Some Flightly Observations

Sitting in an overcrowded airport shuttle this past weekend with a child and car seat and luggage, you can't help but notice other people.

First off, it's pretty clear from body language that people don't like the thought that you and your kid may be on their flight. I'm not sure what kid traveling gave other kids a bad name, but that's pretty much par for the course.

This country is quite coddled. Pulling up to the Columbus International Airport -- one not much larger than Portland, Maine's airport -- no one moved on our overcrowded shuttle. Instead, they yelled out their airlines. The shuttle had stopped at the first airline in the terminal -- the only terminal at the airport. A couple people filed out. We were at the back and unable to move. Many remained seated or stood in the aisles. Then a couple more people made the effort to get out, forcing others to disembark the shuttle. We seized the opportunity and also got off. Electing to walk the less than hundred yards to where our airline was located. More than a few people got back on and decided that that hundred yard walk to the end of the road where their airline was, was too inconvenient. It would be more beneficial to get back on board the shuttle, wait for traffic to clear so the shuttle could pull out and then park less than a hundred yards further down the road and then they could still walk across the road to their airline.

This is our country.

Paying for food on an airplane isn't that bad a deal -- especially if it means you're going to get something other than peanuts. Ironically, doesn't cost peanuts though.

If you check something at the foot of the plane, it's a reasonable assumption to think someone's going to notice and check-in a large, un-aeroplane object sitting in front of the plane. That's reasonable. Until it almost doesn't happen and you get apologized to.

Walking on to the tarmac feels, sometimes, like staying up past your bedtime. Not everyone gets to do it. Of course, when that means walking up a ramp into the plane that's shaking, well, that's like staying up past your bedtime to watch C-SPAN.

One couple on the return flight casually remarked aloud they didn't want to sit "near the children". There were a few of us with kids in one area so they moved to the rear of the plane where there was only one child. That kid screamed the entire flight.

Also, don't pay for privileges to board an airplane first. Have a kid.

And I remain convinced that Bob Dylan is the perfect music for an airline flight. Like Annie Lennox and Natalie Merchant are to elevators, Dylan is to that moment the plane rises above the weather to see the oranges, reds and purples fading into a field of clouds. It's not dark yet... but it's getting there.

On Comings and Goings

For years I've made trips back home. Back to my grandparents' homes in the ever-growing beachfront that is Old Orchard Beach, ME. Back to see the most important thing in my life: my family. And OOB has been a rendezvous point for my immediate family. For my brother and sisters and parents. A point where we can sit in the shade of pine trees and traces of sea breezes and reminisce and remember and remember what we've forgotten.

For Isaac, it was his first trip back to this idyllic location. His first conversations about torque wrenches and the sharpening of lawn mower blades. His first, covert attempt to ruin the cranberry sauce. His first discussions over national league pitchers. His first taste of rhubarb. His first looks upon my nana, my grandpa, my grammie and my grandpa.

Isaac handled it well. Laughing at his second cousin. Falling asleep in his great-grandmothers arms. Staying an evening with his nana and grandpa while the Mrs. and I ate pizza and fried dough and held each other on the darkened beach around the pier. Responding to coos and ahhs and "Mr. Isaac's" that seemed to fill his every waking moment. And fighting sleep whenever he could because he didn't want to miss an instant of this experience.

But I'm not sure he realized he's gone. That that experience, his first, is over. But it was not lost on me, on the Mrs., on the family who clamoured over and around him. His coming was marked with joy. A happiness I've never seen in the eyes of those most dear to my heart. And it echoed louder as we left. Isaac is a blessed child. Blessed with the love of so many.

The hardest part of coming is going. But more so, the hardest part is staying away. Staying away from instant coffee (well, maybe not instant coffee). From the raw rhubarb growing out back. Staying away from the tangible and unrelenting love of my grandparents.

That's the thing about coming and about going. It's about not staying away.

On A Trip To Maine

Taking my son on a trip to Maine...

We're excited. He's grown so much in the past week. Already he's starting to crawl. Well, really he just raises his backside in the air and pushes with his feet, trying to crawl. He ends up pivoting around in a circle because he hasn't figured out how to reach out with his left hand. It's pretty funny and at the same time truly amazing.

