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.  :-)

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

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

   

Thinking of my dad...

I have been thinking about my dad a lot these days, wishing he was here.  He was so funny and smart about people without being arrogant about it.  He has been gone for five years yet there is scarcely a day when I don’t indulge in some thought of him.

His parents were divorced prior to World War II, when my dad was two. I have never met, or seen a picture of, my paternal grandfather.  My grandmother, an unhappy and mostly vile, hateful, person never remarried. 

When my dad was alive he would scarcely mention how really mean his mother was, and would never really complain about her to us kids.  It seemed his thinking was that he was stuck with her, and was an only child, so why share his burdens about her with us?  Reflecting on him and his life, he was 30 years older than me, it is easy for me to place him in the context of my life and wonder what he might do.  Most times I end up laughing because he was just so darned funny.

So now I am a dad, and I have these two great kids who look at me and sometimes want answers, and sometimes need stuff, and sometimes don’t know what they need or want but need a dad to be there for them.  It is in those moments that I think of him the most.

I think first about what he would say.  His wisdom was not of the Atticus Finch variety.  He had a way of putting things that was so grossly inappropriate, so drop dead funny, and so acutely in-tune with the natural rhythms of people that it is almost impossible to share his lessons with my children. Certainly my daughter would look at me like I was trying out for a role in a pirate movie if she ever heard me talking like my dad.

He was the first human being I ever heard utter the phrase ending “…and the horse you rode in on!”  We were in the car leaving the church parking lot.  I remember it distinctly because I was a child and wondered why he was yelling about “riding a horse” to the family in the wood-paneled station wagon.

My son, however, now 10 (“and a half” he would remind me to say) takes special delight in hearing many of my dad’s ribald axioms.  In truth I am happy to share them with him.  Some dads let their kids take a sip of beer when they get to a certain age. Well, for me, my indulgence is to give the boy a glance into the never politically correct world of my father.

1. “Get up quick; don’t ever let the bastards know they got you down!”
2. “Those kids are making fun of you?  Well (blank) ‘em all but six and save those six for pall bearers…”
3. “Did that kid call you skinny?  Well you tell that kid that you can always add muscle but you’re wondering what the hell he is planning to do about that face…”

Those were all dad’s chestnuts.  I am sad that as time goes by I am forgetting them.  My memory fades but there is plenty of evidence there of a man not at all refined – and he wasn’t – but terrifically engaged in the “growing up” process of his kids growing up.  He was a college educated man, and a veteran.  He didn’t grow up with a dad to show him the way, but he never once threw up his hands and said “beats me, kiddo.  You’re on your own.”  He was so unique that I cannot ever recall seeing him truly comfortable anywhere.  I suspect if he ever was it was in the armed service.

In his absence, I reflect on him for guidance with my kids, my career, and my marriage.  I think about what he would say or do when different things come up.  He was an avid golfer – and a really good playmate at just about anything if you could look the other way while he pulled the occasional fast one.  I suspect living the life he did, no dad at home, crazy evil mom, leaving for college just so he could get out of the house – he learned to live by his wits.  For him, if you were playing a game it was always played to win.

One of my favorite memories of him came from a JL Hudson’s Thanksgiving Day parade in the mid 1980’s.  He used his contacts to arrange for us to be admitted to a private downtown Detroit parking garage right along the parade route where we could stand well above street level and watch the parade go by.

My brothers and I were all young men, but grown and for the most part out of the house.  My sister, 9 years younger than me, was still living at home.  As we waited, freezing in a concrete landscape that was covered in several inches of terrific packing snow, my oldest brother looked four stories down to the street level where he observed a person, obviously intoxicated, answering the call of nature beneath the snow-laden boughs of a huge, and ancient white pine tree.

Us being us, and the fact that the person relieving herself was a “herself,” there presented in the form of her exposed, brilliant white behind an inviting target for snowballs to be rained down upon from the highest level of the parking garage.

So it was that we were engaged in this practice, firing missile after missile at this once in a lifetime target, none of us finding the mark but all of us laughing heartily, when the tell tale aroma of nicotine on leather announced the fact that my father had hold of my throwing arm by means of his leather-gloved hand.

Immediately I thought we were busted.  My dad used his work contacts to get us this prime viewing location; we were there with my mom, my sister, and my brother’s fiancé, and here were his sons acting like the three stooges throwing snowballs at the exposed derriere of a lady in dire need of a restroom.  I expected the worst.

