hours were "oh great" when the cat barfed.

And I - I can't believe I am saying this - I miss the noise.  I miss the activity.  I miss always wondering "what next?" I miss the door bell ringing and seeing one of Michael's pals and knowing I'll be cooking for one more  tonight.  I miss Kristin chasing me down the street when I leave for work - racing me down the sidewalk smiling and waving as she races the car out of the subdivision.

The quiet reminds me of the blessings - the vitality of a house that is really a home to a busy family.  The blessings of sorting out the border wars of who gets the best spot on the couch, what time baseball starts, why the shrimp is out of bed at midnight.  There was a thunderstorm the other night and there was no one for me to reassure that everything was going to be ok.  Two days into this reverse exile, I miss the cacophony that marks the rhythm of my life.

So, wherever you are today, whoever you are with, I hope your ears are filled with the joyful music of a life made busy with love; with urgency; with the laughter that comes from busy, silly kids.  Wherever you are today, if you need to know what time it is just to hear the sound of a human voice, gimme a call and I'll chat you up, and throw in the time for free.  Thanks for stopping by my blog today.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

PS - before you get all teary-eyed thinking of me, I should add that, by the time you are reading this, I will be on the second tee with a good friend and I have a T-bone steak the size of a small pizza thawing in the fridge.  I think I will probably survive being on my own, if only the cats would stop barfing.  :-)

Father's Day...

I suppose my first notion of the concept of Fatherhood occurred about when I was 4 years old.  My older brother Dave wasn't feeling well and my Dad got signed up to take both Dave and me to the doctor.  Being that dad was a salesman, he was always dressed very professionally for work; impeccable suit, tie, shoes polished - the works.

Whatever illness we had at that time, I remember that both Dave and I got shots for it.  And Dave started to feel a little queasy in the aftermath of the shot.  The color drained from his face, he crossed his arms over his stomach and said "Dad, I don't feel so good..."

My dad turned his attention from me, I was still sobbing from the shot, and he looked back at Dave.  I suppose it was the sound of that first hard gag that got his attention. I remember him crossing the room in a flash while at the same time searching for any kind of vessel to catch what was inevitably coming next.  It was almost like something out of a cartoon or maybe a Dick Van Dyke movie.  He danced around the examination room in fast motion - moving from counter to counter searching for a wastebasket, barf bag, lunch box - anything I suppose - and eventually wound up in front of Dave with his empty hands outstretched the same way a punter appears just before he drops the ball to kick it.

"BBBB.....BBBBBB.....BBBBB...BAAAAAARRRRFFFFFFF!" is what Dave said.

Dad's hands weren't empty after that.  In his later years, when we were grown and he was more confident in sharing with his children some of the saltier passages from his time in the service, he described that moment to me this way "I stood there, covered in barf, feeling like I had been shot at and missed and shit at and hit..."

The point of the whole story is, I remember at the moment it happened, thinking "Well, if that's what it is to be a dad, then I don't ever want to be a dad."

Well, I have been a dad now 11 years.  And in those 11 years I have been barfed on, peed & pooped on, had every shirt I own treated as a hankie for a kid crying from hurt feelings, skinned knees, or missing toys.  I survived 1000 or more shots to the grapes from the murderously cute and fast moving hands, knees, elbows, and feet of my two kids.  I have driven 75 miles round trip to a rest area in the middle of the night to search a rest area garbage can for a lost iPod Touch...let me just let that sink in for you...a rest area garbage can.  If anything on Earth can be more accurately described as Hell's anus than a rest area garbage can I don't know what it is; but I searched it for a missing iPod Touch that was a gift from Santa.  I mopped up Barf at Sam's Club - and I have never worked at Sam's Club.

I can confidently say that if those were the only things listed on the Dad job description, I would have never applied.  As it turns out though, the creepier, more disgusting aspects of fatherhood really kind of fall down to the level of "other duties as assigned" on the "Dad Job Description."

I have also cheered like a madman at baseball games and, lately road races.  I cried at scouting events and pre-school graduations, read stories and had them read back to me in hilarious fashion and have been party to a million inside jokes. I've had to stop the car two houses down, already late for work, because a pee-wee in pigtails and a sundress is chasing me down the street crying because I did not give her sufficient hugs and kisses before I left the door.  At work, I wear a lanyard carrying my work ID that proclaims I am "The World's Greatest Dad" because one Christmas when my son was 8, he apparently thought that.  I watched both of these children come into the world - have known them literally since the time they were "1 second old."  I have been told I love you 95,000 times more than I ever expected to hear that phrase in my life.


In short, I have been changed in ways I could not imagine. And  - despite the vibrant disagreement I am having with an 11 year old boy over what are reasonable expectations for a snoozy Sunday morning at the precise moment I am writing this  - I can say with certainty and confidence that I am still the luckiest guy I know.

