Day 181: home

Home at last. Long days are brutal. They are worse when traveling with a brood. That's why it feels so good to make it home. See your bed. Feel your pillow. Dream a sweet dream. Too tired to write.

Day 180: I Don't Fish Anymore, But . . .

Sometimes, I wish I did. I don't hunt, either, but I have no desire to do that. Honestly, I can't foresee myself ever picking up a gun again, let alone squeezing the trigger. It's a personal choice. You're free to make up your mind. I won't go into why I've made my choice, but a lot of reasons are the same as those that others who don't appreciate the merits of guns would cite. But a fishing pole, that's different. Not sure why, but it just is to me. Maybe, it's because I don't read all that many stories of someone arming themselves with a fishing pole to rob a bank or commit a drive-by shooting or hold a country's worth of citizens prisoners. I don't recall too many news stories that read "Disgruntled Employee Kills 12 With Fishing Pole" or "Man Arms Self With Rod & Reel To Kill President." Nah, a fishing pole is a leisurely device, well, at least for the fisherman. I think the fish would offer a different opinion.


Which brings me to why I stopped fishing. It happened sometime when I was around 16. I just couldn't stand the thought anymore of yanking a hook through a fish's mouth. Pretty much the same thing happened with the first bird I plugged with lead or the day I watched my dad do in a beaver he'd caught in one of his traps. The lust for animal blood never ran deep in me, and I'm more than fine with that. Oddly, I have no problem with putting the dukes up and letting them fly man-to-man if need by, but guns, eh, that's another story. 


I'm know my tune would change if someone was threatening my family, but owning guns just for the sake of owning them has never appealed to me. I have no idea where the guns I did have as a kid even are. I suppose they're tucked safely somewhere in my parents' house. I don't miss them, and I haven't thought about them in, well, ever. But my fishing pole. I do miss it. 


I had a great one, too. It had a green, foam-cushioned handle that fit my hand perfectly, and it was just the right weight. I wasn't a great fisherman, but I knew what I was doing. I had that pole for years and years, and I loved picking it back up every spring and practicing my casts. I wished I had gotten a chance to use it more often down along the Wahoo and Silver Creeks. I wish I had made more trips down that stretch of railroad out near the Guard Camp in Ashland, underneath that train bridge, casting a line, and sitting and waiting. Some days, the thought of sitting once again on the old concrete landing at Memphis Lake under those overhanging trees really appeals to me. When I've taken my own kids there over the years to camp, it seems so much smaller than it did years ago when my dad and I would sit there and watch our bobbers dance in the waves. We didn't bother with bobbers when we fished  behind my grandfather's house, sitting on that dirt where the creeks converged on either side. There we just loaded a hooked sponge up with stink bait and waited for the catfish to nibble. 


I can't remember exactly which was the last time I ever fished. I know it was when I was 16 or so. I'm pretty sure I was with my cousin. I remember there had been storms in our part of the state off and on for weeks, including one that morning. The water keep rising and rising, faster and faster, and we keep moving further and further up the bank until there wasn't much of a bank left. We were in awe, and a little bit scared. We didn't catch anything, either, but we rarely did. It wasn't really about how many fish we caught, though. It was about getting away from town. Away from responsibilities. Away from all the chatter. It was about just being there. 


Over the years, all of my children have fished, including my four-year-old daughter who fished for the first time this summer at day camp, and by all accounts, she did incredibly well. For months, she'd been asking me to take her, and all those times I tried to explain to her why I could go with her but it would probably be her grandpa who actually did the fishing with her. She doesn't really understand why this so, but she will one day. In the meantime, I want to let her fish all she wants, and later on when she can, I want her to make up her own mind about whether it's something she wants to do or not the rest of her life. Just like with the other kids, I don't want to say a word to try to influence her not to. I don't want to tell her what she should do. 


Fishing gave me a lot of good times, including a lot I shared with my dad, mom, sister, friends, and other family. I don't plan on doing anything to not make the same possible for my daughter. But fishing also helped me rethink a few of my own ethics and ideas, and I have to say, fishing was responsible for making me see things differently, and I'm just as thankful for that. But, man, some days, the thought of sitting along some serene stream or corner of a lake and feeling the anticipation of wanting the tip of that rod to dip downward toward the water has a definite pull. The thought of just sitting and listening and partaking in life without any need for words along a bank of water is pretty damn appealing. 

Day 179: "Louie" Teaches Me A Lesson

When I run across something I really like, I have a tendency to barrage anyone who will listen or is unfortunate to be in my immediate vicinity at the time with a multitude of reasons why they should like that thing, as well. It doesn’t matter if that said thing is a song, movie, TV show, book, pair of shoes, beer, potato chip, or person. As sorry as I am to say it, if I like something, I have a habit of attempting to persuade other people to like it, too. Worse, I have a habit of passing unfair judgment upon people when they don’t like what I do.

A prime example of this is Louis C.K. Tonight is the season premiere of the third season of his show, “Louie.” I was a fan of his standup routine well before he got his most excellent show on the FX Network, but I became a diehard fan after the first episode of the first season aired two summers ago. And I immediately went to work convincing anyone who would listen why they should be watching too, and if they didn’t watch they would missing out on the greatest joy of their life, and if they missed out on the greatest joy of their life they wouldn’t be living up to their duties as a human being, and by not living up to their duties as a human being I could no longer be associated with them. Well, I didn’t take my admiration and adoration of Louis C.K. quite that far, but I did push the boundaries a bit I’m afraid by obnoxiously and annoyingly pushing C.K. down the proverbial throat of others.