He elbowed me sharply in the ribs as he went by, called me and my brothers “a bunch of idiots” and peeked over the ledge to see what had captivated us.  What happened next is a memory that today shapes how I feel for my dad when I view him as man about the same age as I am presently.

He leaned over the ledge, observed what he later called “a target rich environment” and then, using both arms in a butterfly stroke kind of motion, made the largest snowball I had ever seen with snow from the hood of a parked car.  I remember, after it dawned on me that the old man wasn’t going to kill us, laughing out loud and telling him he would never be able to throw a snowball that big far enough to hit our unfortunate target. Make no mistake; it WAS one big snowball – about the size of your average laundry basket.

As if it was yesterday I remember he looked at me right in the eye and said “I’m not aiming for her,” and then launched what can only be called a snow-boulder into the very tops of that snow laden white pine.

The tree dropped, all at once it seemed, about 500 pounds of wet, heavy snow straight down.  Bullseye – the old man got the better of all of us that day and was the only one to hit the target. It was pure genius and flawless execution and we laughed our asses off.  It is one of my all time favorite memories of him.  Not at all appropriate – but a memory I will have the rest of my life.

So thanks for stopping by the blog today and indulging this memory of my dad.  I swear every word of it is true.  Wherever you are today, I hope you are in the company of those you love enough to let them see the real you, the inappropriate you; the you who laughs and schemes.  And I hope those in your company love you enough to know that you are the best you that you are, and that the memories they have of you don’t all have to be perfect, so long as they are cherished.

Dennis

smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Eat your potatoes...

I don't think I am talking out of school by sharing the fact that I am the cook in my family.  My wife, beholden of an arsenal of amazing skills upon which we desperately rely to run our home, has never been the cook.

This is as opposed to me, who grew up the third son of two working parents who commuted from the metro Detroit area to the rolling countryside of Livingston county five days a week.  The easiest way for me to mitigate all of the trouble I got into as a kid was to be the family cook and have dinner under way for them by the time they got home.

Pretty hard to yell and scream too much about the broken window or C+ on that history test when the same culprit who wrought that mischief is also responsible for the beef stew and bread now warming you from head to toe, isn't it?  So, as it turned out, I learned to cook at an early age.

20 years and two kids later, I am still cooking but for a different family.  My own family. There is my wife, with her sophisticated and diverse pallet - she eats things that I would never consider.  Then there is me - if it didn't have parents, what's the sense of eating it?  Every meal in my mind needs a meat, a vegetable and some other thing (usually pasta, rice, or potatoes).  Simple, old fashioned, probably not on whatever list of healthy eating is in the back of the mompetition cookbook, but what the heck - these are my kids not yours ;-)

And then there are the children.

It would be cheaper for me to feed these children if I just opened the pantry to let them graze and then walked right out to the garage and threw a ten dollar bill into Captain Curby (our dumpster). 

When my son was a very little boy, he would go on these hunger strikes - weeks at a time without eating anything.  Usually, after a couple of weeks of no eating, I would prepare for him a platter spaghetti with meat sauce larger than anything a grown man would eat, and leave him in the kitchen.  He would replenish, like an Anaconda eating a gazelle, and then spend the next two weeks digesting.  And who am I to question him, really.  I always tease him that he got the six-pack abs and I got the keg - so what the heck do I know about eating anyway?

And the girl - the master of culinary disaster, the queen of no plate clean - she hasn't met the meal she won't waste entirely.  The only secret in getting her to eat is to just withhold all food from her until about 9:00 o'clock at night.  Then place a well balanced meal down in front of her and she'll eat almost anything on her plate.  But if I left it up to her, she would survive exclusively on chocolate milk, egg noodles, and black olives.

Two nights ago, dinner was chicken dinosaur nuggets (thank you Sams Club for this modern day equivalency of Mrs. Paul's fishsticks), egg noodles with a little chicken gravy mixed in, and fresh Brussels Sprouts.  In cleaning up after the meal, I was like an archaeologist unraveling the mysteries of an ancient civilization.  "Here, at the head of the table, sat the matriarch.  You can tell that because there isn't a morsel of wasted food (obviously she has a keen eye on the budget) and the lipstick on her beer bottle is still warm." 

"...And here, at the other end of the table, obviously sat the man.  You can tell that because the seat is molded to a perfect mirror image of his ample butt and there is a contraband empty bottle of Diet Pepsi next to his seat. His plate, too, is clean."

