Why we celebrate...

A remarkable series of events occurred this weekend prompting tonight's late-night post.  The weekend began with a celebration - a friend was retiring after a career spent in the military and in law enforcement.  He is my son's scoutmaster and the troop was invited to attend the celebration.  As assistant scoutmaster,I attended with them and was very happy to participate with them as they honored our skipper. The speeches and tributes were all really great, but what really caught my eye was just the love and pride his friends and family had for him. It was a great celebration well earned by a very great cop.

The next morning we welcomed three of the troop's senior scouts to our home so they could lead training exercises with a younger scout (my son).  Leading the training was necessary to satisfy the rank advancement requirements moving the three of them from Star to Life scout at our recognition banquet tomorrow night.  Life scout is the final rank a scout achieves before gaining the rank of Eagle scout.  (As a side note, less than 1% of all American men have achieved that goal - these are terrific kids and this milestone is a really good one to celebrate.  They are on their way).

So great fun was had watching these young men lend themselves to the development of a younger scout and to watch these brave and accomplished leaders handle the delicacies of offering their required training while simultaneously being whipped at Candyland, Old Maid and Go Fish by my five year-old daughter.  We will have a great recognition banquet tomorrow night.

After the boys left, we ran errands related to my nephew's Confirmation at church tomorrow morning. This rite of passage within the Methodist church carries with it a gathering of the clan and an opportunity for hearts bound by common blood to be again warmed by the common experience of family.  It will be so nice to see everyone; brother, sister, mom, cousins - just to be with them and smile, hug, drink in their good humor and the pride of another family milestone reached.  It will be a great day.

As I said, we were out running errands (new pants for the ever growing 12 year-old who, I am certain, is keeping several textile mills in business with the rate at which he is growing out of his clothes).  As it happens we live very near the campus of Michigan State University and Saturday was Commencement Day.  Everywhere we drove on campus, we saw moms, dads, proud grandparents and siblings embracing the new graduates dressed as they were in green robes and beaming from ear to ear.  There were no obvious estrangements, no observable fears, worries, or resentments - those ordinary human emotions that pop up in relationships from time to time.  From the outside looking in, all you could see was love and pride conjoined with relief and anticipation.  There too, clans were gathered to jointly mark the day with one of their own.  An opportunity not to be missed, a singular moment of shared joy too good to be traded for any other moment at any other locale.

A few of the errands we were running that afternoon also related to the Boy Scout recognition banquet planned for tomorrow night.  Given that my son is advancing to a more senior level of scouting, and that he is in my mind an outstanding young man and a fine boy scout to his troop, I'm looking forward to celebrating with him tomorrow night.  There will be a similar, albeit smaller, gathering of the clan to mark this milestone.  But the emotion is unchanged - an opportunity not to be missed.  One more chance to say to one of my family's younger young men "I see you! Do you see me seeing you?  'Cause I was wondering if you saw me seeing you because I wanted you to know how really neat I think you are."

I was reflecting on that sentiment - those goofy but heart-warming words spoken by my mother so many times in my youth - and it dawned on me that THAT is exactly why we celebrate.  To come together and say to the celebrant "Do you see me seeing you be great?  Because I wanted to make sure you knew I know how really neat you are..."

And I think that is pretty neat.

So wherever you are, whomever you are with, I hope you find the time to celebrate the good things in those around you.  We are reminded all too often that the only time we are promised is this exact moment we are living right now.  And if we are lucky enough to string together these moments and others like them in sufficient quantity, then we ought not take for granted a chance to join with our families, our friends, those people we think are really neat, in celebration.  In the end, it's our joined lives and the very living of them that we are celebrating.  To quote the great Bruce Springsteen, "It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive..."

So thanks for stopping by my blog and including me and my little corner of the world in you being really neat in your little corner of the world.

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.  :-)

There but for the grace of God…

Last night I was watching my oldest walk through the family room.  It is a nightly ritual – I come home from work, cook dinner, we clean up from dinner, and then, when the last bubble from the last bit of suds isn’t even popped, Michael will venture out into the kitchen and shove his head into the pantry.

Unlike me, he is lean and athletic.  Oh sure, I suppose there was a day when you might have said I bordered on athletic.  I played baseball, golf, and softball and I lettered in tennis in high school.  But never in my life would I have ever been described as “lean.”

Michael on the other hand is lean and strong.  When he went for his snorkeling badge at Boy Scouts his scout leader was worried that whenever he got into the pool he sunk like a lawn dart.  No fat on the kid whatsoever. SO maybe I shouldn’t worry so much about the constant grazing, but I do.

Every night I watch him go through the house, growing by the day, with his cheery smile and perfect posture.  In the blink of an eye he has gone from being my cute little side-kick to being every inch of 5 feet tall and encroaching on the frontier of adolescence.  He is well on his way to being a fine young man.  I watch him move through his world and I just want everything to slow down. He teeters on the abyss of puberty.  He has been such an excellent boy that I long desperately for that little boy to hang around just a bit longer.