I find myself unfamiliar with the position of my family this weekend. With the exception of my parents, no one has met him yet. And even my folks only met him in his first few hours of life. Now he is filled with so much life. Not knowing Isaac is something I can't comprehend. Isaac's infused with so much vivacity that I'm sure after this weekend, we all have something in common.

It's also one of the first opportunities I'll have with Isaac to share a part of me with him. Not that he'll remember it, but I will. I'll show him the ocean. The Pier. His family. Nana and Grammie's house I spent summers in. He'll hear Grandpy's stories and probably get directions to somewhere too. While he may not get any Strawberry Rhubarb pie this weekend, he'll hear about why it's so good. He'll meet someone who looks just like his dad and someone who speaks another language entirely.

Oh, Mom and Dad, Nana and Grandpa, Grammie and Grandpa, know this: I'm not changing diapers this weekend. Not a one.

On Accents

She answered the phone and, for a moment, I thought I was talking to my grandmother. Her voice was disjunct, cacophonic and rythmic. She spoke with a striking Maine accent. Imagine my surprise, living in Columbus, in the parts of the country where everyone sounds alike -- where there is nothing distinct in their voices. Nothing that hints of experiences or of places and times other than the present. And as she told me I'd have to "Come down here to the store", I grabbed Isaac and headed over to the Man Store (read: Lowe's or Home Depot) to finish ordering my carpet for the new house, but mainly to meet this woman.

I spotted her immediately. Staring at a computer screen in the flooring section. A little old lady surrounded by laminate floorings and carpet samples. Looking a little worn out by the years. Slightly hunched at the shoulders. Once blonde hair graying in just about every area. But a smile that reminds me of my childhood and a voice that, as she began to speak, became the narrator of my past.

Dispensing with the carpet business, I struck up a conversation with her. Asking her where in Maine she was from. She smiled, pondering aloud how I knew she was from Maine. I replied with a smile. I'm from Maine. That was all she needed to know before she launched into her story. And it was a wonderful story. Featuring details of her looming retirement sprinkled with her history living in the Portland area some 25 years ago. Living there long before the Maine Mall was a glint in anyone's eye. When Congress Street was filled with little shops. When time was much different than it is now.

It had been awhile since she had lived in Maine. I complimented her on her lovely accent. How reminiscent it was for me. How it brought me back to trips to Nana's house and to Grammie's house in the summers at Old Orchard Beach. And how it warmed my heart to know in just a few days I would hear the voices, that, just like hers, were near and dear to my heart.

To the untrained ear it sounds English. In fact, she even told me that many people in this area assume she's from England. Maine isn't even an option to them. But the people from Maine, she said, know she's from Maine. From there. Not from here. The ingredients in the elixir were there.

That's the Maine voice. A voice filled with experiences. Filled with summer afternoons and cold winter nights. With days spent looking at an ocean, and hours grieving over the tragedies of the ever-rescinding tide of life that pulls those things away. Of catching and cooking lobsters. Of the silences of listening to baseball games. Of spending Saturdays at yard sales. Of Sunday's at church and those afternoons at picnics in the churchyards. Of bitter cold mornings shoveling snow. Of the rustle of fall leaves cascading through a yard. It's a hardened voice. Filled with rich layers. A voice you can't nail down or imitate. An accent that is only picked up by experience. It's the voice of life.

As she told me how she hoped to get home for the fall this year to visit with her daughter and take a trip to the White Mountains, in the colloquialisms of that glorious accent she had me hanging on each word, each a needle poke, repairing a worn and too oft-forgotten tapestry of my past.

Towering over us were carpets, area rugs and just about everything a person can use to make a home their home. But a home is about the accents.

A home is in the voices.

As I told her what a pleasure it had been to talk with her she said she hoped we'd run into each other.

"Hopefully we will," I said.

"And maybe we can share some pier fries."

"With vinegar. From Bill's."

She smiled and said nothing more.

On Father's Day

It's my first Father's Day. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to today and, actually, to this post. I've immensely enjoyed fatherhood. Loved being a dad. My entire life I've always wanted to be like my father. To model myself, my approach to life, my marriage and everything else I do on the example my father has and continues to provide for me. Something of which, Dad, I am forever grateful for. And this Father's Day, I am again, like my dad. I'm a dad.

There are moments to come that I will treasure. First words, first steps, first hit, first day of school, etc. But there has been one moment that has stood above it all for me and represented my favorite part of being a dad and also, the toughest and most imposing aspect of fatherhood.