Now comes the tricky part - "...this seat here obviously belonged to someone with a serious Brussels Sprout addiction.  The remains of 25 - 30 fresh petit cabbage' are strewn around his eating place.  He is obviously fit as he did not touch his noodles and is a bit of a ketchup addict.  High fructose, water to drink, sprouts - this seat belongs to a growing boy with the energy level of your average Corvette.

And here, across from him, there might be a plate underneath this pile of toys somewhere.  Who knew they made so many PollyPockets?  But if you gingerly set them aside, you can find a plate and notice that it is absent any hint of noodles.  Either she didn't have any, or she has actually licked that part of the plate clean where her noodles were.  And marvel at how artful she was in this endeavor because the chicken dinosaurs and Brussels Sprouts have not been disturbed at all.  Observe there is a weird five-oval pattern repeating itself formed of some kind of dark juice."  Sniff....Sniff..."...it appears to be olive juice and the marks almost look like this girl had olives on the ends of every one of her fingers for the entire meal.  Without a doubt this is the baby of the family.  She must burn calories like an aircraft carrier burns uranium because the chair she sits in is about 4 inches from the table..."

Yep - that was two nights ago.  My kids' two plates at the end of that meal actually resembled the yin/yang image - the exact inverse of each other.  Michael left all of his noodles, consuming only sprouts and chicken, and Kristin ate only her noodles, leaving chicken and sprouts.

So the following night, my patience now very thin with the amount of wasted food, I made only two things.  Oven roasted Italian chicken (which was fantastic by the way) and au gratin potatoes.  They didn't know what to make of the potatoes before them, they were potatoes, but yellow in a delightful, magical sauce.  And there wasn't a single olive on the table.  The chicken they easily recognized.  Michael scarfed his down smothered in...Ketchup - of course.  Kristin, shoved hers around her plate without eating a bite.

After about a half hour of family time, the conversation turned to the actual meal before them.  As mine was happily digesting somewhere beneath my equator, I had plenty of time to focus on them.  The conversation went something like this:

Me:  "...eat your potatoes."

Michael: "I hate my potatoes."

Me, slowing down and enunciating every word individually: "Eat. Your. Potatoes."

Michael - acting like I told him to go streak at the mall: "DAD! I hate these potatoes."

Me quickly changing into my Dad: "I don't care what you hate, eat those potatoes."

Michael, quickly morphing into a modern version of a 10 year old me: "What?! You don't care if I die?"

Me, my impression of my father now in a full open-field sprint:  "Lookit, mister, you won't die unless you don't eat those potatoes..."

Kristin, my angel: "Dad, don't be mean to Michael."

Me - to Kristin, feeling that she is somehow less angelic than she was 30 seconds ago: "You eat your potatoes too."

Both of them, loudly and in unison as if this was a rehearsed skit: "We hate these potatoes!"

Me, staring at their mother who is now smiling and rolling her eyes at me: "This isn't a restaurant, no one cares what you hate. Eat them..."

Michael, making a face and gagging hard: "ugh, I might throw up."

Michael's mom, cooly sipping the last remnants of her Labatts : "Don't hit the potatoes...."

I was reminded of a nearly identical scene 40 years in my rearview mirror.  My dad made a huge meal of spaghetti, salad, bread, black olives and me and my brothers, each two years older than the other with me being the youngest, screwed around for our entire meal until the pasta and sauce on our plates was stone cold.  I couldn't eat it no matter what threats of violence Sergeant Rock hurled at me and, when the first full forkload of cold spaghetti hit my lips, I threw up everywhere.  I remember it well because I got smacked once and sent to my room without having to eat it.  :-) 

It will be a couple of years yet before Michael is allowed to access the computer with enough freedom to find these pages, so I can admit that I have been in his shoes.  The only way he was getting out of eating those potatoes was to actually play the barf card once he threatened it.  Oh sure, I got belted once, but I didn't have to eat cold spaghetti. 

So, wherever you are this night, I hope you have good (warm) food prepared for you by someone who loves you, fine spirits made glad by the company you keep, and the delights of being part of a family to keep you invigorated and feeling vital and making memories that will last a lifetime.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today!

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Thanksgiving, 2010

Though it is still just a little more than a week away, I admit I am thinking of Thanksgiving. I love the simple beauty of Thanksgiving.  I suppose it is for all the usual reasons.  I look into the faces of my family and am grateful to share their lives, keep their secrets, to laugh at their jokes or silliness.  Both of my kids are better people than I ever hoped to be as a child - so each day - watching them walk their own paths, it is a wonder to me how they came to share my life.  As always, I chalk it up to their mom.