And the girl, his sister – the four year old who I am certain will some day be a pharaoh somewhere; I watch her and it is obvious that she is growing by leaps and bounds.  The pajamas she got for Christmas are now fitting her about like they are clamdiggers.  Two weeks ago I stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched her descend early on a Saturday morning.  My brain literally came to life in my head and, as if it had a separate personality, began hammering away on every frequency shouting to me an urgent message to remember that moment, to freeze its quiet and rare beauty forever in some less traveled part of my brain.  There she stood, stuffed animal and pillow in arms and slippers on feet she tip-toed down the stairs, gave me a hug, and whispered “good morning daddy, I love you.  How’dya sleep/”

Again I told myself to stretch out time, play the four corner offense, use every second of life’s shot clock to my advantage.  I cannot believe the great good fortune I have to just share in the beauty of these two kids.

So it was this morning when we all awoke to the news of Japan’s horrible earthquake and the subsequent devastation of the resulting tsunami that I was reminded to take nothing for granted.  The kids all got extra hugs and kisses this morning.  The “I love yous” were pronounced and embellished with good eye contact and a warm embrace. With each kid I indulged in a final intoxicating inhalation of their hair.

I couldn’t get over the haunting vision of that mass of debris moving relentlessly in slow but unstoppable motion across the Japanese countryside.  It reminded me that there is no stopping nature.  There is no pause button while you gather your thoughts, collect your wits, or rearrange your plan.  Living is doing, loving is a deliberate commitment, and legacy is a luxury not all are guaranteed.

So today, in the shadow of great suffering and loss of life in Japan, my only plan is to kiss those two little farts squarely on their faces, tousle their hair, hug them like there is no tomorrow and to let them stay up munching popcorn until their mom says it’s way too late for little people to be up.  Tomorrow we wake up to a day of ballet, and baseball camp, and then a family outing to the movies. Because what we do becomes what we are, and what we are eventually becomes what we were.  So today we will honor those in Japan and everywhere, by making the most of our lives together. Today we will live reverently the words “there, but for the Grace of God, go I.”

We’ll laugh and hug and share inside jokes.  And that will be the only plan.  The solitary mission – to revel in each other.  Because today is all that any of us are ever promised – no matter how much we wish for it to slow down, to stop, to live on forever unchanged.  Today is the best chance we’ll ever have to be the best we can be to each other.

Wherever you are today, thanks for stopping in and sharing this moment with me and my family.  I hope you are well and that those you hold dear are safe and free from harm.  Wherever you are today, I hope you take a minute or two to find the best you can be to those you love, and then to make it a plan to be that.

Dennis

smalltwondad@hotmail.com    

How to help (I have not checked all of these out, this list is reposted from another blog):

United Methodist Committee on Relief (UMCOR) – This is the United Methodist Church’s disaster response organization, and is one of the best church-based response groups in the world. Donations can be accepted through the International Disaster Relief fund.

Red Cross: The American Red Cross, according to its website, have opened up emergency operation centers. Donations to relief efforts can be made here. It may also be appropriate to look into the International Federation of Red Cross, as well. You can also try the Japanese Red Cross Society here. (However, I am not finding a solid place to donate just yet to the Japanese Red Cross, which is understandable.)

AmeriCares: You can donate to relief efforts that are ongoing by AmeriCares by clicking here.

World Relief: You can donate to relief efforts here.

World Vision: According to the organization’s website, the group is preparing to respond to the disaster. You can make a donation by clicking here.

Samaritan’s Purse: The North Carolina-based organization is still considering what relief efforts it will undertake, but you can donate here.

Operation Blessing International: The organization says it has teams standing by to respond. There is a Disaster Relief fund that you can contribute to here.

Giving Children Hope: This California-based organization is in the process of sending emergency relief to Japan. You can donate here.

For a more general list of disaster relief organizations, you can click here.

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

"Clutter is the poetry of our homes..."

“Clutter is the poetry of our homes…”

A facebook friend recently posted this as her status update.  My inclusion of it as a blog entry here might lead to an interesting evening’s worth of dinner conversation in my home, because I am the clutterer and my wife is definitely the clutteree in our house, but that being said, I am nonetheless moved by this idea.

The entire quote is:

"Clutter is the poetry of our homes. It is an intimate view that life is not always perfect--a few dishes in the sink, books piled next to the bed. Everything in its place may give a certain satisfaction, but a lived-in room exudes comfort and warmth." -Mary Randolph Carter

Carter is an American journalist, executive and author. One of 9 children born to a family in Richmond, Virginia.  That fact alone, 9 children in one house, qualifies her as an expert in clutter, so I will take her word for it.

I love the turn of that phrase, “Clutter is the poetry of our homes…”  Looking around me, I see an abundance of what can only be classified as "poetry."

We have two kids in this house.  Two. And within arm’s reach of me at this exact moment are two wooden swords, an orange toy gun, and a play shotgun. The swords I actually bought because they were on sale and are cool as hell. They are nonetheless in “toy timeout” behind my desk because I am sure the TV is going to be the first victim of the cool swords.  The guns are in this house because a) I am not that bright and I actually brought them in, and b) when you give kids toy guns, they point toy guns at each other.  You may remember that I confessed to being a mushyheaded college liberal.  Well, this mushyheaded college liberal can’t bear the thought of the kids pointing toy guns at each other – so I confiscated them.  Hopefully my kids will consider this inconsistency as "Dad's poetry.”