So this Father's Day, I hope all those great dads out there stay dry and free from any type of human emissions. From this SmallTownDad to all the other dads out there, have a great Father's Day.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

P.S.  Any dads out there reading this already know the inevitable outcome of the missing iPod Touch.  The device that everyone was certain had inadvertently found its way into a McDonald's bag on the way home from some trip and was then discarded in the Rest Area garbage can?  Yeah, it was under the back seat of the car.  I only discovered it there AFTER I searched the garbage can.   But, I am a dad - and that still rocks.

As it turns out, I have Kryptonite...

It's true.  As it turns out, I have my own Kryptonite.  And, discovering that this past weekend, I confess no small degree of surprise that it’s not cheesecake, BBQ ribs, foxy boxing or war movies that will prove my undoing.

No, my Kryptonite, of all stupid and improbable things, is a song.  And to make it worse, it’s a song from a Disney movie!  I can sense you shaking your heads.  I know.  Imagine things from my point of view – you are just now learning this about me.  I AM me and am just now learning this about me.

The circumstances of this discovery are run of the mill, "small town dad" kinds of things.  I was at my daughter’s pre-school graduation last Friday.  Yes, we are a small town, and yes, we do pre-school graduation – and try as I might to sneer my cool sneer at this idea of a graduation pre-dating the time that this little kid actually even starts school; I can not.

The teachers have been with them two years (in some case almost half of the little kids’ lives). The kids themselves and the parents have traveled this road together.  The parents can walk confidently from the parking lot without crying or looking back and their little ones have gone from terrified toddlers unable to let go of mom or dad’s pant leg in the morning, to budding independents with confidence, intellect, and unvarnished personality in full bloom.  These thoughts already on my mind last Friday, I confess, I was feeling less than bulletproof when I got there.

The ceremony itself was in a beautiful old fashioned school auditorium.  A gift to the community 80 some odd years ago from auto millionaire James Couzens after a madman destroyed the community school and killed scores of people.  Upon learning of the disaster, Couzens called the Governor and said “Mr. Governor, my fortune is at your disposal.  Rebuild the school.”

Rebuild it they did. The lobby of the auditorium is almost sacred in its reverence to the little town and its school kids who survived the tragedy.  It is hallowed ground already. Evidence of so much vitality; so much life having passed through its halls in unheralded fashion, is everywhere.  Ancient school desks on display; the school clock saved from the bombed out ruins, composite pictures of every graduating class dating back to pre-World War II remind all who pass that time is always special; and always moving, never guaranteed but for the precise moment you are living.

So it was that I walked briskly through this sepia toned slice of my new hometown to take in what was to be the most modest of ceremonies – my little girl, the miracle child who almost never was, graduating from pre-school.

As I made my way into the auditorium, I heard “the song.”  Now, I don’t pretend to know everyone reading these pages, but I know enough of you to know that almost of all of you who are parents have a song that is “the song” that reminds you of your kids. 

The song I heard entering the auditorium was Phil Collins’ “You’ll be in my heart” from the Disney movie, Tarzan.  Immediately my knees buckled, I could not breathe, and either allergies or the gnats from a thousand camels attacked my eyes because for some reason I could not see out of them and they started leaking this kind of clear, viscous fluid.  I had to sit down.

That song, as it turns out, is “the song” for my son, our oldest.  He was born on a summer night at very nearly midnight.  Like it is for all new parents, the experience of bringing our first child into this world was an adventure of conquering the unexpected and walking through the fear.  When he was born we were at the hospital for over 13 hours and had one minor emergency that scared me to death.  Around 4:00 am, when all went quiet and my wife and new son were tucked in and safe and sound – I walked out to the car for a short ride home to catch some sleep before coming back to the hospital the next morning.

Our modest home was about 5 miles away and the roads were deserted.  I started the car and turned on the radio just in time to hear “You’ll be in my heart.”  It’s a song I'll forever associate with him and my journey from plain old Dennis to SmallTownDad.

Listening to the lyrics that day, reflecting on the events and permanent change they brought to my life, I realized then how, all at once, I had a new singular purpose in my life – to keep this family safe.  By the time I got home that night 11 years ago I was so full of passion and adrenaline I would have gladly gone looking for lions, tigers, or any other perceived threat to my family.  I felt inspired and committed to the idea that no matter what in my life, as a dad I would always have to be brave.

So it was that the same song that inspired me 11 years previously sapped my strength last Friday.  I sat immobile; every ounce of testosterone repelled from my body with the force of two magnets of the same polarity. In that moment I came to another realization.  The bravery stuff is obvious – all animals have it when it comes to their children.  It’s how we guarantee the survival of the species.

But, zoology and evolution aside, I realized then that nothing in my life prepared me for how much I would love these children; how vulnerable I would be to even their most humble achievements or modest heartaches.  Nothing prepared me for the reckoning that with each celebration marked, each milestone achieved – there comes a collateral moment of the rare and beautiful gift of this special time slipping away into my life’s rearview mirror.