And I love to look back across the last year and find gratitude in places where I suppose the first celebrants of the holiday found it. The gathering of our clan, our continued good health, and the warm and tender mercies that grow out of being part of a community.  Good health and hugs and kisses, especially, color my holiday thanks.  This year will bring a rare chance for all of us to see my older brother from Maine, his wife and two of their great kids.  Though we are a week from that happy reunion, that topic alone dominated the table talk at my home tonight.

And we give thanks for our time together, moments that are so wonderful in just the mere living of them.  Just over two years ago, my mother, a long time cancer survivor, had a significant scare in terms of her health.  We were all scared to death about what might come next.  She was brave.  Truthfully, "brave" does not do it justice, but in America the word "dauntless" is not much used. She was, nonetheless, dauntless.

That summer, a miracle happened.  On the very same day she gathered us all to discuss her final plans and wishes, I suppose the term "making arrangements" is most commonly used for such events, her doctor said to her that while he had no medical explanation for the fact that she was getting better; she was indeed getting better.  That day was roughly 750 days ago.  In that time we have had many gatherings, holidays, weekends at the cottage. There have been frequent causes for laughter, celebration, moments to say "I love you."  She is radiant in her enthusiasm - a roll model of courage and human spirit for all of us.  We celebrate her this day and all days. 

That blessing, that most brilliant of all tender mercies, stands tall over the landscape of my gratitude this year.  You just can't miss it.  Continued health, her triumphant spirit, and the life's lesson that we should celebrate each day as a gift.

Sure there are other things for which I could be a little more grateful.  I'd like to hang on to my hair, which started checking out steadily when I was about 23 and hasn't slowed down a step in the subsequent 23 years.  I'd like the Lions to win on Thanksgiving Day.  And who wouldn't like a little more money in the bank, or some new toys or trinkets to play with?  But when it comes right down to it - to enjoy the smells of Thanksgiving - bread, pie, turkey roasting with my mother-in-law's famous stuffing. And add to that the the sounds of the holiday - the squeal of the kids seeing their cousins, our parents still healthy and vibrant.  The laughter. Those are the bricks in my wall. 

In terms of traditions we have all the good ones - turkey, dressing (my mother-in-law makes the best I've ever had) pumpkin pie, football, shopping the next day and late night sandwiches on rye bread with Hellman's real mayonnaise.  Among my more happy traditions of the day is a prayer I stumbled upon two years ago when we celebrated the first Thanksgiving after my mom's recovery.  I come back to it now every year at this time.  It is one of my favorites.

Lord, behold our family here assembled.

We thank you for this place in which we dwell,

for the love that unites us,

for the peace accorded to 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;

for our friends in all parts of the earth. Amen

I particularly like that line "Lord, behold our family here assembled..."  What an elegant way to just hug those that are close to you and hold them as if to say "I am so grateful; we here assembled are so grateful.  Living in this moment we aren't taking anything for granted..."  Such a blessing to be able to say such words on Thanksgiving.

It is a day for standing within and looking out - for listening to the kids giggling, the family chattering, the clinking and clanking of dishes, and to just look out from within and give thanks for what you see.  And if you slow down, and put the day's petty troubles into their proper place, it is a day for wanting all that you have; not having all that you want.  Such is the nature of thanks, at least to me.

So thanks for stopping by my blog and for your continued support.  I hope you and yours have a terrific Thanksgiving holiday; wherever it is you find yourselves assembled.

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

Waving just makes me smile...

I love waving.  It's part of me - whether it is a big, dopey, "hale fellow well met" kind of wave; or the more subtle thumbs up I give my son, or even just the subtle nod of the head I give to a stranger at the four-way stop sign by my home, I am a waving/gesturing kind of guy.

When I think of waving, I always think of my good friend, Amy. Years ago I bumped into her walking down the street in a busy metropolitan area.  Really I should say she saw me and then I heard her before I saw her.

"Dennis!  DENNIS!" she yelled and, hearing my name called with such urgency, I turned and saw this buddy of mine walking fast, both hands over her head, seemingly waving with her entire body as she walked quickly over to say "hi."  It was such a great moment then and is still today a warm and happy memory - I think of it often when I am waving "hi" or "bye" to someone.