Also, creating a clear and present danger to anyone walking around without shoes, is the epic-poem represented by an entire Polly Pockets village growing up behind me.  Kristin’s civilization-in-miniature, currently in development just over my left shoulder, warms our home courtesy of the generosity of her wonderful God-Mother, Aunt Christa.

Many nights I sit here, tinkering on the computer, only to realize that I am not doing a lick of work.  What I am really doing is listening to her give life to the richly layered relationships between the Polly Pockets village and her other dollhouse – the Pocket’s neighboring dollhouse to the east.

And I look over to the kitchen table and there sits the stack of school projects, bills to be paid, coupons I am saving, and toys that are being deported back downstairs to the children’s real play area. All of it is clutter. 

I was contemplating this notion of clutter just this morning as I stood in the front hallway looking for a cap.  On the banister going upstairs, there are four hooks that, at least for the month of December, will hold our Christmas stockings.  For the other 11 months of the year, they aren’t really good for anything but they lend themselves to the purpose of being a depository for fencing equipment, Halloween costumes that can’t be wrinkled, mine and Michael’s 18 different ballcaps, coats, shirts that have been pressed, shirts that need to be pressed, or anything else we don’t want the two damn cats to eat.

I am surrounded by so much “Poetry” that all I need to complete my ensemble is a black beret, turtleneck and clove cigarette.

But I actually believe the clutter is poetry.  The four year old keeps a handful of acorns in her jacket pocket that she gathered at the cottage. They have been there for ten weeks now. The jacket may be washed but the acorns must be removed and returned to her coat as soon as it dries.  They are her treasure.  They are her poetry.  We are enriched by the mere hearing of her many whispered stanzas.

And then there is the ten year old, nothing about him whispers.  His poetry is loud and joyful; colorful and alive. Mostly his vibrant poetic works are his drawings.  There isn’t a scrap of paper in the house that isn’t adorned with some kind of artwork courtesy of him.  Fabulous tales sketched out in his idle moments give us a peak over the transom of his mind. A more beautiful view does not exist in any window of this home, of that much I am certain. The pile on the kitchen table is a solid mix of junk mail and artwork from the boy.  The junk mail, bills, and coupons are hardly "good" poetry to my wife, but like me, she sees Michael's drawing as the meter and rhyme of our lives together.  They are the indicia of the shared lives being led here.

All of it combined says to me, “A family herein abides…”  The bike on the front lawn, the Frisbee on the roof, the leaves and acorns gathered from Kristin’s many walks around the neighborhood – what would we do without them, how much would we miss them if they were gone?  In terms of "poetry," my workbench in the garage is the tale of Gilgamesh and Hesiod's "Works and Days" all rolled into one.  Taken as a whole, the garage is really a group effort at poetry.  It's like Bacon and Shakespeare and Milton all teamed up to write something really amazing.  But I am grateful for the poetry of our clutter.

Grateful for the many badges that a family lives here.  Just grateful, I suppose.

None of this asserts to the occasional passer-by that, should they ever walk within ear-shot of my home, they won't hear me ranting on about some bad bad really bad work of poetry brought forward by the children.  They are capable of poetic outputs that exponentially outpace any mortal human's efforts to catalog them.  But still, there remains the underlying gratitude - the desire to give thanks for the mere fact there is a mess to clean up, toys to step on, that there lives with us two small, warm hearts without many cares in the world but for the Lego castle; the Polly Pocket tea party, or the small but growing armory behind Dad's desk.

So thanks for stopping by today.  I hope wherever you sit, you can see the clutter in your life as a badge of vitality and a life in action - symbolic of young hands and minds at work doing the best of what young hands and minds can do; dreaming, imagining, and creating.

Dennis

"...it came without packages, boxes or bags..."

That was the text my wife sent to me around 9:00 pm Saturday night.  The words wrapped me up like a warm blanket.  It was a perfect "pull" - a quote from a movie perfectly insinuated into the context of a real life event.

The quote is pulled from Dr. Seuss's famous scene in the Grinch.  You know the one, the Grinch, at his grinchy best, believes he has frustrated the Whos in celebrating Christmas by stealing all the physical trappings of the holiday, only to be perplexed by the fact that they celebrate none-the-less.

The entire quote is:

And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?

Saturday was my birthday.  And I suppose like a lot of people, the celebration of my own birthday is a bit more complicated for me than is the celebration of someone else's birthday.  It all works its way back to expectations really.  Mine are that no fuss be made.  I would much rather spend the money, time, and energy planning a party for one of the kids than I would spending it on myself.

So Saturday was always going to be a kind of muted affair.  As it turned out this year, the muted affair happened to coincide with the annual meeting on the grid-iron between the University of Michigan (boo, hiss) and the Spartans of Michigan State University.  

I was raised in a Green and White household by a decidedly Green and White mom.  Both of my brothers are graduates of MSU, I live 10 minutes from MSU's campus.  I take more than a passing fan's interest in the outcome of these contests.  I admit, I am a bit of a fan.

