tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29176990782714136792024-02-07T13:36:33.518-05:00Richard C. Lewis's blogI am Richard, husband to one, father to two, and in no way related to that comedian who heisted my good name. This blog is a chronicle or sorts, to share experiences of my wife, our children,and anything else that strikes me. All observations and opinions reside with me alone.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-45804457296611811782013-03-18T22:14:00.001-04:002013-03-18T22:14:10.261-04:00Prayer for a ChickenLately, we've been making it a point to say a prayer at dinner time. We had gotten out of the habit, but the boys are old enough to understand the reasons for thanking the Almighty and others for the food that they eat and the other blessings that we enjoy.<br />
<br />
The dinner prayer can go two ways. There's the singing kind, courtesy of Michelle's family. As you tap your hands on the table, it goes like this:<br />
<br />
"The Lord is good to me,<br />
And so I thank the Lord,<br />
For giving me the things I need,<br />
The sun and the rain and the appleseed,<br />
The Lord is good to me..."<br />
<br />
<i>Commence rhythmic clapping</i><br />
<br />
"Amen, amen,<br />
Amen, amen, amen<br />
Aaaaahmen!"<br />
<br />
The boys like this one, as you would imagine. We introduced a second, more solemn prayer as well. It's open to variation, but it goes something like this:<br />
<br />
"Dear Lord, thank you,<br />
For the food we're about to eat,<br />
For the plants and animals that provided it,<br />
For mommy for cooking it.<br />
We thank you for our family and our friends,<br />
We love you Lord, and we love you Jesus,<br />
In your names we pray, amen."<br />
<br />
Not exactly lyrical or rhyming, either, but at least it's sincere.<br />
<br />
So, we mix the two up, depending on the children's mood (Spazzy? Go with the solemn prayer.), level of hunger (Famished? Whichever is quicker.) and when we're having dinner (Late? Solemnity prevails.). Also on Fridays as of late, Michelle's been whipping up a fine breakfast-for-dinner feast of scrambled eggs with veggies and pancakes dotted with chocolate morsels. Yum!<br />
<br />
Last Friday, when we had finished reciting a prayer for that meal, Nathaniel opened his eyes and asked why we hadn't thanked the chickens – you know, for the eggs.<br />
<br />
"Because they're animals," I replied. "We thanked the animals already."<br />
<br />
He mulled my answer but did not query further. My guess is he was thinking about when we have chicken for dinner, in which case we certainly want to thank the animal's contribution to sating our appetite, and those chickens that laid eggs that turn into scrambled eggs, fried eggs, pancakes, french toast and other breakfasty stuff. It's a fair point and an understandably difficult distinction for a 4-year-old to make. Since I don't want yet to get into a discussion of dying versus living chickens' contributions to meals, I've not bothered to help clarify it for him.<br />
<br />
Tonight, we were having tacos and a fruit salad, and began singing the amen song for our prayer. As we sang, Nathaniel had taken it upon himself to recite the serious prayer, or at least the parts he remembered. Michelle and I stopped singing and asked Nathaniel if he wanted to lead the prayer. He nodded, folded his hands, closed his eyes, and began:<br />
<br />
"Dear Lord,<br />
Thank you for the food,<br />
For the plants and animals,<br />
And for the chickens."<br />
<br />
May they get their due. Thanks, chickens.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-76726206292266863832013-03-17T21:25:00.001-04:002013-03-17T21:25:39.565-04:00A Trying WeekendEver had one of those weekends when you find your patience is always being tested? I'm having one of them.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because I'm going through one of those sleepless jags. Those stretches when I feel perpetually beat. By the time 8:30, 9, 9:30 rolls around, I'm dead tired, and I go to bed. But I can't sleep. My mind races, from things minorly consequential to truly, well, mindless. I don't know how to shut off the mental movie reel that turns on as soon as the bedroom lights are turned off.<br />
<br />
So, I imagine my troubles with sleep exacerbates my frustration with the boys, and I'm sure it's shortened my patience fuse. But I digress, mostly, because the boys have been a handful.<br />
<br />
Let's start with Nathaniel. We all know he's high-energy, super octane, hyper kinetic. A five-course meal of activity. But this weekend he's been all that and more. Leading up to the weekend, he already was in full spazzy mode, traumatizing Michelle so much that she called me in the middle of the day spluttering that she couldn't take it any more. And that mommy can take a lot, so I know she felt as if she were at the end of her rope.<br />
<br />
So, Saturday morning rolled around. I got up – or more accurately, Nathaniel the human alarm clock woke me – and I went downstairs to compile a breakfast of breakfast-for-dinner leftovers (awesome scrambled eggs with asparagus, spinach and peppers and pancakes) with a side of freshly cooked bacon. So far, so good. Mostly. The boys played, but mostly they wanted me to play with them. I'll take that as a compliment at this point, as they don't see a whole lot of me during the week, and, maybe they like me some, too. And, I try to oblige, to a point. After all, they are brothers, and I feel they need to learn to play together, or separately, without Michelle and/or I being involved. Still, it's nice to be wanted, so this is a tricky little tightrope to traverse. I remember one of my friends from our church's men's club saying to his son, "I'm not your friend. I'm your father." His son was several years older than even our oldest, but it still struck me as a stark line-in-the-sand declaration that I don't look forward to making but realize that I ultimately I likely will.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I digress again, I guess The point is, I also wanted to watch some college basketball on TV (If you can call it a TV; our flat-screen tube picked a fine time to die, so we brought this tiny box that we use to show the boys VHS movies downstairs as a sub), but every time I settled on the floor to squint at the tiny figures on the screen, one of the boys would interrupt me. Plus, there was a lot of eye rubbing, and we hadn't even hit noon yet. I endured this for an hour or so, and finally announced lunch and nap time.<br />
<br />
And that is where the games began. Isaiah was exhausted. He had slept in Natty's room the night before, and apparently the "sleepover" wasn't all that restful for him. He was yawning and pawing at his eyes at like 9:30. He was done. Normally the quiescent one, I figured he'd be an easy one for nap time. And he appeared to be, snuggling into his woobie as I lay him in his crib.<br />
<br />
When I got downstairs, though, I heard thumping, shrieking, whoops, war cries, screams, shouts, stomps, jumps, falls and general mayhem. Had some devil entered his body? When I entered his room to check, the carnage was apparent: Stuffed animals strewn throughout the room, blankets roiled and abused and a major stench of a little boy who had worked out an awful poop. Diaper changed and scolding administered, I figured mission accomplished. He was very tired. But for the better part of another hour, he wouldn't let up. The thumping, the whooping, the screaming, the yelling, the stomping, the jumping, the knocking, the careening, continued.<br />
<br />
I would've done something about it, but I was preoccupied with the other one. Nathaniel has gotten wise to nap time and now treats it as a game of "Can I get out of my bed and raise hell and then get back in my bed before mommy or daddy get upstairs and check on me?" He's pretty good at it, too. His ally are the stairs, which creak as you walk on them. It's nigh to impossible to sneak upstairs and bust him. There are too many creaky spots. Believe me, I've looked for them. So, I settle in to watch some college hoops, and WHUMP! I go upstairs and enter Nathaniel's room, and lo and behold, he's in his bed, under the covers no less, eyes closed. I think it's him, but with his warrior brother, I'm not sure. I've got to give him the benefit of the doubt. I go back downstairs, sit on the floor to watch, and WHUMP!<br />
<br />
And this goes on for a few more time before I start to get really pissed. Quiet time is not so quiet, and it's actually more irritating than if the boys were raising Cain around me downstairs. Finally, Isaiah falls asleep, and I thought Nathaniel had, too, until he "woke" up, came downstairs and within minutes, started bouncing off the walls and rubbing his eyes.<br />
<br />
We'll fast forward to Sunday. Remarkably, the boys behaved well in church, darn near angelic until we neared the end of what must have been at least a 30-minute sermon (and this for a service geared for families). Lunch was on the early side, and I shuttled the boys to quiet time, in separate rooms. This time, Isaiah went quietly, exhaustion winning out over crib madness. Nathaniel also snuggled into his covers, nary a protest, appearing to welcome the rest.<br />
<br />
For a bit, there was no noise, and I settled on to the floor to squint at the tiny figures running around on the TV. Then, WHUMP! BANG! WHUMP! This time, I didn't bother trying to be sneaky; I sprinted upstairs and caught Nathaniel trying to sneak from Isaiah's room back into his own.<br />
<br />
I was furious. I can barely describe how mad I was. Not only had Nathaniel disobeyed me about quiet time (don't get out of your bed), but he had gone into Isaiah's room and woken him up, too. I wanted to spank him, but I wouldn't; instead, I did my best verbally intimidating, fear-of-God, make-him-pee-in-his-pants admonishment that I could. The jig was up. No more games. He would stay in that bed for as long as it takes. THIS IS IT.<br />
<br />
His eyes grew very, very large. And then he began bawling.<br />
<br />
And so I picked him up, sat on his bed, took several deep breaths and rocked him for a while. I whispered to him that I was really, really mad at him, not because he got out of his bed and woke up his brother <i>per se</i>, but that he wasn't listening to his mommy or me, and was disobeying us.<br />
<br />
He nodded as if he understood. Then, I told him he would stay in his bed until I came back and got him.<br />
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And, this time, he did.<br />
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Thankfully.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-10614358060347815302013-03-12T22:24:00.004-04:002013-03-12T22:26:51.648-04:00Daylight Savings Time SucksWe don't like daylight savings time very much around here.<br />
<br />
