Day 14: On Guitars . . . .

Last night, I sat in bed watching television with my guitar in my hands. I had intended to play it. Only I didn't. I never picked a note. Yet, there she remained in my hands for that couple of hours, as if that's exactly where she was always meant to be. Few things put me in as a positive state of mind as my guitar.

Sometimes, I think about what if one of my guitars belonged to someone else or got lost or was stolen. Monetarily, it wouldn't be big loss; they aren't worth that much. Sentimentally, though, I'd be devastated. Seriously. A person's relationship with his or her guitar is a funny thing. I know a lot of other people who think of their guitar as the best damn friend they ever had. I wouldn't argue. There's a lot to like about a guitar. There's a lot of potential waiting to be drawn out of that body and six strings. The best aspect of owning a guitar, though, is that when the relationship is good, it's one of the few things in the world you can feel truly comfortable with at any time.  

Day 13: Friday Night At The Gateway Inn

Friday night is special to me. There’s some kind of weird metamorphosis that takes place on Friday nights that I can’t explain but leaves me feeling more relaxed than any other time of the week. More at peace and less responsible. I think the sensation is tied to the fact that many of my best and longest-lasting memories are associated with Friday nights, memories that make me realize how fortunate I was to grow up during the period of time in which I did, to have the friends and family that I did, and to have been able to enjoy small things as much as I did. If you grow up in a small town like I did, small things are often all you had. 

One of my favorite Friday night memories started from time I was five or so and lasted on through my college years. Often on Friday night, some collection of my mom, dad, and sister and I would eat supper at the Gateway Inn in Ashland, NE.  I’m not sure if dining out on a Friday night was an intentional move by my parents (I think it was), but the choice seemed the perfect way to wrap up a week of school and work. No worries about making supper. No worries about doing dishes. No worries if everyone would like what was on the table. No worries other than having to pay the bill, and that wasn’t my domain, although my father always said “if you pick up the check, you pay it.” My only duty was to pile in the car, stare out the window as we made the short ride to just outside of town, and walk through the doors of the Gateway Inn.

I loved the place. Loved the way it looked and smelled; loved the way the old, wooden booths and tables were scattered about; loved the scads of Husker helmets, posters, autographed photos, and other memorabilia on the walls; loved the allure of the candy bars sitting behind the glass counters; loved the shape of the beer tap handles and the bottles of booze; and I loved the TV hanging up in the corner that was seemingly always tuned into “The Rockford Files.”

I rarely ordered anything from outside my comfort zone, a trait that’s done me well to today. Usually, I went with a cheeseburger and fries. Tried and true. But on those nights when I was feeling particularly daring, I’d go with a hamburger steak to mix things up. On those even rarer nights when I was determined to throw caution to the wind, I instructed the waitress, the mom of a boy in my class, to bring me a grilled cheese sandwich. It would arrive pre-cut, piping hot, and oozing yellow goodness all over the plate. I can still taste the pickle juice that the bread would sop up from the nearby slices. I can still see the shape of the small glass that I’d drink my soda out of. I can still hear the bubbles forming at the top of my dad’s more slender glass as he poured a beer. On some nights after we ate our plates clean, the owner would slip my sister and I some candy before we left, and I’d wonder if we were the only kids he looked out for that way.

On the ride home, I wondered what we’d watch on TV when we got home, if dad would let me stay up late and watch “The Night Stalker” once the local news ran through all the high school football or basketball scores first. Later, as Johnny Carson’s voice registered somewhere far off in my mind, I wondered how much longer my eyes could fight off the inevitable and I could prolong the end of another Friday night.

I’m lucky to have such memories.  

Day 12: Scooby-Doo, We Are Not Going To Be Friends, But. . . .

Scooby-Doo, you honestly never did much for me. I found your voice annoying and grating, and sometimes when you talked, it sounded like sludge filtering through a sock. 

Shaggy, I definitely didn't like you. You were stupid for stupid's sake, and that's no way to go through life.

Velma, what can I say? You're smart, but your humor bone is broken. You're dull. You dress dull. You look dull. You give dull a bad name. Lighten up and we'll talk.

Fred, you wear a scarf every day. It's your security blanket.  You should lose it.

Daphne, step into the light already. 