So today’s blog is a blog about celebration and appreciation.  I am so grateful to have been blessed with this chance to be a dad; to watch them grow and to know their stories – to have these small hands to hold if even for a little bit.  The legacy of this little town we chose is to not take one moment for granted; don’t forsake any of the badges or incidences of childhood.  Through natural means or other, those will be gone into memory soon enough.

Thanks for stopping by today – I hope wherever you are this graduation season –if you are celebrating a college, high school, or pre-school graduation – you seize that moment to cry hot tears, cheer ‘til your throat is sore, and reflect on the cascading series of miracles that put you and yours at exactly this place with exactly these people.

Dennis

smalltowndad@hotmail.com  

"There are no rules here - we're trying to accomplish something."

That was Thomas Edison's famous quote on rules.  To him there there were rules, and then there were rules.  And while for most of us, we aren't competing exactly with Edison's level of achievement, we nonetheless have to deal with certain rules governing or defining our existence.

I often joke with my son about how there are "SmallTownDad Rules."  Nothing new for me - my parents had them too.  For my dad, one example of those rules was: "Don't ever shine your flashlight down the outhouse..."  For my mom, the teacher, her famous rules were much more refined but nonetheless as practical as dad's.  One famous one was "If you want an answer right this second, I'll give you an answer right this second. I'm pretty sure you won't like it, but you'll get your answer."
 
So, I am preserving here for my kids a few of my "rules."  I am not sure if any of them mean anything except that nearly always - well around half the time anyway - they end up true.

1.  There is always a closer parking spot.  Now this one doesn't work at the local 7-11 or gas station.  But at the big-box store and the mall it is a near certainty to be true.  You just have to be patient.

2. In a small town, the person in traffic that you made that obscene gesture to at 9:00 am?  Yeah, that person almost certainly will be at the 10:00 am meeting you were rushing to.  Always always always...  I was at a birthday party at a local zoo, parked in the parking lot 8 miles away from any other car - just waiting for my daughter to come out when this little car zipped into the spot next to me like I was in some kind of dog-fight with her.  I can only imagine the look on my face, having watched this daredevil come within a hair's breadth of smashing into my car.  As the stuntwoman...I mean driver...exited her vehicle, I realized it was a woman I worked with for years who was volunteering at the zoo.  The 9:00 am rule always is true.

3.  There is always one more meal's worth of fuel in the propane tank, until there isn't.  I have two propane tanks for my grill - and propane compared to other fuels is relatively cheap - so there is really no excuse for not keeping the spare filled up other than a) I like the action of gambling a family dinner of strip steaks and corn on the cob against the odds that the grill will go stone cold two minutes after ignition; and b) keeping a second full propane tank in the garage is like keeping a second bomb sitting around.  Yes, I am well aware of the school of thought that says a real artiste would only work in charcoals - but I make no pretense of being an artiste.  I am a dad. 

4.  The Mirth Curth - just when I get up a good head of steam yelling at one or the other of these two kids, they will invariably crack me up.  It is no wonder there is no good order or discipline in this house.  Plenty of mirth, but certainly no good order or discipline :-)

5.  The more you blow off your wife's worrying about the sump pump not working, the more you virtually assure that the sump pump will stop working...in the middle of the night...in between pay days.

6.  The word "now"; while effective as a command to those younger than 10, is of no possible utility to a married man in his relationship with his wife.  Think of it - you can say to a kid "get in there and brush your teeth, Now!" and the kid will listen or at least understand you.  "Now" is an important word for kids.  But consider the difference it makes in the following, seemingly innocuous, sentences:  saying "What's wrong?" to your spouse takes on an entirely new meaning when presented as "what's wrong now?"

7.  The second you draw a line in the sand with that child, you know the one, who tells you she has to go potty every time there is a chore to be done; the second you say "No. Baloney.  You do this to me every time.  You can hold it until we finish cleaning the kitchen..."  Well that second will be the time you end up with a wet and smelly line in the sand and your wife asking you "what did you do, now?".

8.  Chocolate milk and fudgsicles are a terrible home remedy for Rota Virus.  That's all that needs to be said about that, ever.  Again.

9.  No matter how small the amount - liquid dish soap is never an acceptable alternative to dishwasher soap for the dishwasher.  If you doubt me, try it once. I promise you that in the aftermath you will achieve a new appreciation for the word "astonishing."

10.  Vernors and vanilla ice cream will cure all manners of scrapes, bumps, bruises, hurt feelings and suds-flooded kitchens.

So, a few of the rules of this house - shared for your utility and commentary.  Wherever you are tonight, I hope you find yourself in the company of those who would celebrate in your unusual and contradictory rules; those who would forgive your cold grill, and those whose glad heart will make you laugh even after you catch them writing on the walls in magic marker.