My mom is one of the best wavers I have ever met.  She waves as if there is nothing more important at that particular moment than you realizing that she sees you being wonderful, and she wants you to see that she sees you.  She waves and calls out "Hello you!  Do you see me seeing you!"  I see her do it with the kids and I can tell it makes a difference with them as well.  Even as a grown man it makes me feel like I am about 10 feet taller than I actually am.

And both of my kids are ardent wavers.  Kristin, the four year old, stands in the window every time I leave the house and waves furiously until I am out of sight.  In return, I wave as if I am trying to swim through the air to get back to her - alternating between waving like a lunatic and blowing a million tiny kisses in her direction. And Michael - the cool 10 year old - well secretly he is a crazy waver too.  He and Kristin fit right in - never, ever do they forget to kiss good night, or hello, or to wave to loved ones arriving or departing.  I love the idea of one of the grandmas or grandpa leaving for the long drive back to the city, and the last thing they see at my home is their grandkids waving from the porch like they just saw their granny or grandpa score a touchdown and spike the ball.

For many years I worked at a University here in Michigan.  I can honestly say that my favorite days were either the days the moms and dads dropped their kids off for the first time; or graduation days.  On the drop off days when I was working in the dorms, I got to see the kid side of the equation - kids and parents hanging on, standing in the lobby, giving hugs and kisses, then watching the moms fuss and worry.  Before long the parents would walk reluctantly to their car and slowly drive off, honking horns, flashing brights, waving out the windows as if to say "make sure you see me, please don't forget all we taught you, be good, wave, remember I see you and please see me seeing you!'  Such a gift to be a regular eyewitness to that wonderful view of humanity. 

The kids, for their part, would generally return the wave in earnest until the parents were gone and then immediately have some plan; food, girls, athletics - rarely, if ever - did the kid get dropped off for the first time and then retire quietly to the comfort of his room and study his Latin.  That part was fun to watch too,

But for me, graduation days were the absolute best.  The kids walking in with all the pomp and circumstance, energy pouring out of every person in the room.  And here and there parents standing up, on tip toe, craning their necks urgently to see their kid, the kid they taught to ride a bike, tie a shoe, use a spoon - that kid - walking through the door in cap and gown.  Invariably there was crazy waving - "...do you see me seeing you be wonderful? I love for you to see me seeing you!"  And the kids would wave back, happy, excited, perhaps a bit embarrassed "yes, I see you mom, but DO YOU SEE ME?!  Check me out!  Look here, I see you but are you seeing me? Can you believe this?!"

That gesture of waving, under the happiest of circumstances, is so golden, so precious.  It is perhaps unchanged in all of humanity.  A precious gift, to wave and see someone waving back as if it really mattered. I think it does really matter 

Today, don't squander those opportunities to wave like you mean it, wave like a dirty little kid for whom the mere sight of his parents is the vision of home, and happiness, and security.  Wave like a proud parent searching the crowd for that beloved familiar face, so you can say "I see you!  Do you see me seeing you?!"

See the one you love and run like a wild person, arms over your head, and tell them how happy you are to see them; and let them know how happy it will be for you to see that they see you being happy to see them.  It's not hard - little kids do it all the time.  If it was that hard how could they do it? It just might make you feel happy, beloved, charmed.  You'll never know until you try it.

Thanks for stopping by my blog today and for sharing the blog and passing along all the wonderful comments and emails.  Each one of them is as welcome to me as is the wave from a dear friend on a busy street.  I am so glad to have the chance to visit with you (and yes, I do see you being awesome, and I am sure that you see me seeing you be awesome, too).

Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com

So on election day, 2010, I am thinking of Dickens

It's election day and this self-confessed mushyheaded college liberal is down in the dumps. Not because I see any great difference in the realities of the parties; the only real difference is in the rhetoric that is fed to the base, which is in turn converted into votes (all the politicians really care about) and then forgotten about entirely by the candidates.

If the early numbers ring true today, it will be a conservative ground-swell wherein the Republicans win back the House of Representatives and secure a vast majority of governorships across the country.  The truth is you can't say the Democrats didn't earn the loss - they did little to avoid it.

But this election felt different, didn't it?  Meaner, more angry, more ads.  The Supreme Court decision earlier in the year (Citizens United - how ironic a title is that?) striking down 100 years of law restricting campaign contributions meant an unlimited supply of money to broadcast speech that was many times wrong, rabid, and never ending.  That will leave a lasting effect on Americans, I fear.