A few weeks ago I returned home from work in the early afternoon. The Mrs. was upstairs with Isaac and had locked the screen door so I couldn't get in. Coming down the steps she had Isaac on her hip, saying to him, "Daddy's home, Daddy's home!" As she came up on the screen door she stopped and put Isaac up to the screen and I bent in and said, "Isaac, I'm home." All of a sudden his eyes got wide and blue. His lips curled out and he cackled, almost hiss-like, as he broke into the biggest and brightest smile. Either slightly embarrassed or extremely excited, he then buried his head right into Mom's shoulder, then put his hand on his face, looked back up at Mom and then looked right back at me. Still smiling. Still cackling. He knew I was home. He knew his Dad was home.

There are many examples of fatherhood. None greater than my Heavenly Father. There are many aspects to being a dad. But in that moment, what it meant to be a dad finally hit me. It was about recognition, for him and for me. In that moment, separated by a screen, he knew me as his Dad. As his father. And there is nothing greater, or bigger, or larger or better than being recognized as a Dad.

My role in his life was presented to me in all it's immensity and all it's glory, all it's challenges and all it's joy. I was Isaac's Dad. Charged to be a father to him, to bring to him everything I can. To teach him to throw a baseball. Teach him to respect his mother and women. To take care of everybody and everyone he can. Teach him to stand up and assert himself. To teach him to admit when he is wrong and make amends. To teach him to be a man.

In that moment, with his eyes bright and wide and blue, with his voice cackling, Isaac showed me my role in his life. Instantly overwhelming and yet exciting.

Fatherhood.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

I Blame Myself

I have everything to do with this funk the Red Sox are in. It's all my fault. For the first time all season I have failed to watch a game in the past two weeks. And in the past two weeks they have faltered. It is utterly my fault.

But in my defense, I've been busy with life. With moving, working and school -- but mainly moving. So I've not been able to catch any games. I apologize and must admit I don't see my ways amending anytime soon so I hope they can pull themselves out of this funk, lest I have to pull a Tiger Town. Seems like last night was a good start.

And on the subject of sports, something near and dear to me, did anyone catch the NBA Finals? I watch it only out of obligation to those who no longer play. For Larry, Magic, MJ. And the Spurs looked great. They're a good basketball team. The Cavs looked terrible. Is there a more inept coach than Mike Brown? I think he's still confused over why running a high pick for LeBron didn't work when the man picking was defended by Tim Duncan. Really, I think he's just confused. Clearly he didn't know how to coach a basketball team. What a miserable Finals. I think I might watch an old Celtics game on DVD to inspire my love for the game again.

Also, it's the weekend of the U.S. Open. One of my favorite golf tournaments. Immaculate courses that are ridiculously difficult. Nothing better than a round over par. At least I can relate to the the golfers in this tournament.

Otherwise it's a been an incredibly trying week. Very little sleep. And you know you're tired when you find yourself switching from Bob Dylan's "Stuck In The Middle With You" to Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry" and singing seamlessly between the two.

I think I'll go to Boston...

Won't You Be...

We now live in a neighborhood. Filled with the sounds of cars stopping at stop signs, kids riding their bikes, lawns being cut, wind blowing through tree tops and the distant hum of life moving at that speed that is just too fast sometimes.

We are out of that current now. Settling into our new little home. Tearing out carpet, removing hideous wallpaper, cutting the grass and scrubbing parkay floors in the kitchen (I'm trying to think of a name for the kitchen that pays homage to The Garden, but in a way other than calling it The Garden because I'm pretty sure we'll have an actual garden). There's a lot of work behind us and good deal more in front of us in the coming weeks. More trips to Home Depot -- the most manly thing I've done in some time because changing diapers doesn't elicit that Tim Allen grunt a guy needs every now and then. More yard-work, more housework and more realizing there's a whole lot more work to do.

Then there are the neighbors. Folks. Good people. I wasn't sure what to expect -- perhaps a "Hey diddily ho!" or a "Howdy, neighbor!". I've lived in an apartment complex for 2+ years and didn't know a soul other than the exchange student two doors down who frequently left his door open as he watched the EPL. But so far I've borrowed a couple of trash cans from a man who goes by Coop and have a request in for a ladder from another neighbor who's name I remembered because it was a vacation spot on Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Conversations between strangers are strange in that they are pacifying. They placate the fears of safety. And at the same time they open up obligations that are frightening. Requirements to make future conversations, to offer to help, to take moments to listen to the wind-blown tree-tops and ignore that distant hum.