I did ultimately convince my wife to watch “Louie,” mostly by telling her it was quite possibly the greatest show to ever make the airwaves (something that I’m not entirely not convince of). When she found some of his material and scenes offensive (something perfectly within her rights) and didn’t make it a point to firmly block out the 9: 30 to 10 p.m. timeframe each and every Thursday night, however, I started doubting whether we were really right for each other. Well, again, I didn’t take my disappointment to those levels, but I was in fact disappointed that she didn’t instantly gravitate to the genius that I so obviously saw in Louis C.K.

I remember the same thing happening years ago when rap first starting infiltrating the popular music world with force. I instantly jumped onboard. Most of my friends didn’t. I deemed them shortsighted and incapable of recognizing “art” in all forms. The same thing happened decades ago when I attempted to point out the comedic genius of “The Blues Brothers” to my girlfriend at the time, who didn’t find Jake and Elwood nearly as amusing as I did. (“I’ll’ have four friend chickens and coke.” Come on!) And I can’t count the number of times or the number of people I’ve tried to hip to the real-world value of professional wrestling and why the dirty backstage goings-on and politics are every bit as enticing and oddly entertaining in a dirty, backstabbing, underhanded, dark, and power-hungry way as Tony Soprano or Michael Corleone or George Bush Jr.

A funny thing happened to me this morning, though, that made me rethink my position (as if it needed much rethinking; I know how full of crap I am). When a discussion between a friend and I turned to abstract art and its merit, I essentially said abstract art doesn’t have any merit (at least to me). I don’t get it. More or less, I crapped all over something that someone else found value in by denouncing it. Why? Well, merely because it doesn’t “speak” to me. Hmm. That’s pretty much like how Louis C.K. doesn’t really speak to some people I know, or how some people don’t consider rap to be music, and some people (gasp) don’t perceive Jake and Elwood to be on the same level as Abbott and Costello.

Lesson learned. We like what we like.  

Day 178: Thoughts On Wimbledon, Independence Day & My Mom

Ever year as the opening matches of Wimbledon get under way, I can’t help but think back to those years when I was a kid and my friends and I shared a mutual love of tennis, a love that seemed to equal that of baseball or any other sport we played. Among that group of friends who played often, I ranked somewhere near the lower end of the upper tier of players. I was capable of upsetting those better than me and more than capable of blowing matches I should have won. As much as anyone, though, I loved the game. That love continued well into college and beyond, and even though I haven’t played in years, my every intention is to take the game up again somewhere down the line when free time becomes less difficult to locate.  

As difficult as it might be for kids today to believe, 30 years ago or so, American youth not only loved to play tennis, they played it with gusto and followed it avidly. Even living in a small Nebraska town of barely 2,000 people, my running mates and I were full aware of the world of global tennis, and we hit the courts at least three or four times a week during the summer months trying to better our game. We held our own double-elimination tournaments, served as our own umpires, and fiercely competed against each other. Sometimes, those matches got heated and words were exchanged. More often, though, we knew who was likely to win but just loved to play anyway. 

We might have had one decent ball among us, but we still played. We might have a broken string or two in our racket, but we still played. We might have a crack in our wooden racket that we patched up with a half roll of tape, but we played on. We played before, during, and after it rained. We played in the morning, in the dead of the afternoon, and until the lights turned off at night. We played singles, doubles, and if there wasn't enough players for doubles, we played one-on-two. We played among ourselves and with the older people who were flooding the courts, which had just been built in my town and were becoming a progressively more popular destination. Everyone it seemed took up the game. We did more than that, though. We took up the game with passion. We saved our money to buy a new can of balls at Gamble’s. We hoped, prayed, begged, and pleaded for new rackets for our birthdays. And we mimicked our favorite players right down to their serving style, the way they wore their socks, and the headbands they donned around their foreheads. It was a grand, grand era for tennis filled with the likes of Connors, Borg, McEnroe, Lendl, Becker, Noah, Gerulaitis, Wilander, Evert, Navratilova, and Austin. We reveled in it. 

As much as Wimbledon reminds me of those days and playing with the likes of Timmy and David and the Paars and so many others, it reminds me of watching Wimbledon men’s singles championship year after year on early Fourth of July mornings with my mom, who was as avid and knowledgeable fan herself. I lived for McEnroe. She was a Borg follower, and I’ll never forget the encounters the pair had or how the stress and tension of their matches would gradually rise in our living room to unbearable levels the deeper the battled on. My mom and I seemed to live on every point. We spent hours glued to the television watching every point, yelling at every break point, going berserk at every double-fault, and feeling exhausted ourselves when the match was over.

These days, I glance at Wimbledon results each day online, but I don’t devote hours to watching finals matches. Somewhere along the way, I lost the love I once held for the game. My interests turned elsewhere, which is OK. But what I haven’t lost is the appreciation for traditions like Wimbledon or the grandeur or what those tradition and grandeur mean to certain people. Who knows, maybe this Fourth of July I’ll make a point of tuning in. Hopefully, Dick Enberg is still making the calls. 

Day 177: Upon First Encounter With Memorial Stadium

A couple of things today got me thinking about sports and more specifically, about stadiums and fields and arenas and the impressions and influences they can have on a person upon the first time he encounters one on a really big stage. My first experience on a big, crowded, frenzied stage was Memorial Stadium in Lincoln Nebraska in 1978.

It’s funny that with so many years sitting between 1978 and now, I can still remember so many details about that day and so much about the experience as a whole. Even better is how none of the specialness of that day has been lost during the years that have passed. In a word, that day and the experience were transcending, and it only cemented everything that I had already come to love about sports before that day.