So, in my mind, the idea that my birthday and it's self evident promise of "indulging Dennis" falling on the day of the UofM/MSU football game made me see visions of hot-wings, cold pop, and couches when I imagined how I might spend my day.  Such was the quiet fantasy I maintained until about Tuesday of the week before my birthday.

Then, of course, Jeanine, my wife of 19 years and the organized one of the bunch reminded me of...duh...duh...duh-duhhhhhhh...the camporee.

We talked a bit about the importance of this event.  Pretty much the last thing my 10 year old needed to complete this year to be able to cross over into Boy Scouts this Spring.  It was a no brainer that he and I would go. He and I would go.

I am not an outdoor person.  Sure I love to golf and to coach baseball, and to cook out.  Those are all outdoor activities.  But hiking?  Canoing?  Chopping wood?  Carrying stuff?  Sorry, but to my old and comfortable butt, these activities sound like work, not recreation.  Throw on top of that my allergies, which are nearly legendary, and you do not have the makings of an Eagle Scout in me.

Case in point - the camping equipment.  It is stored in the attic above the garage.  It has not been touched in exactly 9 years.  We took it out once to celebrate my son's FIRST birthday and then packed it all away in a gigantic Tupperware bin.  Two years ago I moved it from the garage to the attic thinking to myself "Note to self, when we sell this house 20 years from now, remember to get this stuff out of the attic - it'll likely be worth something on E-Bay as it is all in pristine condition..."

On Friday, I borrowed a ladder to fetch the gear from above the garage.  My allergies, sensing something was brewing, decided to remind me how much I hate dust and fiberglass and conspired to create an itch so powerful that I sincerely thought about just lopping off both hands at the wrist.  But, I survived and the gear, undisturbed in the last 20% of my life...made it safely down from the attic and into the car.

Just let that thought soak in a minute.  I was 36 the last time I had this stuff out. On the Friday before my birthday, I was still 45.  36 is 80% of 45 - I think.  Life is screaming at this point that I am not destined to do this.  This is not my purpose.  The very fact that I have not touched this equipment for any recreational purpose should establish my lack of credibility in building a fire with sticks or wiping with leaves.

"But," I reminded myself "...my son was counting on me to do it; my wife was expecting me to do it." So, on I went.

The local scout master is a great guy and was good enough to pick my son up early that morning so I could take care of a few appointments Saturday morning and then head out to the State Park in the early afternoon.  The schedule was such that we would stay over night Saturday and return Sunday morning.  Just long enough to miss every part of the game and related commentary.  Swell, I thought, grinchily.  Just swell.

So Saturday, after a drive through what even the hardest corners of my grinchy outdoor heart conceded was some spectacular Michigan autumn colors, I showed up at the park, alone, wondering if I could set up the camp and retire to my inflatable mattress in time to follow the game on my smartphone.

As I drove the lane down to the campsite, there passed me a group of boys so rough and tumble; so scratched and dirty and obviously outdoorsy that I actually smiled as they walked by.  The last one in line, arm looped over his buddy's shoulder and walking along laughing without a care in the world caught my eye.  He was handsome with blond colicky hair going wild in every direction. Filthy - yet he looked somehow familiar.  It wasn't until I saw him waving at me that I realized it was my son.

My grinchiness abated somewhat - I was delighted for him, and torn for myself.  "He loves this" my grinchy outdoors heart told me.  And at the same time, my rational brain was telling me "he loves this...", meaning "you better get good at it, Chuckles, because welcome to your future - he loves this."

I smiled my big smile and hollered out the window at him secretly hoping the extra volume in my voice would be mistaken for unrestrained enthusiasm rather than a disguised and uncontrollable cry for help.  My mind was racing,

"...I don't know the first thing about any of this stuff...." I thought,  "...when I was a kid we went camping with my dad and he shaved using a mirror stuck to a tree and his hunting knife! A HUNTING KNIFE!"  Quickly, my mind racing, I reached into my pocket and found "Old Sven", the Swiss army knife I bought after seeing a movie about a plane crash in the Alaskan wilderness.  It was there but was about as dull as a lint covered JuJubee.  "DAMN!" I thought, "Good luck shaving with that." 

I waved to Michael and his pals and then drove into the campground.  The parking lot was at least 6000 feet from our campsite.  And, Scouts being Scouts, no driving through the campsites was permitted.  You loaded up and hiked into your bivouac.  A quick check of my supplies did not yield any surprise inclusion of an automatic heart defibrillator, so I resigned myself to making several small trips at the end of which my muscles felt like I was a gun bearer on African safari.  The cooler of pop, juiceboxes, pudding, yogurt and 40 pounds of ice seemed like a good idea in the Meijer parking lot - but that was before I knew I was "hiking in" to my campsight.

So, having made camp without a soul in sight, I was confident a) that my heavy wheezing, unobserved by any live humans, had none-the-less scared off any wildlife that might otherwise want to come and add the vision of me to the tales they told their woodland buddies, and b)  I could struggle in solitude, unobserved and unjudged, with the giant bin of camping equipment - none of which I had any idea how to assemble.

I looked around me and observed there were several scout tents already assembled.  They were cute and efficient.  Little one or two man tents all ship shape and sides as tight as a snare drum.