Thanks for stopping by my blog tonight - please feel free to share the basic or unique rules of your home here.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

An Ordinary Extraordinary day with Scouts...

"Courage is doing what you're afraid to do.  There can be no courage unless you're scared."

That great quote from WWI flying ace Eddie Von Rickenbacker is one that is oft repeated or emulated by others.  My dad, without the benefit of Google or the internet, shared a nearly identical version of it with me as a child growing up.  On an extraordinary, ordinary Saturday morning we in my family saw, in miniature, what that quote really means.

This particular Saturday found us up at the crack of dawn, heading off to yet another terrific Boy Scout adventure.  Groggy family piled into the family grocery getter, we all headed off to Camp Kiwanis in Central Lower Michigan for a day of service to others.  Michael's Boy Scout Troop was volunteering to help with an event called "Webelos in the Woods," an opportunity for Cub Scouts and Webelos to earn merit badges and participate in some of the greater aspects of scouting, camping, and  achievement.

Planned for the younger kids were activities like Archery, Engineering, Camp FIre building and a climbing/rappeling opportunity on the camp's famous "Tower of Strength."  Parents were invited to come and hang out while the older Boy Scouts volunteered to help out at different activities around the camp.

During break periods and down time, the Boy Scouts who were present were permitted to engage in some of the same activities that were set up for the younger Cubs and Webelos.  It was during one of these times that I asked our nearly 11 year old son if he thought he wanted to a take a crack at mastering "The Tower of Strength."

Call her what you will - "The Widowmaker," "Old Cranky," or "The Plywood Pariah"; the Tower of Strength is a four sided climbing tower of ancient construction with a rock course on two sides and a rappelling surface on the third.  It is central to the parade grounds at Camp Kiwanis and casts an imposing shadow there for all of the visitors to see.

I was expecting some hemming and hawing and an eventual "no" from Michael.  He is my conservative child; my "why cannonball into the pool when the steps are right here?" child.  He is as deliberate, purposeful and cautious as my youngest is wild and carefree.  So it was that he surprised me by meeting my gaze with a huge freckly smile, and said,  "Sure, Dad, I'll give it a try."

I was doubly surprised because I knew how exhausted he must have been.  The night before there was a Walk-A-Thon event at the local school and Michael ran the entire three hours he was there; stopping only twice for water.  He logged nearly 14.5 miles in three hours of solid running merely 15 hours before we arrived at the base of Old Cranky.  So, I expected him to flop down into the camp chair next to me and tell me "maybe next time, dad."

But - he made a bee-line for the Tower.  He was suited up, given an expert safety instruction and assumed his place on the right side of side by side climbing stations set up to assault the west side of the Tower of Strength.

The Tower is a seductive temptress to those adolescents who come within its presence.  Its rock course, straight up a 90 degree wall using only your brain, arms, hands and legs, tests strength, courage, and flexibility.  The reward for reaching the top? Rappeling down the other side.  That's the rule of the Tower - the only way you get to rappel down is if you can find the grit within you to climb up.  It's not uncommon for kids to have to use successive trips on different visits to the camp to work up their courage to make it to the top.

Now the fact is that anyone climbing is first and foremost in the hands of trained, certified climbing instructors.  So, thing one - the kids are always safe.  Thing two - they are tied off in expert climbing fashion and, if everyone has done their job right, should be able to make the effort at climbing the wall with no real possibility of falling.  Those things being certain, however, try convincing a ten year old 15 feet off the ground and 15 feet from the top that he is no danger whatsoever.

So it was that Michael approached the course.  He is lean, and strong, and very flexible and the first 15 feet up were achieved without even breaking a sweat.  Then, at the midpoint of the wall, he became uncertain of which handholds to take and had the courage to tell one and all "I'm afraid, can you lower me please?"  He didn't cry or scream out, but there was no doubt he wanted down.

Anthony scales the wall to help Michael

What he didn't see was that a fellow scout, Anthony, a whirling dervish of a kid with wild hair and a broad, energetic smile, was preparing to assault the second route on the exact same wall.  He called out "Hang On Michael!  I'm coming, I'll show you the way!"

The crowd around the Tower also called out to Michael "Hang on, Don't quit!  You can do it!"

In a flash, Anthony, a confident and skilled climber two years older than Michael, zipped up the left hand side of the wall and, pausing ever so slightly when he got next to him, said to Michael, "c'mon, you can do this.  Follow me."

Michael, all eyes on him now, re-mounted the wall with vigor and commitment and, when he couldn't find a foothold, used his hands and arms to pull himself up to the next spot where his boots could find purchase.  Families from Scout packs we had never met before called encouragement to him "You can do it!' came a call from the archery range.  "Don't quit, Michael!' called out a dad from behind his young son. A complete stranger standing next to me called on to Michael as if he was his own, "You can do it buddy!  You're almost there!"