The date specifically was Nov. 18, and the opponent was the Missouri Tigers. Nebraska was ranked #2 in the country. The previous week the Huskers had beaten the #1 ranked Oklahoma Sooners, sending the state into chaos. To say there was a significant buzz in the air Nov. 18 would be a tremendous understatement. Win the game against Missouri, the prevailing feeling among fans, sports writers, and anyone else in Nebraska who could form an opinion, and Nebraska would be playing for the national championship.

I couldn’t have been more elated when my dad told me he was taking me. Honestly, I’ve experienced few things since that have caused the same kind of anticipation and eagerness to swell up inside me. Among the many memories I have of that day is the sight and feel of the snow that was falling, the wind that was blowing, and the chill that was in the air. We parked many blocks away and had to cross the bridge leading to the stadium along with scores of other fans. I was intimidated and in wonder at the number of people on the streets, so much so that I didn’t notice that I had forgotten my gloves back in the car until we had nearly reached the stadium. My dad was understandably peeved, but he didn’t let it show (too much). I still remember him graciously giving me his own gloves and how warm they made my hands feel immediately.

As we made our way up the steps to enter the stadium, my eyes were darting everywhere. Even at a young age, it was impossible not to feel reverence for the history the building exuded. It was also impossible not to pay heed to the raft of voices filling the air. Men. Women. Old and young. Boys and girls. All decked in red and all full of life. Cheerleaders outside. The sound of the band coming from inside. The swarm of people filling the tunnels. All of it was amazing. I held on to my dad’s coat for dear life and let him pull me along the way, trying to find some light among the masses.

To this day, I can’t think of too many visions that are as firmly burned in my memory as the one of seeing the field for the first time. Even speckled with snow, the magnificence of the green field was blinding to my eyes. It was surreal. And the rows and rows of people collectively forming a sea of red? Incredible. Our seats were at about the 40 yard line, smack dab in the middle of what I soon figured out were longtime ticket holders. They were elderly and fiercely loyal. They were also incredible kind and couldn’t have been happier to have a youngster in their midst. They shared their binoculars and hot chocolate and observations. They told me what to look for and showed by example when I should stand, what cheers to participate in, and when to pay respect. It was like attending church.

The overall experience of witnessing the field and the stadium in all of its splendor would have been enough to make a deep, lasting impression, but the game only enhanced all the emotions I was feeling. Rick Berns took the opening kickoff and returned it for a touchdown, producing what is still to this day the loudest roar I can remember ever hearing. Later, after Nebraska would eventually lose the game 31-35, the result produced what would be perhaps the greatest collectively sense of dejection I’ve witnessed. As big of an impression as the cheers and joy and happiness of that touchdown made on me, the grumblings after the game ended were just as heavy and influential.

I completely and utterly realize how fortunate I am to have had such a memorable game and atmosphere be the center of my first encounter with a major sporting venue. I completely realize how lucky I am to be able to hold onto those memories in such an endearing way. I have such fond recollections of that day and how I got to share it all with my dad. I vividly remember how he took care to look after me and make the day special. I still remember the car rides to and from the stadium, and how drastically different the anticipation of the game felt from the contemplation of sorting through what I had actually experienced after.

Every time I’ve entered Memorial Stadium since, I’ve remembered that day with great joy and made a point to give that day the just due that it deserves. God made me a sports fan for whatever reason he did, but he made me a fan for life by gifting me that day. I learned on my first encounter on the big stage how special sports can be. 

Day 176: "Ah, Made You Look"

One of my favorite all-time songs is "Made You Look" from Nas. If you're not familiar, Nas is a rapper. He's a good one. One of the best. He also uses language in his songs that I can't let my little kid go anywhere near, which is just being a good parent but also a case of one day if she's interested, I want her to discover the music herself and make up her own mind about what is offensive and not. I don't want to force those judgments on her. Further, the world she'll be living in as she grows up will continue to be much different than the one I grew up in. Whose to say the words that cause me to flinch or reflect on now will even carry the same power later when she's ready to take them on. 


Nas lyrics specifically  use the "N" word, which for me brings up another interesting question, one that my other family members have been discussing lately. Honestly, I like a lot of rappers and a lot of rap songs that also use that word liberally. Very liberally. And while I understand the context in which it's being used, and most often I don't even necessarily object to the use, I can't bring myself to actually sing the word as I would the other words contained in the song, not even when I'm by myself and no one would no the difference. The few times that I have were weird and awkward, mixed with doses of guilt. The use of that word has been debated many times by many people in many types of different settings. I know where I come out, but I guess I don't have a firm grasp on why it seems offensive to me for me to sing the word. I do know that I won't stop listening to songs that contain the word, so just how far does my hypocrisy go? At any rate, this is just another reason why I love music as much as I do and argue its importance whenever I get a chance. 

Day 175: Losing Is Better Than Winning (Sometimes)

You won't find too many people who like winning more than me. When the situation requires as much, as I'm as competitive of person as you'll run across. But I know I've learned just as many lessons from losing as I have from winning. The lessons might sting a little more, but I'm convinced they're more valuable and longer lasting.

This weekend, my daughter's basketball teams went 0-5. They could have easily won two or three of those games but didn't. Now, there could be a lot of excuses made, and maybe even a few could be justified, but what would the point be. The excuse might make her feel better temporarily, but it isn't going to change the result. What's more important to me, and hopefully her, is that rather than look for reasons her team lost, she look for lessons she can learn from losing.

Losing often hurts, which is good. The more it hurts, the more you care. The more you care, generally the more effort you've put in preparing. The more you prepare, the more you've dedicated and gave of yourself. Giving and dedication are amazing traits to acquire and build upon.