You see, we have two little boys, and it's important to keep a schedule, for them and for us. Part of that routine is getting them to bed around the same time each night, roughly 7:30. The ritual starts earlier about an hour earlier, with a final bout of playing, shooing them upstairs, getting them in their pajamas (no easy task with flailing limbs), brushing teeth, final pees in the potty, filling the humidifiers, fetching them last swigs of water, locating lost woobies (blankets), reading them books and singing.<br />
<br />
Whew! No wonder Michelle and I are so wiped out by the time little heads finally meet the pillow.<br />
<br />
Anyway, a major ploy, or proxy, in the it's-time-to-go-to-bed rite is to announce that it's dark outside. After all, darkness is a universal icon for nighttime, and nighttime in this household has been drilled like a sergeant's order as bedtime. It's easy to show, easy to understand, and easy to enforce.<br />
<br />
And, in winter, it makes for a (relatively) easy way to begin the bedtime dance.<br />
<br />
In Iowa, the sun is well below the horizon by the time 6:30 rolls around, even in November. So, beginning then, our lives are made that little bit simpler by the change of seasons.<br />
<br />
But then daylight savings time comes and wrecks our best laid plans. "Spring forward!" the supporters exuberantly cry, anxious for that precious extra hour of daylight to get started on spring planting, play outside or drive home in waning daylight. Us? That extra hour of daylight means that it's no longer dark at 6:30 – not even close, in fact. Now, our base argument of darkness = bedtime no longer reads true. We can see it, and the boys can, too. It's harder to convince them it's time to get ready for bed.<br />
<br />
And, it's only going to get worse. By late June, when it will stay light here in Iowa until past 9, it will be all but impossible to coax the children to bed at their normal times, with the sun practically blazing through the blinds in the house. Good luck coaxing Natty and Isaiah to sleep when neighbors' children are happily shrieking outside. (How do they do it in Iceland? Inquiring minds want to know.)<br />
<br />
I remember this was a trial last summer. But at least Isaiah was not even 2, and he got sleepy in the early evening no matter what was going on around him. But he's not even napping regularly nowadays, and Nathaniel? ... well, that one resists sleep as if it were a disease (and just like his daddy did). So, while others bask in the elongated days, here we brace for the backlash.<br />
<br />
"Clocks fall back" never sounded so good.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-49328313347724414742013-03-07T22:59:00.002-05:002013-03-07T22:59:56.058-05:00StampledAll was going jim dandy this past weekend until Nathaniel decided to get hurt.<br />
<br />
Saturday evening, we partook in the rare luxury of going out to dinner. Sunday morning, we tried a new church in town, followed by breakfast out. Followed by a restful day of good family fun.<br />
<br />
That evening, the good family vibes continued as Nathaniel and Isaiah embraced in a hug as a song played, making as if they were lovebirds locked in a slow dance at prom. Without warning, feet got tangled, Nathaniel lurched backward, with the full force of his 30+ pound butterball brother adding to the fall. Wham! Natty's head bashed against the corner of the wall, and blood began spurting from the back of his head.<br />
<br />
Michelle and I looked at each other, a dazed, "How did this happen? Oh, of course it happened" look on our faces. Then it was off to the hospital emergency room to get the wound checked.<br />
<br />
As we were driving, Nathaniel, who had remained lucid the whole time and now sat with a bag of ice wedged between his head and the car seat, asked where we were going.<br />
<br />
"To the hospital," I said.<br />
"Why?" he asked<br />
"To have a doctor check you and make sure you're OK."<br />
<br />
"What will the doctor do?" he asked after a pause<br />
"Well," I said, "You may need to get some staples for that cut, like you did a couple of years ago, when you were two and jumped from the sofa to the coffee table and landed on the back of your head."<br />
<br />
That took a couple of moments for him to digest.<br />
<br />
"I need to get some stamples?"<br />
"Staples," I said, correcting him.<br />
"Stamples?" he said again.<br />
"Staples," I repeated.<br />
<br />
We got to the hospital and after a while a nurse ushered us into an examination room.<br />
"Do I need stamples?" were the first words out of Nathaniel's mouth.<br />
<br />
I didn't bother to correct him.<br />
<br />
As we waited – and waited – Nathaniel had become fixated on the prospect of stamples and how they might be applied to his head. I gingerly tried to navigate to an answer that would be (mostly) truthful but not get him too worked up. After all, getting stampled is just what you think it is. Someone jams little stamples into your head, pulling hair, piercing skin and driving little metal nails inward. It must be painful, and I could understand why the little bugger would be anxious. Hence, my attempt at a delicate explanation.<br />
<br />
Well, it turned out that, yes, Nathaniel would need stamples – three, in fact. After a faulty first try, our third-year medical resident got them in. Mostly. One needed to be rearranged, and the middle veered at an angle, like it was shot in mid-lurch. Nathaniel, bless him, whimpered just a little during the while thing.<br />
<br />
For his bravery, I promised him he'd get a treat at Dairy Queen.<br />
"Gary Queen?" he asked, excitedly.<br />
"Dairy Queen," I said, then realized the futility of correcting him on that one. It was pretty cute.<br />
<br />
And so, a tranquil Sunday night turned into a nearly five-hour sojourn to the hospital, a trifecta of stamples and ceaseless badgering about Gary Queen, and a letdown when each store was closed on the way home.<br />
<br />
On the up side, Nathaniel and his stamples were a hit with his schoolmates the next day, and he got lunch and a hot fudge sundae on a blessed snow day this week. In fact, we all got treated at Gary Queen, per Nathaniel's request.<br />
<br />
Getting stampled never ended so good.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-53613517811611540922013-02-24T21:14:00.003-05:002013-02-24T21:14:29.980-05:00Star Wars obsessionOur boys are obsessed with Star Wars.<br />
<br />
They have Star Wars sticker books. They have Star Wars figurines. They have Star Wars light sabres (more on that later). They have Star Wars T-shirts, underwear and socks. They are bedecked, head to toe in Star Wars gear, including accessories.<br />
<br />
They think about Star Wars day and night. When he wakes up in the morning, Nathaniel, the 4-year-old, bounces into our room with his blue-tipped light sabre holstered to his pajamas, ready to do battle in bed. During the day, he constantly pesters mommy and daddy to engage him in duels. He's always one of the good guys. Lately, he's been infatuated with some Jedi called Kit Fisto. I've been tasked with being one of the bad guys, someone named Count Dooku, wielding the red light sabre, symbol of evil. The battles rage in the kitchen, the bathroom, the living room, dining room, library and hallway. The sabres swing viciously, and hands, arms, legs are chopped off, until, at last, the evil overlord has been slain, falling to the ground in agony, and the victor standing over him with smug smile.<br />
<br />
When mommy and daddy tire of battle, Isaiah, the two-year-old, is enlisted into the cause. Lately, he's wanted to be a Jedi master called Shaak Ti, but he's also been known to want to be Mace Windu, too. Either way, this poses a problem for Nathaniel, as his brother also represents good, reducing the ideological significance of the encounter. Plus, Isaiah isn't up to par with his sword fighting, or so Nathaniel thinks.<br />
<br />
Many nights, the boys choose a Star Wars tune as one of the song sets at bedtime. Isaiah has two descriptions: The uplifting, Jedi song is "Bum Bum good guy." The battle-rattling, dark side tune is "Bum Bum bad guy." Either one is a winner for bed.<br />
<br />
Aunt Rachel gets the dubious credit of spawning this craze. When we were staying with her and Sharon, she introduced the boys to the first films of the Star Wars six-pack – you know, the ones from the 80s with the then-superlative special effects and riveting plot line that swept the nation and the world. The boys were smitten from the first scene, and their fascination with the films, the characters, the different worlds, the spaceships and everything else, has exploded over time.<br />
<br />
Take those sticker books. They are involved and heavy into the minutiae that only a real devotee could appreciate. Nathaniel has taken to these books like a kid to ice cream. He's devoured the characters and their roles. By now, he's memorized dozens of the Jedi fighters, nearly the entire cast of the evil characters and hordes of the otherworldly beings, animals, creatures, critters, places and things that comprise the Star Wars universe. The amount he knows about the franchise – just months after being introduced to it – is stunning.<br />
<br />
Oddly, he stores all this trivia in his little mind, yet he can't recall what he did last night or at school just hours after being there. What gives?<br />
<br />
Anyway, the intense interest morphed into obsession once Mimi Atlanta presented the boys with the light sabres. You slide a lever down on the hilt, swing the colored sabre from its sheath, and you're ready to go. The boys have been endlessly entertained with the light sabres since Christmas, and they are their favorite toys, surpassing even the Bat cave, which had a surprisingly long run.<br />
<br />
All in all, good, clean fun and one divorced from video games and more predicated on imagination and action fighting. I'm sure the video games will come, so let's enjoy the role playing while it lasts.<br />
<br />
And, now, for some gratuitous shots, since we haven't posted any in a while.<br />
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Nathaniel overjoyed with his Star Wars comic book</div>
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Isaiah overjoyed with Batman and the bat cave</div>
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Nathaniel and Isaiahb dining on chicken nuggets and watching Spiderman cartoons (while Daddy watches the Super Bowl on the TV)</div>
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The boys and their Ogre</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-22497973843655726132013-02-21T00:04:00.002-05:002013-02-21T00:04:28.742-05:00A sad anniversaryThis is an anniversary that I wish had never happened, and I didn't have to remember.<br />
<br />
Today is the tenth anniversary of the Rhode Island nightclub fire.<br />
<br />
Chances are this has passed in many people's minds, a victim of the endless string of tragedies, conflicts, fighting, brutality and evil that seem to mark each passing day in our world.<br />
<br />