Yeah, I never cared much for the ole' gang. I didn't appreciate Scrappy Doo on any level, and seeing Vincent Price just depressed me to realize how far he'd fallen. The "Oh, we're so hungry" gag got old fast, and the Scooby Snacks thing just doesn't make sense. Scooby has been afforded a brand of snacks named after him, yet he travels in a van filled with people who trick him into doing things that will put him in harm's way by enticing him with the very snacks that are named after him. Makes no sense. 

A lot of Scooby-Doo doesn't make sense to me, including why people like it so much. People including my daughter. She's obsessed. Obsessed because of monsters and mysteries, and probably because there are a lot of snacks being eaten. Old me looked at her fondness as a pain to be endured. Now me, though, is thankful Scooby makes her laugh. As dopey, dimwitted, and food-obsessed as I find Scooby, this isn't about me. It's about a little kid being happy. 

 

 

Day 11: A Tent Isn’t Just For Sleeping In

Last night, my daughter and I set out to build a fort in our basement living room. I’m not hesitant to say I’m a good fort builder. I’ve had lots of practice over the years with three previous kids. Still, I’m always amazed at how differently I tend to view something like building a tent than how my kids do.

The fun for me is deciding how to strategically place each and every blanket and where to best situate the couch cushions and how to use the chairs to guard the entry way. The fun for me is making everything grand. In other words, I think like an adult. Ugh. Boring. Pretentious. Self-important. The fun for my kids is what you can do with the tent, not what it looks like. They want to build fast and get to playing. They want to battle the pirates gathering outside or trap the bear clawing at the roof or the fight the ghosts trying to break in.

I love that, too, but sadly my ability to suspend belief has gotten more difficult as I’ve gotten older. I think that’s the product of living in a result-oriented world where personal worth is often determined by what and how much you produce. The fact that it carries over into imaginary worlds is terrifying. It’s troubling that I find myself more worried about the tent’s roof that’s now sagging because the cat jumped on it and it might appear to strangers than what we should do about the witch my daughter says is cackling outside the door and is going to do terribly hideous things to us.

I know my daughter has the right perspective. It’s not like we’re going to move into this tent smack dab in the living room and take up residence. Why not get it up fast and get to playing? We can always build another tent. We can’t get back moments lost to build imaginary worlds. Last night offered proof. By the time I put the final touches on a first-rate tent featuring three separate chambers, including two sleeping rooms, bed time was approaching and we’d barely even begun fighting pirates or wrestling grizzly bears. Tent wasted.

Lesson: Sometimes spending less effort upfront means better results later on. 

Day 10: Off To School She Goes

Today, my baby started preschool. Word is she wasn’t too happy about it. I can understand her trepidation in heading off to a strange, new place. She has a cushy life at home, a place she’s spent pretty much every morning of her short life doing what kids should do in the morning: eating a good breakfast, playing, watching some “Little Bear,” coloring, riding her trike, and doing whatever else the day brings her way. Now, she’s being forced to leave all that behind for a world where she has to share everything. Ugh, the horror. She’s entering a land where little creatures with itty bitty hands and fingers and boundless enthusiasm and energy are about to surround her in masses—a far cry from bleary-eyed adults she usually spends mornings with drowning coffee down their gullets instead of Juicy Juice.

Despite her misgivings, I couldn’t be more excited. My girl is bright and well-spoken and can reason and communicate beyond her years. She is that way because she’s 10 years younger than the next oldest child, and she’s surrounded by adults and teenagers nearly every day, meaning she has a steady diet of older people around who talk differently than toddlers; who are taller, faster, and grumpier than toddlers; who have less patience than toddlers; who don’t fit into spaces that toddlers do. In many ways, I’d say the adults she’s around are also less well-behaved than toddlers.

I’m excited for my little girl to be around other little people all morning doing what little people do. I’m excited for her to play and learn and watch and listen and interact with little people, not adults who dictate where she goes and why and when. My aim with this child is to keep her a kid for as long as possible. My older children grew up too fast. It was hard to slow them down. It was hard to convince them that all they found tempting in the world would still be there for them later on. It was harder convincing them that some of the things they found tempting weren’t everything they’re cracked up to be. I want my preschooler to live each second as a preschooler and do the same in every grade thereafter. As odd as it might seem, I love that she’s starting preschool and temporarily getting away from the people who love her the most.

Day 9: Babies, babies, babies.

In the last week, several friends have announced to the world that soon, little wee ones will be invading their home. I couldn't be happier.

I love babies, and it almost always makes me happy when people have them--if I think they'll be good parents, and these most recent friends I trust will be.