Slowly and surely he made his way to the top and successfully summited The Tower of Strength on his first try.  We all cheered.  I cheered hard, knowing how tired and afraid he must have been.

Rappelling down !

I watched with pride as he rappelled down the smooth side of the Tower.  I wondered what I might tell him later of his extraordinary ordinary day in Scouts and it occurred to me that not a single person in the world would have held it against him if he said "I'm tired, and scared, and for crying out loud gimme a break I ran almost 15 miles on 10 year old legs just last night." No one would have judged him if he insisted on being lowered from the Tower.

But...instead...

Instead of having done something no one would have held against him, he (with help from fellow scout Anthony) achieved something now that no one will ever be able to take away from him.  He saw his fear, and mastered it.  He stood fast and colored in the lines of his character with bravery and achievement and did the very thing he was sure he couldn't do.  He did on an ordinary day what is the ordinary mission of Scouting and the parent volunteers who work so hard at making these days possible.

And, in that regard, he had an extraordinary, ordinary day at Scouts.

So thanks for stopping by my blog.  Wherever you are today; whoever you are with - I hope you are spending time with people whose courage lifts you, inspires you, and reminds you that there is bravery yet within all of us, if we just look for it and sometimes have the help of others to find it.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Reflections on September 11, and on today...

I have started this blog post many times over the last 15 hours without being able to settle into something that strikes the appropriate tone.  Osama Bin Laden is dead – killed in a boots on the ground military operation in the previously unheard of city of Abbottabad, Pakistan.  The last thing in this world he saw before he met his end was the grim face of a US warrior. The face of conviction and resolve; the face of justice delivered courtesy of the Navy SEALs.  And while I do not cherish the idea of celebrating any person’s death; it seems just so unseemly, I can say that the events are remarkable. Like the slamming of great and terrible door while simultaneously opening a beautiful window.

The news of Bin Laden’s death brings to the mind many memories from September of 2001.  Ten years in my rearview mirror - I remember September 11, 2001 distinctly. It was a Tuesday morning – perhaps the most stunningly beautiful morning I had seen in a long time.  I recall the sky was gorgeous and there was a slight late summer breeze blowing through trees still full with leaves.

I was at work when news reports of the first plane hitting the towers came in.  We all thought it was an accident – I remembered reading a story in fourth grade about how a bomber lost in fog had crashed into the Empire State Building and the sheared off propeller killed a woman.  I remember thinking that the weather must be a lot worse in New York City than it was here if that happened.

Then came news of a second plane, and immediately we all knew it was an act of terror.  Around the same time my mother-in-law called me at work, her voice anguished and very emotional.  “We’re under attack” she screamed and then reminded me that I had left the house that morning with the computer still on so she couldn’t reach my wife and our then 1 year old son to check on them.

I left work, without permission of my supervisor, and went to the bank where I drew out 500.00.  I filled the car with as much gasoline as it would hold and then went to our local discount retailer where I bought diapers, baby food, bottled water and bread.  Having not lived through this before – I had no idea what to expect but those seemed like wise choices.

On my way back from the store to our modest home in Lansing, I noticed the gas stations wildly raising their prices – prices ranged from 3.00 per gallon to upwards of 5.00 a gallon.  I felt a small tinge of relief at having gotten gas for right around a buck fifty per gallon.  I can also vividly recall stepping out of the car and, for the first time in my entire life, realizing that there was virtually no air traffic flying.  That morning was so beautiful and turned so dreadfully quiet. I remember every car at every stop light had an American; tears flowing, making regular eye contact with his or her neighbors at the light.  I remember feeling that day like I was part of a nation; moreso than ever before in my life.

Once home, as I reached for the front door, I remember thinking that nothing would ever be the same in our lives again.  I remember thinking that my new son would grow up in a world stained by war and terror – that his parents would be forever changed in the way that my parents and theirs were forever changed by Pearl Harbor.  I turned the knob and there were my wife and son, playing in the front room – TV off.  My wife asked me what I was doing home from work, and what was wrong – had I gotten fired?  “Turn on the TV,” I told her.

The rest is just such a blur – the whirlwind moments in the days and weeks and months that followed.  The eerie, haunting sounds of the firefighters’ distress beacons - "beep beep beep" that carried over to the news accounts from Ground Zero. The catheter of fear that is “news ticker” and its never ending torrent of information – mostly wrong. I remember crying, a lot.  And I remember the rage, and patriotism, followed much later by a deep and sinister cynicism that we had been allowed down a path of war by those among us who wanted war.

On vacation in 2002, I asked a man from Pennsylvania if the effects of 2001 were more local, more potent to him living closer to New York City than to those of us in the Midwest.  I remember he started to cry, and told me a story about having dinner at Windows on the World, and then being left wondering the next week if “that kid who brought me a pizza and a beer” was still alive.