I don't know much about those events, because I wasn't there. But I do know about the nightclub fire, because I was there, covering it for the AP. I was at Rhode Island hospital in the raw chill of the early morning, where many of the victims had been taken and where many families had come, wondering if their sons, daughters or loved ones were alive.<br />
<br />
I was there to find some of those victims and their families and to interview them about what happened and how they felt in the frantic, chaotic hours after the fire. It was by far the most difficult assignment I have ever had.<br />
<br />
The first people I met were an older couple, Doug and Barbara Magness. They were more than gracious as I approached them and awkwardly explained that I was looking for people affected by the fire. They listened, and invited me to come to their home. <br />
<br />
I wrote dozens of stories in the months and years following the fire. Most were about legal skirmishes, court rulings and other matters that seem trivial now. But the ones that stand out, that are meaningful, in my view, are the ones that put a face on that awful night. These are the stories, and the people, that I remember.<br />
<br />
I remember the Magnesses and their emotions, so genuine and raw, as we sat in their kitchen, and they described to me what it's like to lose your only child and daughter in law. Their <a href="http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1915&dat=20030310&id=CxAiAAAAIBAJ&sjid=B3IFAAAAIBAJ&pg=4248,1898621" target="_blank">story</a>.<br />
<br />
I remember George Solitro, who wept as we sat in a bar, and he described what it was like to lose his best friend in the fire. I remember Andrea Stewart, who talked about losing best friends and coworkers in the fire. I remember Melanie Fontaine, who lost her brother and fiance in the fire. Their <a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2004/apr/04/news/adna-ri4" target="_blank">stories</a>.<br />
<br />
I remember Michelle Spence, who allowed me to follow her for a year as she recovered, haltingly, from her injuries from the fire. <a href="http://www.southcoasttoday.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20030512/NEWS/305129964&cid=sitesearch" target="_blank">One</a> of her stories.<br />
<br />
I remember the fire, and I remember the people. Please do, too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-54147429853401802062013-02-19T22:17:00.002-05:002013-02-19T22:23:01.620-05:00ArrivalIt's good to be home again.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I had fun in Boston. I learned a lot, met some new and old journalist friends, was reminded how poorly some scientists communicate, ran along the river (twice!), ate a ton of food and spent a night at a good buddy and his family's home, complete with a polar-like trek in the snow walking the family dog. It was a varied, and eventful, six days.<br />
<br />
But I was ready to leave – and come home again. And, it is fair to say that Michelle was ready for me to return, too.<br />
<br />
She and the boys also had a varied, and eventful, time. One day they went to Grandma's, and the boys learned the joy of dunking cookies into milk. Another day, they went to Mimi CR (that's Cedar Rapids, in contrast to Mimi A, for Atlanta) and Aunt Rachel's home, where the boys got their Star Wars fix by watching the first film of the series.<br />
<br />
Even so, they missed their daddy, I was told.<br />
And, boy, did I miss them.<br />
<br />
So, when Michelle stopped by the terminal, and I peered inside, I saw big, broad smiles on both boys' faces. Isaiah was kicking his legs in a frenzy, yelling "Daddy!" Nathaniel was so excited his body quivered. Before I could get in the car, Michelle told me that Nathaniel wanted to see the inside of the airport. (So, that was why he was so excited.) I took him in, and he helped me fetch my luggage.<br />
<br />
After getting in the car, I heard Isaiah's newest phrase – "What the heck is that?" – the latest in a string of words and phrases that he has picked up from his brother (See Star Wars characters for more). Our two-year-old has exploded lately with his use of words and is now rattling off sentences. Simple ones, to be sure, but still sentences with subject, verb, and even object. It only seemed like yesterday that we were getting concerned whether he had some hearing issues that was stunting his speaking. While he certainly enjoys his new words and phrases, his favorite one probably remains, "Nathaniel .. mean."<br />
<br />
Some things don't change. At least he can tell us now when Natty is being mean to him.<br />
<br />
Michelle looked happy, but I'd venture she looked more relieved by my return. I think I was in the car for about five minutes when she looked at me and said, "I'm off the clock now."<br />
<br />
I should've expected that. Here comes the noise, the bedlam, the spazziness, the wailing, the crying, the spilling, the screaming, the running, the jumping, the falling, the cuts, the bruises, the blood and the tears.<br />
<br />
Boy, it's good to be home again.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-72491546996080616242013-02-13T17:03:00.002-05:002013-02-13T17:03:41.175-05:00DepartureThere's something about leaving my boys and my dear, awesome wife that is very hard.<br />
<br />
I realized that yet again this morning as I departed for the American Association for the Advancement of Science annual meeting in Boston. I'll be gone six days, an eternity for Michelle and myself, too. The boys have no concept of time, but they know I'm leaving, and they reacted in different, yet heartfelt ways.<br />
<br />
I got up early and made a scrambled eggs and toast breakfast for Nathaniel, who also wakes up early most mornings (and is my alarm clock for the most part). As we were sitting and eating, he looked at me and asked whether I was going to work, which has become a standard, daily question.<br />
<br />
Yes, I answered, and I'm flying someplace, too, this time.<br />
<br />
He mulled this for a moment.<br />
"Will you call me?" he asked.<br />
I assured him I would.<br />
"When?" he asked.<br />
"When I land," I replied.<br />
"Don't forget," he said.<br />
<br />
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
To sweeten the pot, I told Nathaniel that I would Skype with
him when I arrived in Boston – and show him the hotel room where I’d be
staying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wow,” he said, his eyes wide.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How cool to get such a reaction from an event that to any
grownup would be incredibly boring.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Isaiah has an ear appointment (check the tubes) that
morning, so Michelle and he dropped me off at the airport on their way to the
otolaryngology office. Isaiah was happily playing with his “good guys” – two
Luke Skywalker and one “Dee-Dah” (read: Yoda) figurines, plus a baby Elmo doll
– when I got out of the car, grabbed my travel items from the trunk and gave
him a goodbye kiss. I walked toward the terminal door, and when I turned
around, Michelle motioned to me, pointing toward the back and miming.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I returned to the car, and peered in through the open
window. Isaiah was sobbing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gave him another kiss and told him I would call and would
be back home soon. He sniffled, but he didn’t seem satisfied with the answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is why it’s hard to leave home. My family actually
misses me. For different reasons, but still.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I miss them. Already.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-27759792239819751792013-02-10T11:51:00.002-05:002013-02-10T11:51:41.168-05:00Tackle FootballLately, the favorite game in the house is called "tackle football."<br />
<br />
I have no idea how this came about. If you believe that, I have a nice piece of real estate on a faraway planet to sell you.<br />
<br />
To play, we congregate in the den and choose teams. Nathaniel and Isaiah, on one side, generally want to be the Beavers, after their Uncle Matt's basketball team. I, the other team, end up being the Raisins, always the opponent, always the enemy, because it is the team that Aunt LeeAnn and her family root for, and the perennial foil to the Patriots.<br />
<br />
<i>I stopped writing this post, because, well, I don't remember now. It's a rare uninterrupted moment on a Sunday morning, so let me try to finish this.</i><br />
<br />
So, we have two teams, invariably the Beavers and the Raisins. The goal line is a rug in the library, and the playing field is the living room, with the sofa and the TV stand forming the sidelines. We have sweet, squishy Nerf football. Starting on one end, Nathaniel and Isaiah line up on one side, with one of them being the quarterback.<br />
<br />
"Hut, Hut, hike," one says. Then he takes the ball and begins running. The other brother, in this case Isaiah, waddles alongside.<br />
<br />
<i>Writing timeout: Isaiah has brought me Elmo and Ernie stuffed dolls, and he's now climbed up on a chair and is reaching for a piece of toast. He seems content.</i><br />
<br />
Back to the action. I tackle the ballcarrier, in this case Nathaniel, and the brothers line up again and repeat the sequence. This time, Isaiah is the ballcarrier, and he hugs the ball up high against his chest, grasping it with both hands as he squeals with delight and chugs forward. Daddy executes a gentle takedown, just shy of the rug paydirt.<br />
<br />
Third down and goal.<br />
<br />
Nathaniel lines up as quarterback/running back, calls the signals and bursts forward. I lunge to make the tackle, miss, and Nathaniel scampers into the end zone. Arms raised, he yells "touchdown!"<br />
<br />
High fives are exchanged, and now the Raisins get the ball.<br />
<br />
Daddy comes up to the line, surveys the defensive duo, chants "hut, hut, hike" and lurches forward as he "runs" on his knees. Nathaniel plows into his father, shoulder down, knocking him over.<br />
<br />
Isaiah piles on with delight after the whistle. Shockingly, no flag is thrown.<br />
<br />
Two more plays, two more bone-crunching tackles from the inspired Beavers defense. Daddy's drive is stuffed short of the end zone.<br />
<br />
And so on – that is, until Daddy's knees begin to ache, and he calls it quits.<br />
<br />
--------------------------------<br />
<br />
It's just tremendous to be a father and see your boys take pleasure in a game that you yourself enjoy. Lately, Isaiah has been obsessed with what he calls "tackle football,"<br />
<br />
<i>Another pause. Nathaniel would like to watch another episode of "My Little Pony." This how I stole those uninterrupted moments. Completely manufactured.</i><br />
<br />
As I was saying, Isaiah has been obsessed with what he calls "tackle football." Any picture he sees of a football player, in a magazine or on TV, gets him chanting for tackle football. Any picture of an athlete in general, regardless of the sport, gets the chant, too. I find this very cute, mainly because it echoes my own love for sports.<br />