I unpacked my tent - filling a space about 13 feet by 13 feet - it looked obviously larger than the run of the mill tents.  Adding to my joyous outdoor birthday adventure was about a 20 mile an hour "breeze."

I wondered, half-way through my "no holds barred" wrestling match with the tent, what would be easier.  Smoothing out this tent in a 20 mile per hour wind, or smoothing out a giant octopus on a 13 x 13 foot patch of white hot concrete. Every corner of the tent lashed at me in the wind like the tentacles of an angry beast.  The zippered door opened wide and rose up all at once as if to gobble me up and end the fight there and then.  Resolute, I grabbed the bag of stakes in my teeth and with my trusty red mallet, I rolled, squashed, and smoothed my way around the fabric, pounding, hammering, and cursing until I subdued the nylon devil and had it staked firmly to the ground.

"Not so tough," I thought smugly looking at my handiwork. 

"Idiot" thought the wind as it promptly snapped one of the tent poles holding the tent up.

"It's my birthday, you sonofabitch." I thought as I watched the listing corner of the tent swing lazily in the breeze.

"I know," said the tent. "Go Blue."

The listing tent now standing large over my campsite like some kind of billboard for woodland incompetence, I urgently set about creating the rest of our campsite, knowing after my two hour battle with the nemesis tent, my son and his pals would soon be back in camp.  Not having any outdoor skills at all, I wanted to finish work before they had a chance to actually see me in action. 

"After all" I thought, "...we could have some disaster out here and, God forbid, if it comes down to eating people, they will eat me first realizing that my only discernible skill really is in mediating employment disputes."

So I attacked the listing tent with the only duct tape I could find and raised our lodging once again.  Seeing it there, amid the small, perfect tents erected by my son's scout friends, I was reminded of the old WWII photos from Pearl Harbor.  Here were the bombed out hulks of America's largest ships scuttled in the attack, surrounded by smaller, undamaged, sea worthy vessels.  In both images, it was easy to see at a moment's notice that something had gone horribly wrong.

My spirits were lifted when my son returned with his pals and was both excited and impressed with his impression of my handiwork "Lookit our tent!" he screamed.  "It's huge!"  Yes, it is sad but true, the boy has as little sense of the outdoors and structural integrity and camping as do I.  He did not for one moment realize how woefully pathetic my construction skills were.  He bragged and bragged about how much space we had all the while other scouts were quietly asking me "Dude, why did you bring such a huge tent out into this wind..."  Fortunately for me they had good graces enough and were kindhearted enough to not raise the issue publicly.

So, first order of business taken care of (shelter), I sought out facilities to take care of another order of business.  "Where's the Bathroom?"  I asked.

"Follow the path until you smell it" someone said.

The path led back through the camp on off into a clearing next to a beautiful, tree lined lake.  My dim expectations were buoyed when I saw a clean, well maintained structure on a cement pad, about 100 yards from the field where we were camped.

I opened the door and reached for a light switch.  Despite my fumbling and reaching, no light switch was obvious so I brushed passed it urgently wanting to address other pressing matters.  I rushed to the nearest stall and cast open the door.  Taking in that tableau, my first thought was:

Thank God there was no light switch.

The bathroom was actually the fanciest primitive latrine I have ever been in.  But....how can I put this delicately...you remember how much was made last campaign season about the phrase "putting lipstick on a pig..." Well, you can put cement, and boards, and fresh paint, and stall doors around an open pit latrine, but the moment you lift that lid and are looking down into an open pit latrine, well it's still an open pit latrine. 

"It's my birthday," I thought.  "All I wanted was to ..."  Well...it doesn't matter what I wanted to do, I sure as hell wasn't doing it there. It's just not how I imagined spending any part of my birthday.

So I walked back to the camp, my thoughts occupied by a) a mental note to eat and drink as little as humanly possible until we broke camp the next morning, and b) actually a wonderful, loving memory of my own dad, who was camping with me when I was about 7, and a time I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night at a campground where the facilities were called "rustic." 

I can distinctly remember going in there, him holding the flashlight for me and me taking care of my business.  He then handed the flashlight back to me as he washed his hands at which point I shined the light down into the latrine.  He laughed out loud, took the light gently and said "Denny, for God's sake don't shine the light down there..."  He and I laughed often about that moment for many years after that.

When I got back to camp, it was obvious that my son and some of his buddies (and their dads) had helped square things away with the tent.  I was moved by their kindness.  My spirits lifted by their generosity, and the fact that they did not judge me for my lack of woodmanship.  Perhaps, I thought as I watched the kids making camper pies for the grown ups, they won't actually eat me first.

We settled into our chairs and ate the dinner the boys made over an open fire.  Later there were skits, and laughter, and warmth all around.  I noticed that I was not sneezing, my hands weren't itching, I did not die of a heart attack lugging anything.

Then as the sun set slowly on a cloudless Michigan evening, and in that gloaming moment when the first few stars winked in to ensure all was well and good with our scout troop, I realized that I never once missed watching that football game.  I had no great longing to know the score or to count coup over my friends who were Wolverine fans.