You may remember I posted before about the Chinese Proverb "The tree long remembers what the axe soon forgets?"  Well welcome to the world of being trees in the world of political axes.  How will we ever have a strong country when the keys to power rest comfortably in the hand of division and extremism?

I sit here, drinking diet Pepsi (yes, I fell off the wagon in my despair) waiting on those whose profession is to tell a story by rattling up the hue and cry to rattle up the hue and cry.  The story tonight from the right will be that those rotten liberals have had their day.  The story from the left will be that this is what happens when you have an angry, scared, and emotionally charged electorate.  People for whom politics is sport and political wins and losses, however irrelevant they are in the real sense of the world, will be thrilled or disappointed in these wins and losses.  It is not the best of circumstances for a country that is already stuck in not the best of circumstances. 

So all of this malaise got me thinking about Dickens, who was, by all accounts, a genius on the nature of men.

In "A Christmas Carol," Charles Dickens writes of two portly gentlemen, pleasant to behold, who appear at the offices of Scrooge and Marley on Christmas Eve seeking alms for the poor.

``Scrooge and Marley's, I believe,'' said one of the gentlemen, referring to his list. ``Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr Scrooge, or Mr Marley?''

``Mr Marley has been dead these seven years,'' Scrooge replied. ``He died seven years ago, this very night.''

``We have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner,'' said the gentleman, presenting his credentials.

It certainly was; for they had been two kindred spirits. At the ominous word ``liberality'', Scrooge frowned, and shook his head, and handed the credentials back.

``At this festive season of the year, Mr Scrooge,'' said the gentleman, taking up a pen, ``it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.''

``Are there no prisons?'' asked Scrooge.

``Plenty of prisons,'' said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.

``And the Union workhouses?'' demanded Scrooge. ``Are they still in operation?''

``They are. Still,'' returned the gentleman, `` I wish I could say they were not.''

``The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?'' said Scrooge.

``Both very busy, sir.''

``Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,'' said Scrooge. ``I'm very glad to hear it.''

``Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,'' returned the gentleman, ``a few of us are endeavoring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?''

``Nothing!'' Scrooge replied.

``You wish to be anonymous?''

``I wish to be left alone,'' said Scrooge. ``Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned: they cost enough: and those who are badly off must go there.''

``Many can't go there; and many would rather die.''

``If they would rather die,'' said Scrooge, ``they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides -- excuse me -- I don't know that.''

``But you might know it,'' observed the gentleman.

``It's not my business,'' Scrooge returned. ``It's enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people's. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!''

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than was usual with him....


The genius of Dickens. He coined the phrase "...a facetious temper" 150 years ago.  Can't you imagine Beck, or Coulter, or Hannity and Limbaugh smugly comfortable in their full blown "facetious temper?"

And that he foresaw "liberality" as a loathsome word to people who hold more tightly to their purse or lofty ideals than they do the condition of their fellow man, is nearly clairvoyant. Scrooge, having withstood the begging of these two portly liberals, feels a sense of righteousness. He says, essentially, "...t'were better that the poor or infirm die and thus decrease the surplus population then (he) should give alms..."

And in so saying, Dickens writes of Scrooge, he "...resumes his labors with an improved opinion of himself."

Isn't that the truth - these political victories - far removed from what actually happens in our lives - affirm us or invalidate us nonetheless.  Our party wins, we walk away with an improved opinion of ourselves; our party loses, we limp away, frustrated, disappointed, drinking diet Pepsi when we said we would swear it off.

In my mushy-headed liberal brain, I will continue to be more nephew Fred than Scrooge; more hopeful for an awakening of conscience, a return to civility, and an embrace of temperance in our dealings with our fellow countrymen.

I am reminded that Scrooge himself finds these traits after his encounter with the Ghosts.  He says, after his awakening, that "...nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset."

So let them laugh, those who would sneer at the mushyheaded college liberals and their mushyheaded attempts at making a more perfect union. Let Rush, and Hannity, and Coulter, and Savage mine this occurrence for all the money that their contempt, hatred, and indifference will provide them.

In the end, it will be civility, and temperance, and generosity of spirit that will matter.  Of that I am certain.  Until then, I'll crack open another Diet Pepsi, and perhaps have some pie.  It is going to be a long night.

Whether you voted Democratic, Republican, or third-party, I hope today and in all days you keep close in your heart the idea that our nation is only perfected by the goodwill of its people.  Thanks for coming by my blog today, and thanks for voting.

Dennis