<br />
This may seem highly premature, but I've already been thinking about what I'll do if my sons want to actually play football. I'm truly split on a decision at this time. On one hand, I really like the game, and I think the boys would, too. Back in high school, I would've loved to play safety and just pop people. So, perhaps there's some vicarious "wish I had done that" going on with letting the boys play.<br />
<br />
Yet I'd be a fool if I wasn't aware of the game's dangers, especially as disturbing reports mount of concussions coupled with advances in neuroscience and greater insights into the effect of repeated blows to the head. Who would put his or her child in a situation where such injuries can arise?<br />
<br />
Yet what are the odds of my child being seriously hurt playing football, versus other sports, be they basketball, hockey or baseball? And, might there be far better technology, and vigilance, by the time they reach the age at which the violent nature of football becomes the norm?<br />
<br />
Most importantly, perhaps, what if either or both of them really want to play? Am in the position to deny them, when I sparked their interest in the first place?<br />
<br />
I don't have a good answer for that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-74543430891654512892013-02-03T16:03:00.001-05:002013-02-03T16:03:09.061-05:00Raisins FanaticsOn the day of the Super Bowl, it's the right time to talk about some Raisins Fanatics.<br />
<br />
I'm talking about my sister and her family and their obsessive devotion to that football team from Baltimore that squares off this evening against the 49ers.<br />
<br />
My sister never liked football – or most other sports, for that matter – yet she has been converted into a football fanatic and into a Ravens superfan, as if she had been dunked into the NFL's holy waters. More on that startling transformation in a minute.<br />
<br />
First, though, let's talk about the Raisins. That's what Nathaniel calls the Ravens. We've been reluctant to correct him, because it's so cute. Little ones have the darndest ways of pronouncing words. Isaiah, for example, adds a syllable to a certain caped crusader, calling him "Bad A Man." Nathaniel had all sorts of permutations to words. Among a few:<br />
<br />
"Chokky milk" = chocolate milk<br />
"Down nairs" = down stairs<br />
"Ubba dubba der" = over there<br />
"Sabati" = Spaghetti<br />
"Orangen" = clementine<br />
"Crumb" = salad crouton (Not a mispronunciation, but a novel descriptive and thus cute nonetheless, at least in our book)<br />
<br />
Not to be done, Isaiah and his mispronunciations:<br />
Ughie = Cookie Monster<br />
Auka = Oscar the Grouch<br />
Elmo = OK, he got that one<br />
"Gapa" = Chewbacca (assuming I spelled it correctly)<br />
"Dee Dah" = Yoda<br />
"Orangen" = See Nathaniel, above<br />
"Bum Bum Bad Guy" = Darth Vader (This requires some explaining. "Bum Bum" is the beginning of the Star Wars evil empire song, which both Nathaniel and Isaiah have memorized. "Bad Guy" speaks for itself.)<br />
<br />
Back to the Raisins and my sister. You see, Lee Ann barely cared about sports from she was coerced into being a cheerleader for my youth football team in Houston (We were the Oilers. That's the hometown for ya.) through adulthood. But the last few years, long after she and her husband, Rob (who grew up a Detroit Lions fan) and their family moved to Baltimore, she grew this strange attachment to the football team. The Orioles? No. Area college teams? Please. But the Ravens? Oh yeah.<br />
<br />
The fandom has grown over time, like kudzu, to where it has invaded every aspect of their lives come football season. A game is not missed on the TV, with the family decked out in Ray Rice and Ray Lewis jerseys for the occasion. For Christmas, a son saved up enough money to buy a signed, framed picture of Ray Lewis that hangs proudly in the front foyer, I am told. And, in the two weeks leading up to the game, my sister – so dispassionate about athletics for nearly her entire life – has been relentlessly posting pro-Ravens propaganda on to Facebook and Lord knows where else.<br />
<br />
Rabid, meet my sister.<br />
<br />
I say this mostly tongue in cheek, once I got over the shell shock of her transformation. We all have things that we care deeply about that strikes the next person as a little strange, eccentric or downright kooky. We all have our oddities. I am not casting aspersions. She is my sister, you know. I'm just poking some fun – at her but at myself, too.<br />
<br />
For not too long ago, I used to go ape----- over games, especially matchups involving Duke basketball. Ironically, as my passion has waned in light of my changing view that sports is entertainment more than anything else, my sister appears to have gone in the opposite direction with her emotional attachment. Who says we don't change?<br />
<br />
Of course, I will watch the Super Bowl this evening. With more than mild interest. After all, it <i>is</i> the Super Bowl. And, I will root for the Ravens, even though they knocked off the Patriots. It's a gritty bunch, and I like gritty, always have. But I have a feeling that my level of interest will nowhere near that of my sister and her bunch.<br />
<br />
I just hope their fandom is amply rewarded.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-60489707978743659852013-01-29T21:17:00.002-05:002013-01-29T21:17:30.012-05:00Let it SnowI'm pretty excited. It's looking like it'll snow tonight and tomorrow.<br />
<br />
I love the snow. I love watching it fall, as individual flakes flutter to the ground. I love watching it stick, and accumulate in a creamy, white meringue on the ground. I love the tranquility that a snowfall brings, how it muzzles much of the non-natural world around us, leaving nature to sing her song. I love how it looks, a crisply fresh topping that masks much of what is otherwise unsightly. I love how thankful it makes you feel to have a warm home and a loving family (and a glass of good wine).<br />
<br />
I don't like to shovel it. Just to get that straight. My romanticism does not border on losing my lucidity.<br />
<br />
I also like what snow brings, and by that I mean sledding. No matter the danger (see post in December), I really, really like taking the boys sledding. I love careening down the hill, eyes watering, the wind biting at my face, as I plummet downward, desperately trying to steer us away from trees, signposts, curbs, kids and other hazards. It's an easily acquired rush of adrenaline, a very cheap thrill.<br />
<br />
We've had just one good snowfall this winter, around Christmas, and with the state, and much of the Midwest in a drought, as January neared an end, we wondered whether there'd be another. And the weather – not to dwell too much on the weather (Hello, do you believe in climate change, you remaining doubters?) – has been like a yo yo. Today, for instance, the temperature climbed above 60º – <i>60 degrees</i> – before beginning a descent so rapid that it would have made a parachutist dizzy. By tonight, we will be below freezing, and what has been rain will turn to snow and continue as such for much of the day tomorrow. In all, the weather watchers – those glorious folks who can be wrong half the time yet enjoy complete job security – say we'll get between 5 and 7 inches.<br />
<br />
By tomorrow night, we'll drop to 3º. So, in a span of about 36 hours, we'll watch the air temperature see-saw by about 60 degrees. Wow.<br />
<br />
No wonder I've seen geese flying in different directions the past couple of days. They must be as confused as a hiker with a broken compass.<br />
<br />
Getting beyond yet another example of wild weather and the growing body of evidence of our unrelenting upending of the world's climate, I'm just looking forward to the snow. Heck, I may be even stay up late enough to greet the first flakes as they descend from the sky.<br />
<br />
Bring 'em on!<br />
<br />
(I'll worry about shoveling later.)<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-6418073738688131522013-01-27T17:31:00.002-05:002013-01-27T22:14:35.427-05:00Night RunningFor the first time in nearly a decade, I've found it challenging to run regularly.<br />
<br />
No, I haven't suddenly lost my joy of slapping feet on pavement. Nor have I injured myself or reached the point at which muscles, tendons and joints rebel.<br />
<br />
For a while, I could blame the fall off on our move to Iowa. There was so much to do – find a town and a home in which to live, transition to a new job and a newly created one at that with its attendant expectations and pressures. Then, once we did move to our home, we were consumed by all the renovations needed to make it habitable.<br />
<br />
And, oh yeah, we have two very active young boys.<br />
<br />
So, on this long to-do list, running pretty much took up the caboose. Even as we got more settled in our house and I more comfortable with what I was doing at work, I still was having difficulty carving out the time to run.<br />
<br />
I could hardly blame the children, or Michelle, for the lack of time. I mean, I could wake up early in the morning, before work, and go for a jog. A lot of people do that. But I'm not a morning person. I'll be darned if I'm going to watch the sunrise as I'm grimacing through a workout. In fact, the last time I forced myself to run in the early morning was when I was training for my first marathon in 2003. And yet the few times I managed to roust myself, I do remember an intense feeling of satisfaction as I watched the sun rise above the ocean and bathe me with first rays, like I had been born again. But despite the emotional rapture, I mostly avoided morning jogs.<br />
<br />
Nights are tough, too. That's children time, and it simply wouldn't be fair to give that up for my own wants and needs.<br />
<br />
I had a handy runaround for a while. I ran twice a week during the lunch hour with some coworkers from my department and other offices around the Brown U. campus. The building where I worked had a shower, so it was easy to pop in, wash up and be back at my desk with little time in transit. Plus, I could check my email immediately after the run, in the off chance that I needed to respond to something immediately.<br />
<br />
It was a very good gig, better than I should have known.<br />
<br />
There's no such arrangement here. No coworkers to run with during lunch. And, worse, no nearby shower. Instead, there's a university rec center that I can pay to join (inexpensively, I might add), but it's several blocks away. Likewise, the city's rec center is several blocks away (although with free lockers and showers). Logistically, it just makes the whole exercise a lot tougher.<br />
<br />
It all left me with a gnawing frustration. I need an outlet; and, I'm not talking about crocheting, or something like that. Real, physical activity, to clear my mind and wear out my body. That's what I need, or I feel caged, bottled up.<br />