Michael came back from a canoe ride and in front of God and everybody told me he loved me, wished me a happy birthday, and gave me a hug and a kiss.  I realized at about that moment, I had had perhaps the greatest birthday of my adult life.

About a minute later, my wife, as if knowing the exact words coursing through my brain, texted:

"...it came without packages, boxes or bags..."

She knew.  How she knew is probably part of how she is a great mom.  But she just knew.

Later that night, we snuggled into the leaning cavernous edifice that was our tent, giggling like a couple of campers - him with my iPod and permission to run the battery down to nothing, me with my smartphone and finally catching up on the headlines from the game, my son said to me "Thanks, Dad, for sharing your birthday with me.  I think this is my favorite night ever."

He's a good kid, and Halloween and Christmas are coming so who knows if it will long remain his favorite night ever.  But that night, and the fact that I let him pee in the woods rather than go back to that latrine, may just hang with him as a good memory for a long long time.

And that will be the best birthday present I could have imagined.

So thanks for coming by my blog today, a little longer than what I try and post but there was just perhaps a little bit more that I needed to say.  Here's hoping that whatever you do this week, you do so immersed in love and laughter, and are lifted aloft on the warm currents of a family's love.

Dennis

In my experience, people are generally pretty funny

I work in Human Resources.  Consequently, much of my professional life revolves around people and their relationships at work; and with work.  I will admit it privately, just between us, that there are days when I feel like hanging a sign over my desk that reads "I would love my Human Resources job if it wasn't for all the humans."

People have an unparalleled capacity for mischief, unreasonable expectations, rude behavior, etc... like I gotta tell you all that.  You know all that, right? I'm sure you do.  Sometimes I giggle at the stories my friends tell about their work, thinking "Man if I worked in Human Resources at your joint would I ever think you are a handful..."

Mostly, however, when I talk to people or watch them at work or play, I am reminded at how much people are just funny.  I have always held that to be good at Human Resources, you have to have a deep and abiding love of people in general.  A strong ability to forgive and forget and move on without judging (generally).

So as a quasi-academic in this field; and as a professional of some 13+ years experience in Human Resources, and a blogger on things in general; I hope to include here an occassonal feature. My own take on celebrating the best in people - their capacity to be fun.  So allow me to introduce the first edition of the "People are Fun" chronicles.

Chapter the First:  Years ago I was at Sparrow Hospital, waiting anxiously outside an operating room while a loved one was inside.  To pass the time, I watched three maintenance employees going about their work in the drop ceiling of a hallway.  One by one these bawdy roughnecks would disappear up into the ceiling, monkey around up there doing their work, and then climb down and move their ladder to a new location only to begin again the same ritual. 

From the pointed banter and their frequent insults to each other, I took it that they were probably long term co-workers who were accustomed to giving each other crap. So it was fun for me to just kind of eavesdrop on them as they talked about each others' wives, insulted each others' looks or intelligence, and in at least one case expounded on the potentcy of one co-worker's flatulence.

This tableau is on display in the "People are funny" wing of Small Town Dad because of what happened when one of them inadvertently dropped a flashlight through the ceiling and it struck one of the other co-workers square on the bridge of his foot.

The crash was loud enough.  The stream of exclamations and curse words following it was louder still.  The victim let the light-dropper know in no uncertain terms that he was upset.  I distinctly remember him calling him an "idiot" and a "jerk" and making commentary on exactly who he was a son of.

I watched this all with a greater degree of interest because of where I work in the Human Resources office. See, if I worked at this hospital, I would be the one getting the call after the one employee cussed out the other employee.  Employee misconduct is kind of the "coin of the realm" in my little corner of the Human Resources world.

As I said,  I watched with voyeuristic interest to see what would happen next.  Would the employee, still hidden from view in the ceiling, return fire with a cussing barrage of his own?  Would he come down and settle the matter with his fists, or would he just leave in a huff and get the boss?  I recognized from my long experience dealing with pissed off employees that all of those were distinct possibilities.  I always heard about what happened after-the-fact, but in my entire career rarely have I ever been there to witness it first hand.

What I heard from the rough, burly, butt-crack-sportin maintenance man hidden up in the ceiling, instead of any commotion, rebuttal or fisticuffs, was merely a plaintive, almost child like appeal to the cussor from the cussee.  He said:

"Hey man...I don't know what why you gotta treat me like that in front of everybody.  I got feelings too you know..."

The proclamation was so out of character and innocent and surprising that the entire room, victim and all, broke out into immediate laughter.  People all around recognized that a moment's fun was the exact thing that was needed at that moment.

Chapter the Second:  Comes from my son's fencing class.  I was watching two kids go at it like Robin Hood and Nottingham -just blasting away at each other with savage saber swipes and jabs.  One of them, the taller of the two, seemed to be getting the upper hand and, to emphasize his bravado, started quoting from Star Wars - the famous scene where Obi Wan Kenobi fights Darth Vader:

"If you strike me down now..." he said, pressing his advantage, forcing his smaller opponent into a back corner of the gym, "...I shall become more powerful than you can possibly im...."

At that moment, just when the taller kid raised his sword arm and was going to finish off the littler kid with a blow to the head while simultaneously concluding the dramatic Obi-Wan quote, the smaller kid struck.