Some people, though, just don't like babies. They don't like that they need to be fed or changed or that they cry a lot. They don't like that babies can't talk or walk or hit the toilet right out of the gate. I've found these people are usually selfish people in one way or another, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Hey, if you're an adult and you've reasoned that your freedom means more to you and makes you happier than an infant who demands your every waking second, it's hard for me to argue. Hell, I can't describe how much I miss jumping in my car and heading off in any direction without anyone to answer to or think about after I put foot to pedal.

But that was then. Today, a corporation of children own my freedom, and they dole it out every so slightly. Evidently, having a place to live, food to eat, clothes that look cool, and iPods to keep entertained take precedence over pop's would-be aspirations. I understand this, and I knew what I was getting into before I became a dad. And the sacrifices I make aren't any more than millions of others, and for the most part, I gladly make them, especially when the effort is recognized.

Still, it's difficult when my freedom disappears for weeks on end. Sometimes, I forget what he looks like. Sometimes, when he comes wandering back after a long time away, it's awkward because we don't know how to act around each other. I'll say, "How you been?"

"Bored," he'll say. "When are we going to play?"

Invariably, I disappoint him with my answer.

"Not today, I have a bike to fix."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Sorry, man. Got to work."

"Tomorrow night?"

"No good. Basketball practice."

"Well, what if we stay up late and play guitar?"

"You know, I would, but I'm really tired already."

"Fine, whatever.

And so it goes.

Now, the flip side to that freedom lost are moments of complete and utter joy gained, moments you can't obtain if you're not a parent, such as completely out of the blue hearing, "Dad, I love you." Or "Dad, want to color because I like the way you draw dogs." Or "Hey, I just wanted to say 'thanks' for making me do all that stuff myself." Or "Dad, what's your favorite band ever?" and listening to the answer.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself what's so great about being a dad. There are a lot of things that will try to get in the way of that, including children growing up and not needing you nearly as much as they once did. That's why I always get a kick out of a friend who is expecting a baby. It reminds me of the importance of those early years and all the rewards that turn up over the years that follow.

Day 8: Playoff Football

Baseball playoffs are my favorite sports playoffs because the tension that can build up ever so slowly over nine innings if fantastically nerve-wrecking. There has to be a conclusion, and you're duty as a fan is to anxiously wait for it to come. No hustle. No bustle. No hurry or worry. Just wait for it to come. NFL playoffs, however, as nearly as equally marvelous. Although it rarely happens anymore, there's little that's more appealing to me than planting my plump arse down in a big, comfy chair smack dab in front of the TV and watching about five hours straight of football. If it's snowing outside, the weather is unfriendly, and there's no excuse to go anywhere, that's even better. If there's a team that I really like, nirvana.

These days, I have a four-year-old with boundless energy and the determination to see that all of it is expended every day. I also live with four girls, and only one shares a remote interest in the game. On any day, there may be two or three additional girls in the house, all of which works against me watching in peace. Add in the work I invariably bring home on many weekends, kids fighting, dishes to get done, supper to make, basketball games to take kids to, blah, blah, blah, and football tends to fall down the priority ladder all to quickly.

I'm not sure why football is so appealing to me. It's brutal and violent and egocentric and some parts of it display man's worst traits. It's also brilliant with strategy and determination and will power, and some parts of it display man's best qualities. Playoff football just ramps all that up five or six notches. Everything becomes more intense. Leaders surface to the top. The brightest minds who can defy the distractions of tension and pressure survive and move on. I know it's only football, meaning it's only a game, but it's often riveting and often draining in an entirely good way. Why question it?

Playoff football can also make people from different walks of life, occupations, incomes, beliefs, etc., stop and collectively watch the same moments unfolding in front of them. That's beautiful. A decade or so ago, I was stuck in a hospital bed with pretty much the only thing keeping my spirits up being the playoff games happening on the TV above me. At one point in the afternoon, my doctor came in for his rounds, got caught up in the action, pulled up a chair beside me, and we ended up watching several minutes together. He escaped the grind that comes with being a doctor; I escaped from constantly dealing with being sick. Just two men who didn't really care about much else in that particular moment than what the next play was going to be and if the defense could stop it.

I understand why some people dislike the game. I live in a house with some of those people. I also understand why some people stop whatever the hell it is they're doing for an afternoon and let the world creep away for a few hours by getting caught up in a "game." I may be just a game, but it's a beautiful one. I'd say it's even important on a few levels.