<br />
In short, I needed to figure out how to get running again.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks ago, it finally dawned on me: How about running at night? Come home after work, play with the children for a bit, sit with them for dinner, put them to sleep. And when that's all done, go out for a run.<br />
<br />
The thought had crossed my mind before, but I had swatted it away. I didn't feel comfortable not seeing where I was running, afraid I would step into a hole or trip over something in the road. I also didn't have any fluorescent running clothes, which made me fearful of not being seen by a wayward car. And, by the time we get the children in bed, it's usually pushing 8 o'clock, and my mind is closer to bed than to anything else.<br />
<br />
Something had to give. It was either night or nothing. So, one night about three weeks ago I skipped dinner and after getting the children to sleep, I slipped on a light-colored winter running shirt and took off.<br />
<br />
The neat thing about our little town is it doesn't take long to get out of it. This is no urban jungle. In fact, where we live, I'm on a rural road in minutes. My favorite one is a straight shot north out of town. I slip by the Cornell College ballfields, over the railroad tracks and countryside, here I am. I chug along, over one small rise, past a house on the right and its barking dog, over a bridge and the iced sliver of a creek. A little farther on, I see the lights of a smattering of houses in the woods on the right, and then it's up another rise to a view toward the horizon in all directions. I run a while longer, my breath leaving a wispy trail with each exhale in the cold air. The turnaround is a real highlight. As soon as I do it, I look up, and soak in the stars in the southern sky, fully illuminated, a jumble of constellations framed against the faint silkiness of the Milky Way. Directly in front of me on the horizon are the twinkling golden lights on the hill and a church spire silhouetted against the night sky.<br />
<br />
I smile and plod toward home.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-71249201478229416762013-01-21T20:45:00.003-05:002013-01-21T20:45:26.449-05:00Hoopin' weekendIt was a hoopin' weekend.<br />
<br />
We traveled this past weekend to watch my brother-in-law Matt's basketball team play. That's Minot State University (No. Dakota), a newly minted NCAA Div. II team to those who are unaware. It was Michelle and my (and the boys') first time to see Matt live, although we've watched numerous games when was head coach at Jamestown College and now that he's with the Beavers.<br />
<br />
For me, a lover of roundball, it was a special treat. Watching games is so much more fun when you feel like you have something invested that is more than casual entertainment. Granted, I love my Duke Blue Devils, as it's my alma mater. But there's a different feeling when someone from your (extended) family is involved, whose energy, ambitions and livelihood are on the line. You are all in, and there's no in between.<br />
<br />
It is that way with Matt's teams. So, when we looked at Minot State's schedule at the beginning of the year, this weekend jumped out at us. For two reasons, principally: One, the team would be in northeast Nebraska and Sioux Falls, So. Dakota, the closest they'd be to us this season. And, that, folks, is not all that close, 5 1/2 hours away. We also noticed that the first game, on Friday, of the back-to-back twinbill was against Wayne State, where Matt started as a graduate assistant and rose to assistant coach in four-plus years there. So, let's say there'd be a little something extra for that contest, no matter what Matt or anyone else said.<br />
<br />
We took off for Wayne about 1 on Friday afternoon. The game started at 8, so we figured we had plenty of time. Yes and no. I tend to underestimate Iowa's width, so that took a little longer than anticipated. Michelle and I underestimated how long it takes little boys to get out of a car, walk into a bathroom, pull down britches and pee. And, neither of us took fully into account driving rural roads in a remote section of Nebraska at night.<br />
<br />
I'm talking Nebraska 175 west. Go look at the map. 175 branches from I-29, heading like a straight shot west. Road atlases are deceptive in many ways. States generally fit on one page, no matter their size. So you get Nebraska on one page, just as you'd have Rhode Island. Need to look at that legend, because what may be a thumb's length in Nebraska is probably the same as driving the length of the Ocean State. Maybe more.<br />
<br />
Back to 175. This stretch looked simple, as I said, nothing more than a straight line west. Well, we got off I-29 and within minutes were crossing an old steel-trussed bridge that arched like a gymnast on a balance beam. To our surprise, we saw a sign as we crossed that there was a toll. $1. When we got over the bridge, there was a single-level structure a half-step up from a shack. No gate. No lights. No sign telling you to stop. We slowed down, unsure where the window was, or the attendant for that matter. As we drove along the side, we saw a figure at a window. We stopped. An old lady in a dress slid open the window, took the dollar, politely said thank you and slid it shut, all in about 15 seconds. Transaction completed, we were on our way, and our lady probably returned to her knitting.<br />
<br />
175 is one of the most entertaining roads I've driven. For the better part of 10 miles, it was like riding a roller coaster. Up, up we go, reach the top, and down, down, down we go. Reach the bottom, and up, up, up we go again. Hump after hump, hill after hill, exactly the same. No curve, no deviation. Up, down, up, down. A biker's nightmare, a geologist's dream.<br />
<br />
We made it to Wayne about 20 minutes before game time, with me gunning it about 80 on the rural roads. The game was entertaining, if not thrilling. Both teams appeared to be going through the motions, not playing badly per se, but not competing with any more intensity than you might find at a NBA regular season matchup. But Wayne State made the mistake of letting Minot State hang around for too long, and a couple of treys late put the Beavers ahead, and they played excellent defense down the stretch to steal a win.<br />
<br />
The next night, we were in South Dakota, as the Beavers took on Augustana College, a superior team on paper and in the standings. Minot fell behind early and trailed by 8-12 points most of the game. Yet late, they forced a few turnovers, made some nice plays and nearly pulled off the upset, losing by two.<br />
<br />
All in all, a good weekend for team comprised of NAIA players playing in a higher league. Credit to Matt, he's got his team playing cohesively, with passion, intensity and grittiness. The players have bought into his philosophy, and they've notched some nice wins to reward their effort and conviction. They may not be pretty, but the Beavers are a fun team to watch, a bunch you can feel good about rooting for.<br />
<br />
I also realized from this weekend how complicated it is to coach college basketball at any level. It is not simply coaching basketball, although the practices, the strategizing, the game tape analysis, the in-game instructions and adjustments are so much more complex than even an ardent fan like me can fully appreciate. There's also all the logistics; the team meals, arranging the hotels, the travel (by bus, too), the academics, the management of players and your own coaches. It's just a heck of a lot of moving parts. And underlying all of that is one simple truth: Winning matters entirely.<br />
<br />
You've got to really love what you're doing to put up with all that.<br />
<br />
We know Matt does. And we're glad we have his team to root for.<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-89803311307623717662013-01-15T22:03:00.002-05:002013-01-15T22:03:22.161-05:00Little GrownupIt seems like it happened overnight, but our little Nathaniel has become quite the little grownup.<br />
<br />
Most mornings, including weekends, he gets up, strolls to the bathroom, pees, and returns to his room to play quietly while mommy and daddy snooze (and that sleepmonster, Isaiah, too). Sometimes, he doesn't come into our bedroom until after 8.<br />
<br />
Shangri-la, baby.<br />
<br />
It gets better. Natty Lou has taken an interest in dressing himself, especially when his clothes du jour include a Star Wars t-shirt and sweatpants. Michelle noticed this behavior and decided to up the ante. One night, she spread Nathaniel's clothes on the floor, just like he would be wearing them. Beginning at one end, the layout looked like this: Socks, then jeans (or sweatpants), with underwear (Mickey Mouse and Star Wars) laid on top, followed by t-shirt (or undershirt) and long-sleeve sweater, pullover or shirt. If you were to view it from above, the arrangement resembled a two-dimensional stick figure, with the floor as a backdrop.<br />
<br />
Nathaniel knew exactly what to do. He got up, dressed himself and barged into our room, proud of his achievement.<br />
<br />
It was one early morning wake up call we could handle.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-35226041868407906512013-01-06T21:11:00.004-05:002013-01-06T21:11:51.216-05:00Sledding<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Surprise, surprise! A blog post. Really.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Right before Christmas, it snowed for the first time this season. We got roughly five inches, enough to lay a pretty blanket of white on the ground and to make the holidays seem pretty and bright. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It was also enough to make sledding a go. The day after it snowed, a Friday as I recall, Uncle Matt came over, and he and I took the boys out in search of a hill. I knew about one definitive sledding hill; when Michelle and I were scouting towns in which to live last summer, we noticed that Mount Vernon reserved one street for sledding. We knew this, because at the top of the street (and the top of the hill) there was a gate that would close off the street to vehicles. Down the street there were other gates along the side streets to keep vehicles from crossing the sledding hill-street. To clinch it all, there also was a sign that laid out the sledding hours and rules.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A street that is turned into a sledding hill. We thought that was pretty cool.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Back to the story: So, I knew about the street sledding hill. But a neighbor who grew up in Mt Vernon told me that a lot of bigger children use that hill, and, considering our boys are just 4 and 2, respectively, I was concerned they might get overrun. So, we all tromped over to Cornell College, its campus located on a hill, to find a spot.