Losing doesn't carry with it elation or instant joy. It does carry "what ifs." What's ifs mean contemplation. What ifs can propel redirection. Redirection can build character. If there's one trait I want my daughter to have, it's character. I want her to have to scrap and toil and fight. I want her to smacked in the mouth, feel the jolt, and decide if getting up and getting back in the fight is worth it. If she answers yes, I know she'll be likely to answer yes when there are bigger things at stake than a basketball game. I'll know she'll be more likely to take on bigger fights and opponents than the kind she'll find on a basketball court.

Overall, my attitude regarding losing is that there is nothing wrong with feeling pain. There's nothing wrong with being defeated. There's absolutely nothing wrong with being humbled. Nothing wrong with having witnessed first hand there's someone better than you. Personally, I want to know if the people I'm choosing to surround myself can man up when needed and keep coming forward. I want to know they aren't going to wilt at the first sight of trouble. I want to know they're not going to hide in a corner or find someone to take on their burdens for them. I want to know they can carry the weight. Not everyone can. Those who do are typically those who have lost something along the way. 

Day 174: My Time Is Weird

Earlier today I hunted monsters in my backyard with my 4-year old. Tonight I'm about to watch my high schooler play basketball. Somewhere in between is a place where I try to exist. It's hard some days. There's so few minutes to call my own, and those available are seldom many together. But I wouldn't change a thing. My life is unique to me, and I thrive on that fact.

Day 173: Last Day On The Job

Saying goodbye to someone you’ve worked with for many years is weird. On one hand, you’re thrilled and elated for the new adventures they’re about to embark on. You’re excited for the experiences you know that are about to come. On the other hand, you’re saddened that you no longer will be able to forge those kinds of experiences together. You will no longer share common ground on a daily basis. You will no longer share a common relationship that is creating something together.

I could go on all day about jobs and work and making a living, but the fact is that for many people, the work environment is a major part of their lives. When someone you’ve spent many years with leaves it, there’s a void created.

Today, two such voids were created where I work. Both cases involved people I’ve known for many years. It was bittersweet watching them go. I also found myself a bit envious. Come Monday morning, they’ll be experiencing life with a freshness and vision that I won’t possess. I can’t help but wonder how that must feel. I imagine they’re a bit frightened or unsure about leaving the security of familiar surroundings for settings less natural to them. But I also imagine that their adrenaline will be flowing with just a little more pep and pace than mine.

More than anything, when someone I respect and like leaves the place where you work, it makes me wonder what’s next. What will the new arrangement look and feel like? I’ve always been a sentimental person who fondly looks back on the past, but the older I get, the less I find myself doing so in this realm. The fact is that I’ve learned that people come and go. Nothing stops that. It happened at the first job I had out of college, and it has happened everywhere I’ve been since. They leave for different reasons, some good and some bad, but they leave. The workplace is just a microcosm of life in general; it’s constantly changing and evolving according to the people who occupy the work space. New people come in and help the environment evolve. I’ve found that the less I lament about “how things used to be” the less time I spend living in the past and the more time I spend looking at the possibilities and opportunities to come.

Working in the newspaper and magazine and print business in general is extremely conducive for consistent turnover. People move up the ladder. People move sideways. People move to the East Coast or West. People go out on their own and become freelancers. People leave the arena completely for something entirely new. But people go. Sometimes, it stings, but overall it’s positive. Life demands it to be.

Day 172: The Pretty People At The Pool

Who are these pretty adult people laying poolside each day as I run by the apartment complex they live in over my lunch hour while getting a workout in? Good lord, it’s hard not to envy them, just lying there on those comfy looking lawn chairs, all oiled up and soaking in the rays. Man, what I wouldn’t give on some of those noontime runs to be able to just scale the fence, hop in that crystal-clear blue water for a few minutes, and then get out and resign myself into laying in one of those chairs for the next couple hours.

I’ve never given serious contemplation to having my own swimming pool, but if I had the means, it sure wouldn’t take much persuading for me to have one poured in my backyard. I could very easily see myself blissfully sitting poolside late into Sunday afternoons, leaving my chair only occasionally to flip the burgers on a nearby grill or refill my lemonade glass. I could easily see myself swimming laps late into July nights or just getting up from bed on those all-too frequent evenings when I can’t sleep and spend the hours in the far less appealing manner of staring at the bedroom ceiling. I don’t envy people who own their own swimming people exactly, but I sure wouldn’t mine trading places some days.

Back in the day, when I was a kid, swimming was the scene. No cable TV, no Internet, no video games, no whining allowed that there wasn’t anything to do. So you swam. And swimming was great. I could make the jaunt from my house to the city pool in about three or four minutes. Out the back door, I zipped through Uncle Gene’s backyard, up past the Amen’s, on along the edge of the Simpsons yard, and then all the way down the block to the Vandeman’s. There, I’d cut through their side yard, cross Kendall Drive, and sprint through another backyard to reach Wiggenhorn Park where the pool loomed. Barefoot and immune to pebbles and stickers and anything else sharp to my feet, I’d usually grab an apple or two from one of the trees along the way. I could make the trip even faster on my ole’ brown three-speed bike, though it didn’t have brakes and could prove a major hazard when coming to a stop.

These days, it seems every public pool has a skyscraper slide that the kids wait 5, 10, 15 minutes in line to go down for a ride that takes less than five seconds to finish. We had a high diving board and low diving board. I don’t remember the lines being excruciatingly long, although I do remember them being populated with a few of the same kind of knuckleheads I see today. Generally, though, the kids were cool, and I loved the fact that summer somehow made it possible for me to become better friends with kids I wasn’t as good of friends with during the school year.

I loved that pool—until I reached that age that seemingly every teenager does at some point, when swimming doesn’t seem cool anymore and the prospect of taking your shirt off in front of the opposite sex is more nerve racking than fun. Still, there was a time when my sister hit the pool every day at the opening whistle, went home for an hour to eat, and went back until the pool closed. I learned how to swim at that pool, but I arguably learned more valuable lessons from my friends out of the water.