I remember my visit to Shanksville, Pennsylvania in September of 2002 – and what a powerful and moving experience it was to be there with my family.  The passengers and crew of flight 93 voted before they took action – how uniquely American.  They voted.  I remember walking away from that field in Shanksville thinking I would never again forgo my ability to vote in any election.  

I also remember wondering what it would feel like when we finally caught up with Osama Bin Laden.  That was a decade ago.  So much of my life; all of our lives really, now gone - spent.  And while I have never forgotten our troops in the field; never spent one moment taking their sacrifice for granted – I have to admit that over much of the last several years I have given as much thought to Osama Bin Laden as I have what I might cook for dinner.

So today, he is gone and we are here.  I don’t know really how to feel about it.  I don’t want to cheer the death of another.  It’s just not my values.  But I think it is good that he has had justice brought to him.  It is good to show that whatever the costs there will be an accounting for terror; and I think it is good that it was Americans who did it.

I’ll go to bed tonight so very proud of our servicemen and women, our President, and our country.  I do not know what will come of this – if there will be more peace or less in the weeks and months to come.  But for today, we can rejoice in the notion of justice and a difficult job well done by those whose pledge is to keep America safe.

Two final remembrances of 9/11/2001 – before the advent of blogging, my writing indulgence was exercised only by writing an annual Christmas newsletter.  Once per year I would sit down and punch out a couple of pages on whatever.  A lasting change, after 9/11/01, was that I would sign each newsletter with the words “Peace in our time.”

The second is more a tradition than a remembrance. Each September 11, I stop by my son's school and ask the secretary to call him to the office.  I tell her "I have to give him something he might have forgotten at home this morning."  I then wait in the hallway for him and, when he appears, I give him a hug, a kiss and I tell him I love him and how proud his mom and I are of him.  It is never lost on me that all who were lost on 9/11/01 were just ordinary people just leading their ordinary lives.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today.  I hope that wherever you are, whoever you are with tonight – you find yourself in the company of those you love; those whose lives are precious to you and you are warmed by them. I hope you reflect on your mythology lessons and remember that, after Pandora opened the legendary vessel loosing all of the evils unto the world, therein remained just a solitary occupant of the box – hope.  Tonight, hold those that are closest to you and hope and pray for a lasting peace in our time.

Dennis

Smalltowndad@hotmail.com

What really matters…

So tomorrow is the big day – the dreaded knee surgery is upon me.  Two months ago, while shepherding both of my kids and my sister’s oldest across an icy parking lot, I slipped and fell and landed squarely on both knees.  Imagine a hockey goalie trying to make a save in the “5-hole.”  That was pretty much me.

In the weeks immediately following the fall, I noticed an increasing sensitivity in my right knee.  As it turns out, my father was not entirely correct when he said all injuries far from our heart can be cured by “rubbing some dirt on them” and “shaking them off.”  So, I limped around for about a month while my wife reminded me frequently that I should get it checked out.

I had no desire to get it checked it out, for a couple of reasons.  1)  The doctor I see is in cahoots with some unknown person from my past who has reason to want me dead.  Why?  I don’t know.  But I know I have survived three or four earnest attempts by my present doctor to kill me so I really don’t have much faith in him.  2)  It didn’t hurt that bad, it just always hurt.  So I figured I would just “shake it off” and “rub some dirt on it.” And 3) the doctor’s office is where the scale lives – and the scale is to me what fire was to Frankenstein’s monster.  “Aaaaaagghhhhh!  Bad!”  I am no fan of the scale.

So it was that at a family dinner in March, I was descending the staircase when my right knee decided it had had just about enough of my nonsense and decided to basically pull the old “exploding pain and popping sensations in the knee” trick.  Down I went – unable to put any weight on it at all and then there was the pain.  There was not enough dirt in all of Clinton County to rub the pain out of this injury.

The Emergency room diagnosed it, with a straight face mind you, as a “mild sprain.”  I was hopeful and incredulous all at the same time.  I have sprained my ankle before – and yes – it was very painful.  No, the onset of that sprain did not have me re-enacting Raymond Burr’s silhouette from the opening credits of “Ironside” as I did with this injury.  So, my incredulity was based on the fact that I was surrounded by doctors and nurses and orderlies and they said “mild sprain.”  Turns out, there was nothing neither mild nor “sprainy” about it.

Torn meniscus was the diagnosis.  Painful but common injury to the knee.  Could have been much worse – fix it with arthroscopic outpatient surgery, take it easy and should be right as rain (with the attendant certainty that I will develop arthritis in that knee some time in the future).

So in all the poking, prodding, examining, imaging and testing that goes into moving this injury from a mild sprain to a torn meniscus and the eventual surgical repair, they tell me to go and have a pre-op EKG so they can make sure the ticker is still registering all moments great and small in its proper fashion.

I won’t bore you with the details – but I did have the EKG and there was an irregularity that was later chalked up to the human sweater vest I wear under my tee-shirt.  The lovely woolen number from the Robin Williams collection seems to have interfered with one of the EKG leads and, after figuring that out, everything else tested out just fine.