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Surprisingly, despite many slopes, it was hard to find a good sledding place. The college is pretty densely packed, and many of the hills led into a street, or parking lot, or there were a bunch of trees. Eventually, Matt, the boys, and I found a decent slope, and we got to it. We just had to be careful to make sure we stopped ourselves before we hit a concrete wall, and we had to avoid steering too far to the right, so we wouldn't go careening over a six-foot drop into a parking lot. Not ideal, but we made the best of it, and most importantly the boys had a good time.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Still, the street sledding hill was in the back of my mind as I decided to take the boys sledding the following weekend. I must admit that I was curious about the hill. Just passing by it as we walked by the street on our way downtown, and back, I knew it was a good sledding hill. At the top was a nice crown that after several feet, became a steep descent that went about the length of a block. Then the street, leveled off gradually. In all, if you could get good momentum and stay on course, it appeared you could go for 6 to 7 blocks. That's a doggone good run.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Knowing all this, I couldn't resist the temptation any longer. I packed the boys in a tow wagon, and we headed toward the street sledding hill. To my surprise, there were only a smattering of people there – a lady and two youngish children and a dad with a pair of youngsters. I felt better about our decision immediately. But what next? I couldn't leave 2-year-old Isaiah at the top of the hill himself, so I needed to figure out how we'd all go down together. We had two sleds, a rectangular toboggan and a plastic saucer. I tried all three of us on the toboggan. We lurched forward, then quickly veered leftward. Before I knew it, we careened onto the bank, our sled flew out from under us, and we all tumbled out onto the snow. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Isaiah wasn't thrilled about our spill. So, that was the end of the three-person toboggan. My next idea was to put the boys into the toboggan, and to follow them in the saucer, while holding onto their sled. This actually worked better than expected: We slid down the hill, and we got some good velocity. The trouble was we had no way to control ourselves. Inevitably, the boys' toboggan would get turned around, or mine, or both. While thrilling, it also introduced the element of danger, of running into a tree or spilling over the side of the course. Still, it was the best we could do, and it all went just fine until the last run.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It all started out fine. The boys leading on the toboggan, me following on the saucer, one hand clasped to the boys' sled. Partway down, the boys turned backward, and the rope got tangled under their sled. I tried to yank the rope out as I was turning backward. We kept skidding down the hill, now on the steep part, both of us facing backward. Now, we were moving right, toward the side of the street. I glanced behind me, made a quick check of our location, and turned my attention back to trying to turn the boys' sled into the forward position. Bam! My lower back smacked into a signpost, thinly covered by an orange vest. The boys had tumbled off their sled and were looking at me. I was so shocked I just sat there and laughed. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Isaiah didn't think it was funny. He was pretty traumatized. And, once I got up, I wasn't laughing either. I walked gingerly, hunched over, as we trudged home.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The thing about sledding, though, is once you start doing it, despite the hazards and spills, you don't want to stop. So, a couple of weekends later, we were back out there, this time accompanied by Michelle. We've been in a deep freeze, with nighttime temperatures often in the single digits. The hill, with all its use and the freezing weather, had gotten quite icy. It was so slick in spots that you could slide down it on your stomach. Still, we were there; shouldn't we do it?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Well, we did. And it was great. It was great, because I figured how to guide the toboggan, meaning I could "steer" it down the hill, keep it in the middle of the course and give us a nice, long ride all the way to the bottom. Let me tell you, it was awesome. Fast, zippy, wind-in-your-face, hair-raising ride. Even better, the boys loved it, too.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Can't wait to get out there again.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-49985390443379873362012-10-19T21:12:00.004-04:002012-10-19T21:12:45.885-04:00Isaiah turns 2We're on the eve of Isaiah turning 2. Some thoughts about our still roly-poly, happy little redhead.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>He loves his mommy and daddy. (More on that below).</li>
<li>He loves his brother, even though he's constantly being harassed by him.</li>
<li>He loves Elmo.</li>
<li>He loves tackle football (i.e. running full speed into daddy).</li>
<li>He loves to pigeon step, pigeon step and then fall down.</li>
<li>He still loves to eat, although he remains picky. Meat of about any kind still reigns supreme on the culinary list of choices.</li>
<li>He loves his newest words, which include "hat," "ear," "eye," "school" and the king of them all, "up."</li>
<li>Speaking of "up," we know he loves this word most of all, because Isaiah loves nothing more than to be held. Morning, day or night, the kid loves to cuddle, and that has held true since he was a baby. He loves to burrow in to your chest, nuzzle in your arms, and just be.</li>
</ul>
<br />
That, my friends, is simply wonderful.<br />
<br />
Isaiah is also very bright. This morning, he exhibited what I thought was quite a cognitive achievement, by stringing together several logical sequences.<br />
<br />
As I left for work this morning, I picked up (or was already holding, more likely) Isaiah and gave him a kiss. Continuing a recent trend, he started crying and pawing at me to keep holding him. As I passed him to Michelle and went out the door, I could hear the shrieks. As I looked over my shoulder toward the window, Michelle was holding Isaiah, who was visibly sniffling as he waved goodbye.<br />
<br />
I went to work. About an hour after I arrived, my cell phone rang. A call from home. I answered, figuring it was Michelle.<br />
<br />
Hello?<br />
Silcnce.<br />
Helloooo?<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
I then figured Isaiah was on the line. We had a nice conversation, actually, as he answered affirmatively to whether he was happy, was playing, and had a good breakfast – topped off by saying "school" when I asked him where his brother was.<br />
<br />
I asked Isaiah to pass the phone to Michelle, whom I figured had called me about something and stuck Isaiah on the line initially. But she didn't. And then she told me what happened.<br />
<br />
Isaiah found the phone, got it and took it to Michelle, who was in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
"Da da," he said, holding the cordless phone.<br />
<br />
Michelle smiled and placed the cordless phone the counter.<br />
<br />
"Da da!" Isaiah said, now more forcefully and pointing at the phone.<br />
<br />
So, Michelle picked up the phone, dialed me, and handed the phone to Isiaiah.<br />
<br />
A simple story, yes, but did you notice all the cognitive steps Isaiah took to arrive at that phone call?<br />
<br />
I'm no child psychologist, but this is my breakdown:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Isaiah missed his daddy and figured he'd do something about it.</li>
<li>He realized I wouldn''t be coming home soon.</li>
<li>So, he got the telephone.</li>
<li>He knew he couldn't call me himself, so he took the phone to Michelle.</li>
<li>He asked her to call me.</li>
<li>When she initially misread what he wanted, he clarified his request by repeating verbally what he wanted Michelle to do and underscored it by pointing at the phone.</li>
</ul>
<br />
I find that remarkable.<br />
<br />
And I love him so.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-45070943791821622432012-09-16T23:16:00.003-04:002012-09-16T23:23:34.299-04:00"Free TV"A new house, a new test of our addiction to television.<br />
<br />
Actually, Michelle and I aren't addicted to TV. We have our favorite shows (Parks & Rec is currently tops for us), and Lord knows I love my sports, especially college basketball. But we watched selectively, and we took full advantage of the DVR, almost always watching programs after they aired and forwarding through the ads. I even DVR'ed most sporting events. The truth is, I find it hard to sit in one spot (except if I'm in a bar, but, let's face it, that just doesn't happen anymore.) for an entire game, match or event, most of which go for at least three hours. Fast-forwarding cuts that to an eminently watchable hour or so.<br />
<br />
Speaking of, I read somewhere that most sporting events are something like three-quarter to four-fifths non-action (stoppages in play, idle time, commercials, etc.). So, if you're really adept with your remote, you can zip through a contest in a half-hour. I'm not that good, and there are times when I like to hear the crowd noise, the color commentator and announcer and other sights and sounds of whichever sporting event I'm viewing. But I can't stand to sit through the commercials, especially for basketball and football. It drives me nuts.<br />
<br />
Well, we had the DVR and many of the bells-and-whistles channels in Rhode Island. And we paid pretty dearly for it: About $170 a month (with taxes) for cable, Internet and local phone service. When we moved into our new house in Iowa, we decided to find out whether we can live without the full TV enchilada.<br />
<br />
Actually, our package is more like ordering chips and salsa. We've opted to go basic, no-frills TV. We get the networks; Fox; PBS; several religion channels (I mean, how many do you really need?); all the CSpan channels (who knew there were three?), WGN and Comcast Chicago (I thought this was cable, and what's up with getting stations out of Chicago, which is more than three hours away? But I'll take it.), and oddball channels like MeTV, County Music, Inspiration and public-access. It is truly a bare-bone package, but there are more channels than I expected, which has been a nice surprise.<br />
<br />
We also opted to get the lowest-speed Internet connection. More than the TV, we feared this may be a bad decision, and we'd be upgrading faster than you can say D-S-L. But so far, so good. The speed, while not lightning quick, is perfectly reasonable. We can stream video no problem. And Skype passed the test this evening, which, is important considering it is a major way by which we keep in touch with many relatives.<br />
<br />