I wonder how many of the “apartment swimmers” I see over my lunch hours actually do any swimming. I have a feeling they’re just fine tuning their tans. Whether they do swim or not, their existence sure looks tempting and appetizing through the chain link fence that separates us. What I wouldn’t give to feel that water and then lay down stomach first on the hot pavement afterward.  

Day 171: Watching The Wheels

I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round, 
I really love to watch them roll. 
No longer riding on the merry-go-round.
I just had to let it go. 

I love those lyrics from John Lennon. They pretty much epitomize what I feel like doing about a 100 different times each day. If I had my way, all I'd ever do is watch the wheels go round and round.

I wish everyone had the same mentality, although nothing much would probably get done if they did. Still, if you can't sit back and pay attention to not paying attention once in awhile, I really believe you're missing out on the gift that is life. You're missing out on the gift that is observation, which might be the best means of learning there is.

Today, I took a seat in my garage and watched the rain spit from the sky. That was it. Just watched. Just listened. Didn't fuss or fret. Wasn't feeling thankful for the precipitation. Wasn't worrying about the chance of hail. Just watched and listened and took in the smells the falling drops were conjuring up around me. Didn't contemplate what was going to happen next or what had happened previously. And I'm all the better for having done it. I'm all the more advanced for having put absolutely no effort into anything for that 25 minutes or so. I couldn't be more pleased that I didn't utter a word during that time or worked up even one bead of sweat. I couldn't be more happy with myself that I didn't exert any force or make any demands or wish any wishes. I don't have the slightest regret or bit of guilt for all the things I could have been doing but didn't. I feel no remorse for having accomplished anything but by just sitting I accomplished everything.


Just sit. If it's good enough for the Buddha, it's good enough for me. 

A good friend told me not long ago of a particular experience he had just had in which he was completely in the zone. Completely in and of the moment. As he said, many times we find ourselves in a particular space for a particular reason. Maybe it's to attend a city council meeting or give a presentation or attend a sermon or attend a conference for work during which we're expected to walk away having learned something vital. But many times even though we're in the setting, we're really not. We're thinking thoughts and making plans or making counter plans. W'ere wondering if we're prepared. We're wondering if what we're wearing is OK. We're wondering if we're comprehending what's being said or if we're good enough to be in the company that we're presently keeping. We're doing everything but actively engaging in the moment, everything but taking each second as it presents itself and swallowing it with complete understanding and fulfillment. That's a tough thing to do for even a few minutes, let alone an extended period of time. But when it happens, if you let it happen, amazing ground can be covered.


Just sit. I absolutely just love to sit. 

Day 170: "Lighten up, Francis."

I’ve actually never been that fond of that overused quote from “Stripes,” but damned if Sgt. Hulka’s directive to Francis wasn’t fitting last night as I watched my daughter’s gymnastics class.

I use “class” very, very loosely here, because anytime you gather a bunch of three-, four-, and five-year olds together in one confined space, what you have is less of a classroom atmosphere and more of chaos. But the “chaos” in this situation was meant to be fun, as gymnastics and other activities merely meant to get kids out of the house and into motion is supposed to be. This isn’t panic inducing, stress creating, or tension filled chaos. But I swear to all that is sane, you would have never guessed by watching the psycho father I witnessed for an hour straight sitting at the opposite end of the gym from me.

Look, I’m 44. I’ve seen my share of overbearing, short-tempered fathers berating their kids for no good reason over the years. What was so concerning and troublesome about this monkey was how young he was. My best guess is he was in his mid-20s and certainly not yet into his thirties. His immaturity and lack of patience showed. Not once did he crack a smile. Not once did he commend his daughter. Not once did he look excited to be there, although he certainly looked to have spent considerable time in his closet picking out just the right yuppie-ish clothes meant to make an impression. He certainly spent more than a few minutes on his perfectly kept hair, and he certainly took his sweet time picking out the fashionable sunglasses sitting ever so neatly on the top of his head. What he didn’t take the time to do was remember we were supposed to be having fun here. This wasn’t a competition. How could it be? Not a single kid could pull off a damn summersault yet. Yet, he couldn’t quit criticizing and couldn’t start back patting.

Worse, the dummy not only made the daughter trying to spin and roll around and jump in the air miserable, he made the other daughter, probably three or younger, miserable by just daring to exist in his presence. Every time she stood up, he sat her down forcibly, despite the fact we were in a gym where at least another dozen kids were making noise and running around and at least a dozen other parents didn’t have a problem with that fact.

Damned if I couldn’t foresee these poor kids’ future, one I’m pretty sure will involve resenting the heavy hands by which their father ruled, and one that involves them sharing few if any of the important details of their life later on with him because they didn’t trust him, because he seemed incapable of showing any nurturing, and because I’m guessing he's  capable of showing even less compassion.

I realize it’s not fair to judge someone whom I’ve literally never spoken a word to and I am basing all my information on simple observations, but I have decent instincts, and they all told me something terribly sad: He just didn’t get it.

Having children is such a gift and such an opportunity to learn about yourself and life. Having little girls somehow only amplifies that. They look to you for protection. They don’t want to fear you. They don’t want to cower. They don’t to live under constant judgment. When I see fathers so young who don’t get this, I feel tremendous pain for their children. Time is so fleeting, and the opportunity daughters and sons have to look at their father as someone who isn’t constantly angry or frustrated or full of spite but instead as someone who is supportive and encouraging and a source of warmth is one they can’t redo. When I see a jackass blowing this because he’s more worried about how’s he being perceived than how he can make his child’s life more fulfilling and enriched, I want to scream.