While at the heart doctor’s office, they gave me a stress test.  This was funny to me because I take one of these every day at my home when I open the evening mail. Apparently the doctor wanted something more scientific and observable than me opening the statement from the student loan people, so he ordered a test.

Because of the knee injury, I couldn’t do the six million dollar man treadmill test, so they gave me a chemical test.  Basically you lie there on your side and they inject you with a drug that makes you feel like you are having a heart attack.  I’m sure that’s not its purpose, but the feeling that there was an army of hobbits trying to kick their way out of my chest cavity did nothing to help calm my nerves laying there on the doctor’s table.

The sensation was terrifying.  My dad died from complications of a heart attack.  As I lay there, heart pounding wildly out of control, I thought of him and was profoundly impacted.  The chemical stress test is deceiving in that your heart is racing but you aren’t breathing hard or working out or having any accompanying physical exertion.  You just lay there, heart racing like the engine of a parked car with a brick on the accelerator.

In that moment I thought “this is what it must feel like to die of a heart attack.”  Now I will be the first to admit that I have a real gift for the dramatic. And I am sure I was never in any danger at all – and if your doctor tells you to go and have a stress test; go and have the stress test.  Knowing what is going on in there is better than not knowing. 

But laying there as I was, heart racing, the reptilian genes whose genetic legacy is the maintenance of bare instinct and raw survival emotions slowly came to life and went to work slowing my heart even when the techs were telling me to get my heart beating faster.

Images from my extremely ordinary life began to flood my mind. All of sudden there was the summer day my best friend and I spent with a couple of girls we had crushes on, circling the lake in a speedboat, vivid memories of talking with my daughter about very ordinary things and realizing she is anything but ordinary. Next I saw my wife – this person with whom I have shared the last 25 years – at the hospital on the day both kids were born and equally vivid were the images of Michael; his impossible good humor and infectious laughter.  Finally, my heart slowing back to its normal 75 beats per minute, there were hazy moments from when I played little league baseball. All of my family was there – dad in that orange, Banlon short-sleeved shirt, mom in her lawn chair, and both brothers leaning up against a fence hollering at me. There too was my sister, 9 years younger than me, running around in a sun dress.

I guess the point of all of it is this – as I lay there, heart pounding, feeling like the only thing I could control was what thoughts went through my mind – the images that came to me weren’t of work, or money, or possessions.  I did not recall a single time I won an argument, told someone off, or vanquished some rival.  What came to me were friendly faces, warm memories, time with my family. That’s what matters. What came to me was a reminder that it’s the good stuff – a smile, a joke, 10 hugs and kisses to the 4 year old before you can get out the door for work in the morning – that’s what matters.

So listen, thanks for stopping by my blog today. It’s been a while since I posted and I appreciate your continued support.  Wherever you are or whoever you are with today; I hope you find yourself in the company of people the memories of whom will act to comfort and secure you some time in the future. That is what really matters.

Dennis

smalltowndad@hotmail.com

   

An Extraordinary Ordinary hero...

This age of blogging and instant publishing - everything from the miraculous to the mundane is fair game for the on-line community.  Evidence of that fact is that on these very electronic pages, the two most popular stories are the one I wrote about Chicken Dino Nuggets and the one about how my wonderful daughter was one act of generosity away from never being born.  And Dino Nuggets is beating Miracle Daughter by about 150 pageviews. You just never know what written word will resonate with people.

Such is the case with this entry - which is about my mother.  She is not perfect; she'll be the first to tell you that.  But none of us are, are we?  She is, however, a wonder - I really think there ought to be a movie made of her life. 

There just don't seem to be any people like her, other than her, in my life. If she was a ship's captain, I would sail exclusively with her.  She has been surviving cancer since I was a young man - since 1985.  In that quarter of a century there have been close calls, and surgeries, and chemo, and moments of desperation.  All of what you would expect from a mother of four living with cancer.  Just consider - my sister was 12 when our mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.  When she began this road, she worried about what the diagnosis meant for her then 12 year old daughter and that daughter's three older brothers.  Now, those four kids have 13 kids themselves - the oldest of which will be 21 this year. 

What is remarkable about the last 25 years is the courage, peace, and heroism she has shown.  She is a living testament to the adage of "It ain't what happens to you that matters, it's how you deal with it that counts."  Through all of her struggles she has been upbeat, positive, and inspirational.  The leadership she has mustered in stealing her life back from this disease is an example my children will have to guide them the rest of their lives. Sadly, she is not a blogger - that much is all of our loss.  She has so many gifts - expression and understanding are two of her many impressive strengths.  It would be nice to have her impressions of the extraordinary heroism she has shown in the face of this perpetual uncertainty that is living with cancer.  She would blow it off, chalk it up to her parents and theirs who were exceptionally brave and strong people.  She would think herself "just ordinary."  Well, it is not the time for eulogies and there is lots left to do, but she shared some things recently that I wanted to pass along.