After some deliberation, we decided to get phone service. I guess you can say that either we remain nostalgic about land lines, or, more accurately, in my mind, we don't trust our cell phone service enough to be completely dependent on it.<br />
<br />
Back to the TV. So, we're conducting an experiment to find out whether we'll be fine without the channels to which we've become accustomed. I admit that I miss the sports channels, like ESPN, but I was OK with it, because I figured I could stream ESPN3 on my laptop. That turned out to be wrong. I mean, I can stream ESPN3, but I can't access anything that's airing on ESPN or ESPN2. Why? Our Internet package is too cheap. So, I'm learning to live with waiting for any live event to be completed, and for the replay to become available, when I can watch it. It is a transition for a sports fan like myself.<br />
<br />
So, that's life in a house that needs a lot of work and is costing a fair amount of coin to fix up. Some things have to go (within reason), and for us, we couldn't justify forking over $100, $150 a month for TV and the fastest Internet.<br />
<br />
We've survived so far. I watched a great college football game, Stanford's upset of USC, last night on a "free channel." I'm glancing at a NFL game on another "free channel" as I write. So, yes, I'm getting my sports fixes for now.<br />
<br />
And our monthly bill? $45 a month.<br />
<br />
I can live with that.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-76612361473757816182012-09-12T22:39:00.003-04:002012-09-12T22:39:48.536-04:00Moved InSorry for the radio silence. Well, we're in our new home. We moved in on Labor Day weekend, and we're happily ensconced. More or less. OK, less. Lots to do. Workers in and out, despite our best efforts to complete the major renovations before we moved in. One day, we had the floor guys, who, even after two <i>months</i> on the job, were grumpily reinstalling the trim along the baseboards. The electrician was there, putting in ceiling fans in the screened-in back porch and our bedroom (ah, yes). There was the wall guy, finishing the walls in the living room and library (expertly so and in two <i>days</i> time). And our friend Dave, who's helping with all sorts of jobs, from the central air to hooking up a washer and dryer upstairs.<br />
<br />
In other words, despite our best intentions, our house was a beehive of activity, with us tiptoeing around boxes, furniture, randomly strewn toys and other stuff. But at least we could view progress taking shape in real time, because we were there.<br />
<br />
And it's still going ... and going ... and going ...<br />
<br />
The move itself was uneventful. Dave and I loaded a 20-foot UHaul truck, with much help from the women Murken and Michelle's good friend Laura. Everything sorted themselves beautifully, and we had that baby loaded in about one hour and a half. The unloading was even faster; we were done in 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
Of course, that was only the beginning. The arranging and rearranging, the unpacking and placing and the cleaning and more cleaning remained. But at least we were, finally, in our house.<br />
<br />
Sweet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-92141671792221528472012-08-22T20:36:00.004-04:002012-08-22T20:39:04.363-04:00FacebookI opened a Facebook account today.<br />
<br />
I have very mixed emotions about this decision. For years, I have avoided Facebook like I should've avoided the poison ivy at our new home. I avoided it even though just about everyone I know – family, friend, acquaintance, coworker, stranger – has an account. I avoided it despite the fact that there are 800 million regular users (800 million!) worldwide, according to Facebook.<br />
<br />
No, I didn't avoid it because I think Facebook represents some nefarious plot by a stateless organization to take over the world or infiltrate our minds. I didn't avoid it because I'm adverse to social media. I do have a Twitter account, after all. (And, I like it.) I avoided Facebook, because, quite simply, my life is cluttered enough. It's complicated enough. I've got more going on in my life than I can keep track of, much less stay ahead. Also, I know who my friends are, and I certainly know my family. I can reach out to them in other ways.<br />
<br />
Lastly, I have no burning desire to find out what friends of yore, long lost flames and people with whom I've had random encounters are doing.<br />
<br />
I like things simple, more or less. Facebook makes things not simple. Therefore, I had no driving interest to join.<br />
<br />
So, why the heck did I do it?<br />
<br />
I've opened a professional <a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100004247401884">account</a>. It will display the stories my colleagues and I are producing describing the discoveries, findings and advances that are taking place at the University of Iowa. It is another means to communicate those stories for anyone who's interested.<br />
<br />
You will find precious little information about me on my page. You'll find one picture – my profile pic – which is more of a tongue-in-cheek shot than anything else. You won't find pictures of my family, and you won't find dispatches of our lives. That's what this blog is for.<br />
<br />
So, if you're interested in what I'm writing about, take a look. If you're not, then you probably won't be too interested.<br />
<br />
But now I guess I can look up all those people I had mildly wondered about. All 800 million of them.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-25628064597541743722012-08-13T22:41:00.004-04:002012-08-13T23:46:48.947-04:00More Than Meets The EyeIt's 9:30, I'm tired, and it's a trying week at work and with our new house. So, I'll make this a quick one.<br />
<br />
We've been taking the boys with us as we work on the house. And, man, there's a lot to do – far more than Michelle and I imagined. A lot of it is stuff that we did with our house in Rhode Island: tearing up carpets, removing clutter, painting trim, painting rooms, landscaping, etc. On top of that, some of the things we did in our house in Rhode Island, such as redoing walls and refinishing hardwood floors, we're not attempting to do here.<br />
<br />
So, why is it taking so long? There are two quick answers here, neither of which we took fully into account: Bigger house and children.<br />
<br />
Our house in Rhode Island is about 1300 square feet. Our house in Mt. Vernon is 2200, or 69 percent larger than the Rhode Island home. I guess that's supersizing, although I'd submit our home (with one bathroom, mind you) was more of a mini than a regular. Anyway, painting trim, walls, cabinets – you name it – in the new house is taking that much longer due to the fact that <i>it is larger</i>. Duh. Should've thought of that one.<br />
<br />
When we bought our home in Rhody more than 8 years ago, we had no children. So, we could work anytime we needed, for as long as we needed, until the job was done. And when we worked, it was both of us (for the most part), so we covered more ground, workwise, than one person. Now, we have the two boys, and that means that usually only one of us is able to do work. Typical example: This evening. I drove to our home in Mt. Vernon all hepped up to do some work. When I got there, Michelle was knee deep in cabinet painting, so it really made no sense for her to stop and take the children to her mother's and sister's. So, I did. Of course, by the time I wrangled the children through bathtime, dinner, brushing, book reading, singing and sleep, it was 8:30 p.m., and I still had dinner to eat, shower and shave and a work email check to do. It would be pushing 10 if I had returned to the house. No sense in that.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow will be another game of pass-the-children baton. Who takes the handoff this time?<br />
<br />
Tune in!<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-24753254027017410912012-08-06T21:19:00.000-04:002012-08-06T21:28:00.340-04:00Infested with IvyI've got a pretty good case of poison ivy.<br />
<br />
It started two weekends ago, when I was clearing much of the overgrowth that had been choking the yard at our new home. Although I had been warned that poison ivy had been spotted to and fro, I clambered about clumsily, too intent on weeding stuff out to parse between plants.<br />
<br />
Within a day or two, groups of mottled, red bumps dotted my arm, signaling, I assumed, that I had brushed against poison ivy. Sure, it itched a little, but really it wasn't a big deal. An annoyance, yes, but little more. I did nothing.<br />
<br />
For a relatively closeted city slicker, I thought I was taking my lumps from nature pretty well.<br />
<br />
A week went by, and last weekend came. I resumed my clearing of overgrowth, and this time, I took note of the poison ivy. It was everywhere, the 3-leaved shoots rising from mazes of vines that snaked along the ground, tenaciously anchored to the soil like a series of tents staked to the ground. Fascinated, I began pulling the shoots, then the vines, out of the ground. I'd pull one plug, only to discover that it was connected to another vine. And I pulled that. It was connected to yet another vine. The network of vines was so dense, so confusing, crisscrossing every which way, that I finally gave up. It was too hard to follow.<br />
<br />
By Saturday night, I noticed some welts on my left leg, in the inner part above my knee. By Sunday, the welts had migrated to my left ankle, and a matrix of little bumps had appeared on my right arm just below the wrist. Meanwhile, the bothersome blotches on my left arm had suddenly become a lot itchier, as if they had become energized by the Red, Bad-Ass Revolution overtaking my body. By the time I went to bed, new welts had popped up on my right leg. And, they itched. All of them. A lot. I was miserable.<br />
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By Monday morning, I realized I was itchy above my left eye, under the brow line, and on the bridge of my nose. Guess what? The ivy had made a bold attack to my face. Was there any stopping the advance?<br />
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Desperate, I asked coworkers if there was some magic elixir. No, they said. But you might find temporary relief in something called Calamine. I was out the door before they could spell it.<br />
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So, as I sit here tonight, I am covered in a Calamine-like balm, trying to keep the severe itch – and the wicked temptation to scratch – at bay. I don't know how I'm going to get any sleep tonight.<br />
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Poison ivy, you have my respect.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-69467686781132682242012-08-04T21:45:00.002-04:002012-08-04T21:45:48.391-04:00The Rains Came (Finally)We have been baking in the nation's heartland.<br />