Last night, I didn’t scream, but I did promise myself to take a longer look at what my job is as a father and how I can best do it and let go of the petty, inconsequential stuff in favor of holding dear what is really important and vital.

Day 169: The Fathers I Admire

I’m always amazed by people who look to celebrities or “feel good” authors or musicians or actors or politicians or whoever other person they so eagerly can put on a pedestal to draw guidance and leadership from. Some of those people may be worthy of your devotion. Many aren’t. All you really have to do is look over your shoulder or down the street or at the desk next to you or the seat across the aisle on the bus or plane and you can plenty of sources of wisdom and knowledge and inspiration to draw upon.

Take father’s day, for example. Up and down the block you live on, in the houses that make up your neighborhood, I guarantee you there are living inside fathers who have sacrificed their own gratification and personal gain and instant joy time and time again gladly and willingly so that their children would be happier and more fulfilled.

Look at the fathers sitting around you in the pews of your church, and I guarantee you’ll see plenty of fathers who have stayed up deep into many, many nights waiting for their child to make it home safe and sound so they could only then sleep peacefully themselves.

Walk into a grocery store on any given night and you’ll cross paths with single dads doing the shopping for their kids after a long day’s work, only to go home and cook them a meal, clean up after them, read them a book or two, and put them to bed, and then get up and do it all again the next morning without blinking an eye.

Look past everything you think that you know about your own father, and I guarantee you there are countless other facts that you aren’t aware of, such as the sacrifices that he’s made so that you could have something extra or the extra hours he put in or the personal items he sold so that you could benefit. I’ll guarantee he turned down opportunities because it accepting them wouldn’t have worked out in your favor and the gains for him couldn’t justify the sacrifices for you.

Look around you at the next sporting event that your own kid is playing at and then count the collective hours you father (and mother) gave away to you so you could participate in similar activities. Count the hours your father sat behind the wheel of an automobile in tense, stressful traffic getting you from point A to B or driving you down the road to a destination that he planned out and spent for expressly for you to enjoy.

Look through your family’s photograph albums and count how many of the events captured in those photos that your father was directly responsible for, whether he funded it, organized it, built it, repaired it, researched it, or envisioned it.

Count the number of meals you’ve partaken in during your life and estimate how many of them that your father directly had a hand in making possible. Consider how many nights in your lifetime you’ve spent peacefully in a dry, warm, secure house and count how many of those nights your dad was responsible for making a reality.

Consider all the qualities that you admire in your husband and sons and think about how many of them correspond with quality that your dad possesses.

Consider the respect you have for yourself and the treatment that you demand for yourself from others and contemplate in what ways your father may have helped instill such pride in yourself, may have told you that you deserved the best of treatment, and may have made you believe you didn’t have to settle for decency.

Think about the ways you treat people and how to what extent your father is responsible for your actions.

Think about everything you’ve accomplished in your life, all the milestones you’ve reached, all the goals conquered, all the obstacles knocked down, all the barriers climbed, and all the doubts you were able to put to rest because your father poured his energy and belief and determination into you.

Think about the periods of life when you felt most protected and most carefree and then think how much of that security your dad was responsible for.

I look around me on a daily basis, and I see fathers who set examples for their kids because they love them dearly. They work hard and long because they love their children dearly. They give of themselves and ask for little in return because they love them dearly. They make sure the doors are locked at night and the family pet is fed and watered because they love them dearly. They feel their children’s accomplishments and failures and losses and setbacks with the deepest of realism because they love them dearly. I look around me and I see fathers who make their children laugh, pick up them off the ground when they fall down, clean their wounds, teach them right from wrong, set expectations, teach tough lessons, and love unconditionally. Just everyday, common, run-of-the-mill men who ask for nothing in return. 

Day 168: Ribs & Potato Salad

Dad's ribs and mom's potato salad. That was my Sunday. Not a single complaint. Family around the table. Not a single complaint. Playing with my daughter. Hanging with my daughters. Not a single complaint. Homemade cards and expressions of love for dad. What's to complain about?

Day 167: Inspiration

I think it's funny sometimes where you draw inspiration from. This morning, for example, I'm running a 5K, and for whatever reason, I'm struggling a bit. Couldn't bring myself to breathe really easily and was just fighting to maintain any kind of focus for whatever reason. Ahead of me were plenty of people I could have looked to and try to have caught, or at least looked to and tried to keep up with. But I didn't really. I was just letting them get away without much fight. I was having enough trouble putting my own steps one in front of the other without worrying about their steps, too. But then something weird happened, as it always does when I'm in situations like these. As I rounded this particular turn and started making my way back to the starting point, I came across an older man running who wasn't in shape, didn't look like your stereotypical runner, and looked to be struggling just as badly as me. But man, he had attitude. Big, black headband holding his glasses in place. Old black shoes hitting the ground with determination. And a look of joy on his face that was unmistakable. Man, I saw that look and just felt good. As much I was wanted to turn in a good time and do well for myself, it didn't really matter anymore. At that point, seeing that man competing and not giving up told me everything I needed to be thinking in a split second. I needed to worry less about keeping up and worry less about thinking about what I should be doing or what I was doing wrong and just worry about why I was doing it. Why was I there? Why was it important? And what was each step getting me?

I was there for a cause, to raise money for the homeless population in my city. It was important because every person without a home is every much a person as those with homes. They have dignity that needs paid attention to. They have problems that they can't take care of themselves. And they are our fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, our children, and our friends. Each step was getting me closer to the reality that I'm part of a big world that should be less about my group or your group or my wants and your needs but more about what can help us all get through each day with some happiness and fulfillment. What a lesson. What a morning. 