She maintains a page on line where she shares from time to time her feelings. With her permission, I will include her words here as the site's second-ever guest blogger.  Just a brief snapshot image, preserved here for my kids and other readers of these pages, so that all might know a little about this amazing woman who is my mom.  The post below was entered on her carepages site at www.carepages.com/joanscave

Dear Hearts and Gentle Friends, so we now have experienced 3 more months of great living. Here we have cause to pause and reflect. Consider what constitutes a 'normal' day. Joy, friendship, good food, adventure, stuff to do, people who love and need you and looking forward to tomorrow. We expect that tomorrow will be just like today. These great tomorrows seem endless. We never want them to change. Then one day, suddenly, it DOES change. No reason, just the ever progression of the stars and planets working their way through the vast hopes of tomorrow. Then, like Japan, suddenly all the tomorrows take on a new shape. We assign new priorities. The new priorities part is a good thing. It reminds us not to take tomorrow for granted. Don't spend today, as precious as it is, in anger, or worry or disappointment or other negative emotions. Those things won't change a thing only take away today. Not a good trade. Take my advice; I'm not using it myself at the moment. So this is where I am today.

I have thought long and hard about whether or not to share this with you. But I have decided that you are my balcony people. You are the wind beneath my wings. If you were not there, I would surely fall into the abyss of depression and hopelessness. There are those among you, and you know who you are, who are the fountains of optimism. You are always bright and sunny and bring me laughs and joy and hope and very importantly, distractions. God, how I need distractions. They are my lifeline. So, here's the scoop.

As you already know, that all important CA 27/29 has been steadily rising. Okay, we have done scans and tests and we don't know why it continues to rise. Formerly, my great fear was that the big C would reach my liver. We know it has done that. However, we also know that the drugs I have been given have put up a formidable front and that seems to be somewhat under control for the moment. However, still the numbers escalate. We are now in the 400's. The last place to look for activity is the brain. Cancer attacks places in the body that are rich in blood. That would be lungs, bones, liver and brain. We've covered 3 of the 4 and we know it's present in those 3 places to one degree or another. The most heavily infected is bone. The doctor now feels that the brain must be investigated.

I am very afraid. I don't have the optimism that some of you possess. I am at best, a weak pessimist. I have been accused, and rightly so, of being a perennial crepe hanger. Guilty. I always thought if it attacked my brain I wouldn't want to know. Just let me die in peace. But then, what if there is hope? What if it could be stopped? What if it isn't there.....yet? Is it better to know, or not know? If it's in my brain what will I do? Of course, if it isn't in my brain I will celebrate and still worry about where is it. I have had friends that have had cancer and they couldn't locate it and they died never knowing where it was. What are my tomorrows to be? You also know that I firmly believe that dying is not the worst thing than can happen to you. There are things that are much much worse. And if it is to be that my brain becomes a prison for my body, then I sincerely want the plug to be pulled and I will join my parents and others that I love that have gone before me. Ones that taught me not only how to live, but also how to die. I am so grateful for them.

Do I have a bucket list? You betcha. If I can't attain my bucket list will the sky fall? Probably not. The sun will continue to get up in the east and go down in the west. However there are things on my bucket list that I desperately want to accomplish. If I can't complete my mission, then I have to leave it to God to send in a replacement and I need to have the faith that He will do it. It's said that God never shuts a door without opening a window. Please, God, I pray that that is true.

So here I am. Please don't ask me how I am. Don't tell me that I'm brave. I don't feel very brave at the moment. I don't want to discuss this business. I just want distractions and fun and laughter with you my loved ones. So, ultimately, I am in God's hands. You are the messengers and the supporting angels. You are the carriers of God's messages of hope and love. I know you will lift me up. I know you will keep me in your prayers and that's all I ask. You are my balcony people that hold me aloft and make me feel loved and wanted. There is nothing better. I love you all and I will keep you informed.

The MRI of the brain is scheduled for Tuesday the 22nd. If the dr. calls me then I will know. If she doesn't call me, then I will feel better. My next appointment is scheduled for the 18th. I know you're there. I love you all. Let's all just keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep showing up. Above all, keep breathing, stay vertical and mobile.

Love, ME

Thanks for stopping by my blog today, and for sharing the words from my mom.  She is a wonder.  I hope wherever you are, whoever you are with today - you look them squarely in the face and, if you love them, tell them.  And tell them why - because it's important that they should know.  And if there is something you can forgive, then forgive it - let it go.  A wise woman once told me "...don't spend today, as precious as it is, in anger, or worry or disappointment or other negative emotions. Those things won't change a thing; only take away today...."  I hope today, and for the rest of your days, you make each day a good one free from anger, worry, disappointment, or other negative emotions.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com