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Most know this already, at least in some way. Most have read about the intense heat. But my dad and his wife excepting (who experience extreme hear in central Texas each summer), it's hard to fully appreciate how hot it has been here this summer, when you break out in a full sweat in a matter of a few paces. Most have read about the drought gripping Iowa and the agricultural belt. But it's hard to fully appreciate how dry it has been unless (again, excepting my dad and his wife, who endured an epic drought last fall) you see swaths of grass gone brown and expanses of corn fields turn from aspiring, green shoots to withered, tan stalks. It's a real eye opened, I tell you.<br />
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It just hasn't rained here.<br />
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That is, until today, when we got a real doozy of a storm.<br />
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I was at our new house, bagging all the leaves, sticks (I never knew there could be so many sticks in one place.) and yard debris. It was late morning, and humid. It had rained a little on and off for a half-hour, but considering how much we need, it was more the sky spitting in our eye than delivering anything substantive. I had started to think this would be another day of promise unfulfilled, when I looked to the west. The sky had turned green, and it grew completely still, nary a breath of air.<br />
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I knew something was coming, so I began to collect the lawn bags and take them into the garage. Within minutes, the storm hit, a freight train of thunder, lightning, wind and pounding rain. It was downright awesome in its intensity. I rushed around the yard like a fool, collecting the yard implements, then sprinting to my car to roll up the windows, then dashing into the house to close the storm windows.<br />
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Then I waited in the dark when the power went out.<br />
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Michelle, meanwhile, was at her mother's and sister's house experiencing much the same. Except while I dealt with gushing water and gusty winds, Michelle watched with some degree of horror as 70-mph winds sheared off huge limbs from the maple tree just behind the house, blew lawn chairs and jettisoned branches like javelins against the windows. It must've been a little like being in nature's war zone.<br />
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Ten minutes later, the storm belt had passed. But even in that short time, it dropped 1 1/2 inches of precious water on the soil and crops. I think we got more in our little town.<br />
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Scary? Yes, a little. But more than worth it.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-65111318265610283692012-07-31T22:54:00.002-04:002012-07-31T22:54:36.266-04:00ProgressLast weekend was one filled with some hard labor.<br />
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While Michelle, assisted by her sister, Rachel, lined cabinets in the kitchen, I took to landscaping the yard.<br />
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OK, let's be more truthful: I took to hacking away at the jungle that is our yard. We have a big, L-shaped plot in our fair little town. If you look at our place on Google Maps, you can make out our house – barely – but all you see is a mass of green to the north and to the west. That double lot, my friends, is ours. Currently, it's a mess, a cacophony of nature let loose to compete with itself. Someday, it'll be a lot of space for our boys to romp and roam. But for that to happen, some order needed to be restored.<br />
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So, armed with loppers and two handsaws, I got to it. It may seem against my nature (pun intended) to relish chopping down trees and clearing vegetation, but it's also sound ecology, in my book, to make way for species that are valued (to us, admittedly) and to get rid of those that are less so. So, yes, it is modification, stamping our imprint on the land, but the fact is this lot has been remade many times already, and we can create something that is good for our children, for us, and for birds, bees and other critters.<br />
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Luckily, we have a lot of really good stuff in our large yards. Two soaring evergreen trees in front. Two mature oak trees on the side and in the back. A maple tree. Blackberry bushes. Vines of grapes. A cherry tree in the back. More trees of other kinds. Some wild grasses. Nice variety. My goal, then, was not to engage in some clear cutting, but to let what we have breathe and thrive.<br />
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Here's what I was working with:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjU2L_48-7-KyDaq1qJbWvUOQWsdo4CPjpDwA3gMnm5ycErTBfS7pKw6Q5LG3riS8IT1AcNIwtAYPqzbi0nrF-ods6N_utLuqWwfxAz847QlNH2KWqWNBL4CS0SiEI0yK5ge4xdkorz-Wi/s1600/Back+yard-before.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjU2L_48-7-KyDaq1qJbWvUOQWsdo4CPjpDwA3gMnm5ycErTBfS7pKw6Q5LG3riS8IT1AcNIwtAYPqzbi0nrF-ods6N_utLuqWwfxAz847QlNH2KWqWNBL4CS0SiEI0yK5ge4xdkorz-Wi/s320/Back+yard-before.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Back yard before</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VvO9sMhAYsWjyFqRvwZ0GjVK9uD9Qc-dESZcnUucL2-P26p43oZUyqwmFH7Ve9pga0geDxHJk9uHs2uImHrM1vKnU-h55N_xeshG8alwM5wbPercrzOJIW5ZHTLKmOUgASFFQWQthTcn/s1600/Back+yard-after.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VvO9sMhAYsWjyFqRvwZ0GjVK9uD9Qc-dESZcnUucL2-P26p43oZUyqwmFH7Ve9pga0geDxHJk9uHs2uImHrM1vKnU-h55N_xeshG8alwM5wbPercrzOJIW5ZHTLKmOUgASFFQWQthTcn/s320/Back+yard-after.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Back yard after</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2BJ5CgddSEOTR6eBK_zC-5cnfQEe_DRK7Mv-msS2ugGypIBdu0R8PWNSxWeDWabrwBDDRIAL7noUECAOOI_g0om8r9oVLe7Qd5YAYwMQeZBiqZT6hWjZYxWGU9vPRq_M_oUhzGfnGtIxI/s1600/Side+yard-before.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2BJ5CgddSEOTR6eBK_zC-5cnfQEe_DRK7Mv-msS2ugGypIBdu0R8PWNSxWeDWabrwBDDRIAL7noUECAOOI_g0om8r9oVLe7Qd5YAYwMQeZBiqZT6hWjZYxWGU9vPRq_M_oUhzGfnGtIxI/s320/Side+yard-before.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Side yard before</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcyV7Dz8XqoSD20o0f1s-dNimAXS-1sJZIv4BAbHuNvFgO8pJ_m6kWU1lq0XfEtvObpWlk5lK6xPlGkdUTTVkJmMMg2KNzKHM18JA8TKy-VMAzB59x2P9iPwSKoaT6W4JDUiZ8-RKT0IO1/s1600/Side+yard-after.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcyV7Dz8XqoSD20o0f1s-dNimAXS-1sJZIv4BAbHuNvFgO8pJ_m6kWU1lq0XfEtvObpWlk5lK6xPlGkdUTTVkJmMMg2KNzKHM18JA8TKy-VMAzB59x2P9iPwSKoaT6W4JDUiZ8-RKT0IO1/s320/Side+yard-after.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Side yard after</div>
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Do you see a difference? I must admit it doesn't seem as dramatic in pictures as it does in reality. The back yard looks like it's been leveled, which isn't quite accurate. Here's the back yard, as seen from the street:</div>
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You can barely see the scraped-away, newly mowed grass in the middle and back of the lot. Most of the trees in this picture will stay, which offers some measure of seclusion and a nice bit of woody diversity to the yard. We're getting there.</div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-8287532157536725262012-07-30T20:44:00.003-04:002012-07-30T20:46:54.692-04:00Mourning and PrayerI had planned to write about all the home improvements we did this weekend and to show pictures of progress on our grounds. But that'll need to wait, for I learned today of something far more important.<br />
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The head men's basketball coach at Southwest Minnesota State lost a son in an awful head-on collision this past weekend. It's the second family tragedy to befall this family in a year.<br />
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The story is <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/sports/college/mensbasketball/story/2012-07-30/southwest-minnesota-state-coach-bigler-son-killed/56592694/1">here</a>.<br />
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I don't know Coach Bigler, but I mourn with him and his family, and my prayers are with them. It just underlines so starkly how capricious and fragile life can be, how so much is beyond our control, no matter how much we think we have it all buttoned down and figured out.<br />
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Southwest Minnesota State is in the same conference, the Northern Sun, that my brother-in-law Matt joined when he was named last week as the head coach of Minot State University in North Dakota. Matt reported on his Twitter account that he visited Bigler, and that the coach was in good spirits despite his injuries and his loss.<br />
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You can join the conversation via Twitter at #PrayforBigs.<br />
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We hope and pray for a speedy recovery.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2917699078271413679.post-10071832981004394732012-07-28T09:09:00.002-04:002012-07-28T09:09:24.997-04:00Beaver ManWe've got a fair amount of house work to do this weekend, so I'll make this a quick one. My brother-in-law, Matt Murken, has a new job.<br />
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On Wednesday, he was named head men's basketball coach at Minot State University, in North Dakota.<br />
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The move is a wise one; MS elevated itself to NCAA Division II status this summer and entered a conference called the Northern Sun. Matt is familiar with both, from his tenure at Wayne State, in Nebraska.<br />
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Congratulations, Matt. You done good.</div>
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True to his nature, Matt played this one pretty close to the vest. Three weeks ago, he was helping me fell a big tree and didn't even mention the position. Then again, the position wasn't even open at that time. It only opened less than two weeks ago, and Matt apparently pounced on the opportunity. Good for him.<br />
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So, now he's a Beaver, and so are we.<br />
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The neat thing about this is Minot State has several games in the general area where we live, so there's a good chance I'll finally see his team play. By general, I mean within a 6-7-hour drive, which is doable, because most games are on weekends. I am really excited to watch basketball live and root hard for a team in which I'm fully invested!<br />
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So, although it sounds strange – GO BEAVERS!<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0