Day 166: The Competitive Fire

I've never liked losing--at anything. I've never been so weird and full of myself that I haven't let my kids beat me at games of basketball or Candy Land or whatever else it was that we were playing, but I don't like losing at things where the competition is real and on an equal level. It could be a meaningless mid-week softball game or a pickup basketball game or a trivia game in some bar, but I don't like coming out on the losing end. I'm not some psycho who is going to throw a tantrum or beat his wife when he gets home because I came in second, but I'll curse myself and relive the minutes over and over an unhealthy amount of times if I take a loss hard.

The thing I find fascinating is that over the years, I've put myself in less and less situations where I've had something to compete for. Let's face it, I love playing fantasy sports, but I'm not doing it for the competition. I don't have the time or inclination to spend countless hours fine tuning my lineups, so I typically resign myself early on in the season to accepting the fact that I'm going to lose. I play fantasy sports mostly for the social aspects.

And having a four-year-old doesn't leave much time to seek out competition elsewhere, like in the form of rec sports. I'd rather spend my spare time doing things she wants to do. I also have a daughter who plays competitive sports herself, and my duty these days is to watch her and not put my desires first where that stuff is concerned. Still, when you're a person who has sought out competition and made it a fairly big part of his life for decades, there can be a big void as you age and it's not there anymore.

Another thing I've found fascinating about getting older where competition is concerned is relying less on meeting my competitive addiction from others and relying more on myself. I'm begrudgingly learning to like running a bit more and more, but I'm not sure it's something I'll ever really grasp onto with a full heart. Still, I'm really learning to love the aspect of hitting personal bests again. I thrived on that feeling decades ago as a kid when I ran competitively, and for whatever reason, that feeling hasn't totally gone away today. When I'm running, I'm thinking about how I can make up time, what's possible, what's not possible, what's realistic, what's something I can look to that can propel me to surpass where I've already been.

Tomorrow, I'm running in a 5K, and as much as I'm looking forward to it because it's something that's keeping me fit and off the couch and able hopefully to add years to the duration of my life, I'm looking forward to it just as much to see where I'm at running-wise compared to people my age and where I can be in the future. I haven't been running all that long this time around, but if I'm going to keep it up, I know I'll need motivation, and the best motivation I know is trying to satisfy the fire that burns within. Stoking that fire. Making it soar and feeling its heat.

Ultimately, I'd like to test myself in other individual ways. Take myself to places I didn't believe capable. Test myself on levels that I shouldn't have been able to reach and move beyond. I've always desired, for example, to have a boxing match. I know I'll get punched in the face repeatedly, and it will probably hurt, and I'll probably wonder what the hell I got myself into halfway through, but I want to know what it's like to chew on that kind of fear and swallow it and then push myself beyond it into unknown territory, into places that I don't recognize and maybe not even like. I want to know what it's like to burn with pain but still keep moving forward.

Day 165: Summer Camp

I never got to go to summer camp. I never really even thought about it much as a young kid. Growing up, summer camp seemed like something rich kids on the East Coast did because their parents didn’t want to have to deal with them all summer.

On one hand, I kind of envied those kids for the chance to get away to the woods, hang around other kids their own age at some lake where they could canoe or swim or fish all day. How flippin’ sweet it must have been to sit by a campfire every night before going retiring for the night in some cabin with a bunch of other guys and laughing deep into the night at fart jokes or creeping out to pull pranks. Hell, maybe you would even meet a cute girl if you were lucky at the end-of-the-camp dance and live the summer to end all summers.

On the other hand, the thought of heading off alone to some strange place with a bunch of strange people all under suspect supervision didn’t sound so enticing. I’d miss out on baseball season. I’d miss out on the swimming pool social scene. Would they have fireworks at camp? You probably couldn’t sleep until noon or beyond. There’s probably no air conditioning or TV. Do they have popsicles?

Later on in life, seemingly every summer camp I witnessed through the power of TV or movies was either filled with lunatic serial killers, oversexed teenagers, or a band of misfit losers trying to find their place in the world by conquering the suckheads who had the world handed to them on a silver platter. Always there was beer and girls in short shorts involved. Always there were cutoff shirts, bad headbands on the boys, and some nerd who mucking up everyone’s good time. Still, if Jodie Foster could have a good time at camp, why couldn’t I, I’d reason.

As an adult, I’ve been able to look at summer camp through the eyes of a parent. All of my kids have headed off to some summer camp or another, including my four-year-old who has ventured off each day this week for a few hours at the YCMA camp. My older kids did the church camp and week-long overnight camp scene. I truly believe those camps were as tough on me and their mom as it might have been on them being away from home. I’m not sure to what extent they enjoyed their stays, if they did at all, but I know while they were away I seemed to do nothing but wonder what they were doing and if they were happy and OK the entire time.

But each time they went, I also envied them a little bit. The only camps I went to were basketball camps, which obviously centered around basketball day and night. Seeing some of the camps my kids went to made me want to jump in a canoe and paddle around the lake. Climb up to the top bunk. It made me wonder what if I had made friends with kids I stayed in contact the rest of my life. What if I had met a cute girl? What if I had got to play pranks and learn skills and met different people from different places with different ideas and ways of doing things.

I’m happy my daughter is camping this week, fishing and making crafts and going to a different park each day and making new friends. I even like it when she tells me each night, “The teachers are so bossy; they don’t even let us take our shoes off.” I like that she’s seeing the world from new and different views. I hope it helps her always look forward to summer and hold summer in a special regard.

Day 164: My swing set is smaller than yours, so what?

I wish the world was a place in which every kid had his or her own swing set, if even only for a few years during their childhood. If even only a cheap metal swing set that soon enough attracts rust and bends and cracks and falls inward under the heavy duress of kids happily climbing, swinging, and hanging upside down.