"THHHHHHHWAAACK!"  The backhand slice through the armpit of the raised sword-arm was so fast and loud and powerful, it quieted the entire gym.

Suddenly, Darth Vader changed his tune.  "Craaaa-AAAIG!" he squealed, writhing in pain. "Why did you have to go and hit me in the back?"  He doubled over to the side and said, almost crying.  "That really hurt!" 

I couldn't help myself - I was dying laughing and had to leave the gym quickly.  Just the sight of "Darth Vader" going from Dark Lord of the Sith,  Mr. "if you strike me down now, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine..." one moment, to 12-year old victim of the dreaded "Craaaaa-AAAIG" the next had me howling inside.

And the third entry for this edition of the People are Funny chronicles comes in the form of a picture.  I have no idea what image word search I was doing on the internet, but I found this while poking around for one of my blog entries and thought I would share it.  The naughtiness of it is m'eh as far as pictures go, but what struck me really was their faces - how much fun they are having.  It convinced me that, at their very essence, people just want to have fun.

So, thanks for stopping by my blog today. I hope this day, whatever challenges, worries, or important matters are crowding you in, you find a way to make elbow room to enjoy something fun, or silly, or pleasant. Have a great day :-)

Each of these family rules is the product of some untellable story

So my daughter ran in front of a car last night at the local supermarket.  Admittedly it scared at least 5 years off of my life.  Hours after the event, my chest still hurt.

I was unloading returnables from the back of the Queen Family Truckster while my wife and son went along to gather a cart.  The four year old generally sticks very close to me whenever we take back returnables because she likes to help feed the disgusting, disease ridden bottle counter.  So she was right on my side, eagerly awaiting the Petri dish experience of counting returnables.  I turned to grab the last bag of bottles at the same moment she decided she wanted to go with her mom. So, darting from the lee of my considerable blind spot, she sprinted out into the lane of traffic like Jackie Robinson breaking for home.

Unfortunately she sprinted right into the path of a passing car that was less than ten feet from us.  It all happened so fast that the only thing I could do was to yell "STOP" in my dad voice.

The dad voice only comes out once in a while, and it never really works.  It is the voice that begins somewhere down around my groin, propels itself upward via a tightening of my diaphragm, surges through my neck like water rushing through a firehose and then explodes out of my mouth like a ship's horn.

Oh sure, without a doubt, it always seems to draw a crowd and inspire stares and the awkward looks of passing strangers, but it almost never works. It almost never ends up achieving the desired result.

Thank God, last night, it did.  My daughter froze in her tracks.  The woman driving the car, thinking I was yelling at her, stopped in her tracks.  People loading their groceries all over the parking lot froze mid-lift.  The sign flickering above the McDonald's half a block away stopping flickering.  A barking dog silenced himself in the back of a dirty pick up truck.

Thank God, all was safe.  I have to admit, without boasting, that there are probably only two really impressive things about me; I make a pretty mean steak on the grill, and the dad voice.

After the close call in the parking lot, my voice returned to normal except that it gave wings to yet another empty lecture about what one of our cardinal family rules is:  "The only purpose of walking through the parking lot is to get from the car to the door safely, nothing else matters if you can't manage that, take nothing for granted, one moment's inattention, blah blah blah..."  I wondered later if any of it sunk in.

That got me thinking about the cardinal rules in my house when I was a kid, and wondering if I ever listened to them.  They were almost always born of some unspeakable event.  My brothers, if they read this, will see the one about "blue shag carpet" and immediately remember a particular family incident which grew so greatly in our family lore that it even had its own name; "The day Dennis exploded..."

Yes, I am laughing hard writing this, but it has taken me 38 years to get to that point.  As a kid, being the kid who "exploded" at a gathering of Indian Guides was not good.  No one wants that on their "kid" resume.  I can hear my father now - "Who puts blue shag carpet in a bathroom when there are kids in the home?..."  And I also recall him asking me how "it" got on the ceiling.

Here, then, are a few of our family's rules - just the tip of the iceberg really, but they got us through some life learning events.  I already told you about the first one.

1)  "It is never a good idea to put blue shag carpet in a bathroom when kids are in the house."

2)  "We don't ever shoot BB guns in the house."

3)  "In the absence of matches, the stove is a poor alternative if you are trying to light a firecracker with a short fuse".

4)  "Despite what you see in the cartoons, a garbage bag or umbrella will not act like a parachute if you jump off the garage roof holding one."

5)  "Always check your speedo for holes BEFORE you get to the beach."

6)  "No matter how good it looks, a dog treat is never suitable for human consumption."

7)  "No toys at the table" - this rule has been revisited now that we are in the age of smartphones, facebook, and blogging.  For the record, my mom still tells us, her grown children, "No toys at the table."

8)  "Don't hold your sneezes in, especially if you have the runs." (neither my rule nor my words, but the wisdom in it I thought speaks volumes).

9)  "Words that make people defensive never work, it's a terrible way to communicate."  Actually this is a pretty good one.

10)  "Hands at 10:00 and 2:00, check your mirrors & gauges, keep your eyes in motion, leave yourself an escape route, drive like it's your family in the other car..." are also all proven ideas that work.