Superstitions

Those of you who know me, know that I can be a superstitious person. Especially when it comes to my beloved Red Sox -- or really any New England team that's making a run. For the Patriots, I have only one t-shirt. And that t-shirt gets buried at the bottom of my drawer each season. I don't even so much as touch it or even entertain the thought that it is there.

I went into full superstition mode yesterday during Curt Shilling's no-hit bid. Catching only the latter half of the game, I was shocked when the end-of-the-inning scoreboard came up 0 0 1. I turned to the Mrs. sitting with Isaac.

"You know that I'm superstitious about baseball, right?"

Only a look of sarcasm.

"Well, there are some instances during a particular game where it behooves a person to not say anything regarding a certain something during that game."

I didn't use the word "behoove". Though, in a conversation yesterday, I did work in the word diffidence.

"Yes," she replied.

"So if you should see something on the scoreboard and that should elicit a question or two, please don't ask them until later."

Again, didn't use the word elicit.

She consented and we managed to talk around the actual no-hit bid while both eagerly hoping to see one.

I have never seen a no-hitter start to finish. Neither had she. Though her first EVER baseball game she watched, a September match-up between the Red Sox and Yankees in '01, featured Mike Mussina within one-hit of a PERFECT GAME. I had never seen that either. And only with two-strikes on Carl Everett did I begin to root for the feat. Everett broke it up. The only good thing he did with the Sox.

It didn't happen for Schill yesterday. And I was crushed when Stewart broke it up. But I appreciated how the announcers for the Sox acknowledged the 'mentioning-the-no-hitter-jinx' which many announcers find dubious. Though, usually when they begin to discuss their highfalutin view of the dubiousness, the no-hitter proceeds to get broken up. I can count at least two-dozen times I've seen this happen. Anyway, props to Remy and Orsillo for talking around it.

There are some things you just don't talk about during a baseball game. Some things you just don't mention. Some things that are just too glorious that you feel too selfish to even hope for: a five-run rally in the ninth, a perfect game or no-hitter, 4 Home Runs in a game, a game-winning hit. These are things every time you turn on a baseball game you just hope for with everything you got. You pull a Tiger Town.

And sometimes talking about the hope lessens the hope. Puts it in the context of the present reality and makes it seem foolish. Hope is a foolish, foolish thing.

But without it....

Closing Time

A week after the original closing day, closing day has come and gone. The house is now our house. It is our home.

And as for me and my house, we begin tomorrow the re-tooling, refinishing, redecorating portion of owning a home.

As for me and my house, today it became our house.

You Look Nice

In my job, there's not an impetus on looking nice. Very few non-managers wear ties. Walk through the building and you're more likely to see an employee in jeans than a pressed shirt. For me, it's always jeans and a polo shirt -- sometimes even a nice t-shirt.

Today I decided to dress up a little. To tuck my shirt in. To match my belt with nice shoes. To wear a shirt that spends most of it's time on a hanger and not in my drawer. To shave. To not wear a hat. To wear khaki's. I'm not saying I'm dressed to the nines, but I'm considerably dressed up from my usual dressed down look. I even drank tea instead of coffee. Drank it Jean-Luc Picard style.

And I feel better today. I feel more alert. I feel on top of my surroundings, instead of just blending into them in a pair sneakers. My roommate in college stumbled across this phenomenon and for about a month dressed up to go to classes. Even at 8 in the morning. Of course, he could've gotten A's in sweatpants, but he claims he did much better during that time. What stopped it for him? Well, I think it was the week we decided to wear an odd article of clothing around just because (one day it was headphones with the plug hanging loosely at our side; another day it was butt-cut day).

I know there are studies that say dressing up increases productivity. But I've long been of the opinion that comfort takes precedence. I don't think LeBron's doing what he did last Thursday (a top-5 all-time playoff moment behind The Flu Game and Magic's 40+ in '80) in a suit. Of course, I've used this as an excuse to get lazy in my appearance.

For the work-a-day world that's moved from suit and tie to business casual to "as long as you're not naked", I'm beginning to alter my theory on how I should present myself. That I should look my best to be at my best. I realize that's some pretty heavy stuff for a Monday.

See what happens when you tuck in a shirt.