My sister and I had our own swing set. Seems like everyone else did, too. I vividly remember heading outside on summer days bright and early at 7 a.m. while the grass was still wet on my bare feet and the plastic seats of the swings were also covered with dew. I sat down anyway and started to swing. I remember how peaceful those mornings were but also lonely in some ways. The rest of the world still seemed asleep, including any would-be friends who could fill the other swing. A swing set never seemed boring to me. It seemed like a safe place, with its worn out dirt patches carved out of the grass and its chain links and squeaking and dented slide and missing bolts.

It’s amazing to me how sophisticated and intricate swing sets have become over the years. How many hundreds a person can spend building complicated structures features multiple forts and tunnels and enough apparatus to entertain an entire pre-school full of kids. They’re monstrosities. They’re equivalent to houses. In fact, I’m quite sure some the stuff I’ve seen popping up around my neighborhood is larger than what people in some Third World countries reside in. Amazing but not surprising, I suppose.

A couple years ago when we started contemplating a swing set purchase for our youngest daughter, I felt this weird social stigma starting to take hold. Should I buy her a swing set that was on par with the lifelike pirate ships and space shuttles and full-blown edifices being erected in seemingly every other backyard surrounding my house? Or should I stick with the simplicity of tradition A-framer made of good ole’ steel? My heart wanted to pull the trigger on a monster-size set. My bank account screamed “No!” For whatever reason, I couldn’t justify spending a kazillon dollars on something that she was only going to play on for so many months a year and for only so many years of her life. I argued she’d probably not care anyway.

Turns out that I was wrong. Not long after she learned to walk and talk and climb and swing, she started noticing the much bigger and much more fun-looking swing sets in the neighbors’ yards. And then her questions started to come. “Why don’t we have one of those?” I was tempted to tell her “because you were born with a great big imagination and ability to make your own fun without having to have a three-story building in your backyard to do it,” but I didn’t. I just mumbled something about money, groceries, a roof over your head, and other stuff she didn’t give a flip about and changed the subject.

Still, not having the best in outdoor play gear hasn’t stopped her for a second from playing on the mid-level gear that her old man bought instead. She still swings with a smile. She still zooms down a slide. She still climbs on the bars, and soon enough, I’m sure she’ll be hanging upside down risking broken bones. And damned if she doesn’t play on her far less expensive swing set a hell of a lot more than the kids next door with their fancy castles and split-level, ranch-sized hideouts. I’ve no clue what those kids do all day and night all year round, but I rarely see those kids outside getting dirty, getting physical, and getting sweaty. They must be inside playing with their overpriced, fancy indoor toys.

Day 163: Summer Songs

Nightswimming, 
remembering that night, 
September's coming soon,
I'm pining for the moon,
and what if there were two,
side by side in orbit around the fairest sun? 
The bright tide forever drawn
could not describe nightswimming. 


- REM

O can't you see

You belong to me

How my poor heart aches with every step you take

- The Police

There were few things I loved more growing up than the radio. My first radio was a tiny blue transistor. I listened to it constantly, including in bed well after my bedtime. My sister got a matching red one, which she loved as much. Through that radio, I listened to everything. Ball games from distant AM feeds. Talk radio. The CBS television feed. Public radio. Country music. Classical music. Z-92. The Eagle. KFRX. Golden Oldies. KFMQ. You name it. 

I listened to the radio year around, but without question, the summertime was my favorite time to listen to music. I'd sit outside on our patio in one of those old steel and nylon lawn chairs I'm not sure they make anymore with any radio I could get my hands on and listen to tunes deep into the night. On Sundays it was Rockline and The King Biscuit Flower Hour where I'd listen to interviews with whatever musician was featured. On any other night, I just constantly turned the dial up and down, stopping at whatever I like or that intrigued me. 

As the years passed and my tastes became more refined, I started listening to the radio less and less and tapes and CDs more and more. Still, the summertime was my favorite time for some reason. To this day, I associate more songs with certain summers than any other time of the year. If I hear certain songs, whether on the radio, an iPod, a loudspeaker, whatever, it takes me back to a certain age in a certain time and place. Arguably, no two songs have as powerful affect on me in this way than "Nightswimming" and "Every Breath You Take." I'm not sure why, but I don't even question it anymore. I've heard both so many times, there's seemingly nothing new I can learn about either one, but still I do. And somehow, each helps me continue to learn things about myself. Each takes me back to certain social settings. Each takes me back to certain conversations. Certain nights. Certain emotions. Certain situations. I play those out. I revise history. I question actions. I relive laughs and smile. I explore all the places I was so fascinated with originally. The fantastic thing about these songs, and songs in general, is that somewhere, someplace, I know there are certain people who share of  the same feelings I do when they hear those songs but also experience their own intimate memories and emotions. 

I love that music gives people their own special emotions. I love that songs can transport people to specific moments lived out in different eras. I love that summer songs can elicit certain smells, certain sensations, certain power. Today, by whatever cosmic force that's at work, I heard both "Nightswimming" and "Every Breath You Take" at different times in the day. Both times, my day became just a little bit better, if only temporarily. 

Day 162: Just Move On

What a weird day. I was on vacation. That's good. I got a lot done. That's good, as well. I got to play quite a bit with my little girl. Definitely good. Going to have some pizza for supper. Not bad on any day. Still, I have to say, this day mostly sucked. Why? Who knows. I'm too tired to examine the why and ifs and buts. Sometimes, you have to accept that they came along at the wrong time and place and there's not much you can do about it. It is what it is. Let it go. Look to the next minute. And just move on. It's a Monday. I tend to think that's what Mondays are for anyway. Now, Tuesday, what do you have in store?