So thanks for stopping by my blog today. Whatever sun shines through your windows today, here's hoping that the rules that govern your roost make sense, to you, and are fun and enduring ones.

Suicide at Rutgers; and the essence of hope

So, an aside from the usual fare for these pages today.  We are all reading today that on the evening of September 19, Rutgers University student Dharun Ravi is believed to have sent a message by Twitter about his roommate, Tyler Clementi.

Tyler it seemed wanted some privacy in their dorm room for an intimate encounter.  Not an unheard of circumstance at any college dorm.  Only with Tyler, the intimate encounter was with another man.  So kids being kids, and technology being technology a bad plan was hatched to webcast Tyler's private moments to the world wide web.  That bad plan was made worse when no one thought to say - "this is too much."

News of the broadcast reached Tyler and the supposition is that he killed himself rather than face the scandal of engaging in intimate acts identical to those being engaged in by thousands of college kids on hundreds of college campuses nationwide.

We know that Police pulled his body from the Hudson river yesterday after he left a note, on Facebook, that he was jumping off the George Washington Bridge.  "Sorry" was what it said.  The Middlesex County Coroner identified his body today.  By all accounts he was a terrific kid.

So today. along with the student's family and friends, my thoughts are with the residence life staff at Rutgers.  For eight years I was an RHD (Residence Hall Director) at a university in Michigan.  In those eight years, it was one of the thoughts that scared me most - some student - feeling isolated, alone, would act out in desperation.  You can see it in your mind - if someone had just been there to say "Tyler, are you ok?" maybe things would be different.

As a matter of fact, when I was a hall director most of the kids that came my way were terrific kids. There were loving, adoring, families behind them overflowing with pride at the accomplishments of the child they dropped at my doorstep.  My commitment to the parents, aside from trying to engage their progeny to become more solid citizens, more independent critical thinkers and responsible adults, was that they would be leaving their kid someplace safe.

In training I used to tell the story that my dad told to me about the tanker in WWII who looks down at a paratrooper manning a foxhole and asks "Hey Mack, where's a safe place to park this tank?"  To which the trooper replied "Right behind me, buddy."  The same was true, to a far less dramatic degree, with the  residence life staff at any given university.

The parents show up and, if you were able to strip away all the other worry and posturing, what you would see is that what they ultimately want is a safe place to leave their kid. 

The res life professional's job is to look at them and say "right behind me, buddy."

So when we would meet with kids at the beginning of each school year, I would always include a couple of extra things in my annual speech to them:

1)  There are mistakes you can make here that will follow you around the rest of your lives; try not to make them.  The truth about college is that just about 6 out of every 10 kids who start college will graduate in 6 years.

Tyler's roommate and his friend have made just such a mistake.

2)  Nothing will happen here that will justify suicide.  Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.  If you are feeling like this might be a solution you are considering, then come and find somebody, an RA, me, a professor, a counselor - whoever.  No one on a college campus or in a dorm is ever alone unless they want to be.

Tyler, sadly enough, chose suicide. Let me say it again, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.  That is the essence of hope. No matter how bleak your present is you cannot determine with any accuracy exactly what your future might be.  But you can hope.

So maybe one of my nieces or nephews will someday read this; or perhaps too soon for my own comfort my son or daughter will be heading off to school and wanting to read dad's blog entries.  To them I would say this:

Nothing can bring this student back.  Nothing can restore his devastated parents.  No miracle will act to reinstate the innocence of the kids involved in this. But I hope all kids contemplating college learn from this story.  Learn that no matter what there is always hope.  And if you are tempted to pull that prank, or victimize another for the "fun of it", then know that there is no right way to do a wrong thing.  There is always the path to sound judgment, critical thinking, and leadership if you look for it.  Learn to try hard to make good choices, whatever you do. ANd learn to avoid the bad choices.

Finally I hope residence life professionals view this story and re-dedicate themselves to creating University communities abundant with tolerance, acceptance, and learning.  Make sure you keep open the doors of out-reach.  Remember the starfish parable.  If your res life program is any good, they taught it to you.  If not, then here it is.

One morning an elderly man was walking on a nearly deserted beach. He came upon a boy surrounded by thousands and thousands of starfish. As eagerly as he could, the youngster was picking them up and throwing them back into the ocean.

Puzzled, the older man looked at the young boy and asked, "Little boy, what are you doing?"

The youth responded without looking up, "I'm trying to save these starfish, sir."

The old man chuckled aloud, and queried, "Son, there are thousands of starfish and only one of you. You really think you can make a difference doing this?"

Holding a starfish in his hand, the boy turned to the man and, gently tossing the starfish back into the water, said, "I can to this one."

So anyhow, thanks for swinging by my soapbox today.  I did not intend on an entry for today, and certainly not on such a topic as this, but even small town dads are not immune.  My mother told me once that when you have kids, you're never the same - everybody's kids are your kids.  Everything that happens to somebody else's kid could some day happen to your kid.

Wherever you are; whatever you are facing - please know this - no person ever walks alone.  We are today reminded that, no matter what, there is always hope.

Dennis