Hard to believe five years ago today I was in a small church in Lewisburg, WV gazing upon the most beautiful sight my eyes had ever seen. My wife. Walking down the aisle. I craned my neck to the right, catching only glimpses of her as she made her way down the aisle. People were standing. I was standing. But I couldn't see.
Moments before I had been in the back room of the church playing blackjack with the minister. The night before I had been playing basketball in the old gym of the medical school with my friends. We then proceeded onto a digital game of monopoly that ended with my brother throwing his controller across the room after someone traded someone else for a monopoly and a player to be named later. A couple of weeks before I had seen my best friend cry as his father served him communion at his own wedding.
There I was, looking directly in front of me but being unable to see her. My entire life I had waited for that moment when my wife would first appear in her dress that had been hidden from me. And now, here I was, shuffling to the side and all but vocally imploring people to sit down so I could see her.
Then she turned the corner, coming around the final pew at the front of the chapel, there was my wife. Hair pulled back tightly. A veil covering her countenance. Flowers in her hand. I saw my wife for the first time. Radiant. Glorious. Beautiful.
It's been five years. Longer at times than others. Tougher at times than others. There have been mountains and valleys, plateaus and sunsets. Unemployment, tests, moments a whole future was riding on, laughter, frustration, more laughter, quiet solitude together, surprises and things you plan for but could never quite believe until it happens. Marriage is an adventure, a journey. T.S. Eliot writes about taking a journey, setting out for years at a time. But the entire point of that journey is to arrive where "you first started, and know it again for the first time."
It's five years later. We are still in that church in West Virginia. I am on the platform. In the audience, standing, is the past five years. Keeping me from seeing all but mere glimpses of you fluttering down the aisle. Then, you turn the corner. And I am seeing you for the first time. You look beautiful.
Happy Anniversary, My Love.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
How To View My Bookshelf
It is one of my favorite things to do when we move: organize my bookshelf. For years I have compiled a small, but respectable amount of books (limited only by space. Until now). There are enough books to fill an entire bookshelf, one that stretches from floor to ceiling. The challenge is always arranging them.
I never have the same arrangement when I move. I don't take the books down in order so that I many put them back up the same way. Much of how my shelf is arranged depends on where the shelf sits in the room, it's overall size and access from other key areas. Also: climate changes are a factor. In the new house, it's located behind the desk, easily visible as you come down stairs and a shelf you walk by when going to the laundry room. You can't miss it.
There are several ways one can arrange a shelf.
1. In alphabetical order, either ascending or descending down the shelf. I detest this method. It shows no care, no love for the books. It proves nothing, other than you know your alphabet. Books should be arranged proving you read them; not arbitrarily by author. It's degrading to them and to your efforts in reading them.
2. By topic. This is a little more typical of many shelves I've come across (indeed it is the first thing I look for and take note of upon visiting a new home: where are their books and what are they). For me, topics include: philosophy, theology, classic literature, sci-fi, a couple of sports books, Calvin and Hobbes. This way shows a little more effort. Shows you put some care into the organization of the shelf. That you remembered what you read enough to place it accordingly. But it's not quite enough.
3. Syntopically. Borrowing from Adler's great work, this is how I elected, this time, to arrange my shelf. Not only are my books arranged by topic, they are arranged by transitioning from topic to topic through a synergy of similar ideas present in the books. In short, in order to 'read' my bookshelf, you've got to understand a little about the books on it.
For example, I've got a philosophy shelf. It goes from left to right from eras (Plato, Aristotle) to subject (several books on moral philosophy) and ends with the Problem of Evil (more than 5 books on the subject). Then, at the end of the shelf I've placed two books by Dostoevsky (Brothers and Crime and Punishment). Unless you've read or are familiar with the books, the transition from the Problem of Evil to The Brothers Karamazov will seem haphazard; trivial.
A couple of shelves above that, where one's eye is even with the shelf, I've included my favorite books, all the, what I believe, are the most enjoyable in my collection. This transitions down the line to three books, the best, not only in my collection, but the best books ever written: Summa Theologica, Orthodoxy, Mere Christianity. Of note, these books have been laid lengthwise, on their backs. An obvious eye catcher because they are laid differently. Like I am saying, look at these books.
On the highest of the shelves, I've include more literary works that are part of my collection, but not necessarily my favorite. In the center of this shelf is the lynch pin, the Rosetta Stone to my arrangement. Lying lengthwise: How To Read a Book. If you've read it you'll understand my madness. If you have not, you'll note the book's significance at the very least because it is laid differently.
Laying on top of this book is something equally important. It's a book a friend gave me at one of the most difficult times in my life. It's not a great work. Not something I recommend really (a very difficult read). But my friend wrote his own words on the inside cover. Those words mean quite a great deal to me. Their impact on me then and now is immense. It is his words belong on my shelf, just above the key to the entire arrangement. In plain view for me to see and be reminded of.
The book is all everyone sees. But I see those words and I remember the day I received it from him in the mail. How I was feeling before and how I felt after. How much strength, encouragement and hope he gave me during a difficult time. How he gave me a book.
That's how you arrange books. Prove you read them. Prove they had an impact on your life. Prove they are more than words or bindings or authors. Prove they are books.
I never have the same arrangement when I move. I don't take the books down in order so that I many put them back up the same way. Much of how my shelf is arranged depends on where the shelf sits in the room, it's overall size and access from other key areas. Also: climate changes are a factor. In the new house, it's located behind the desk, easily visible as you come down stairs and a shelf you walk by when going to the laundry room. You can't miss it.
There are several ways one can arrange a shelf.
1. In alphabetical order, either ascending or descending down the shelf. I detest this method. It shows no care, no love for the books. It proves nothing, other than you know your alphabet. Books should be arranged proving you read them; not arbitrarily by author. It's degrading to them and to your efforts in reading them.
2. By topic. This is a little more typical of many shelves I've come across (indeed it is the first thing I look for and take note of upon visiting a new home: where are their books and what are they). For me, topics include: philosophy, theology, classic literature, sci-fi, a couple of sports books, Calvin and Hobbes. This way shows a little more effort. Shows you put some care into the organization of the shelf. That you remembered what you read enough to place it accordingly. But it's not quite enough.
3. Syntopically. Borrowing from Adler's great work, this is how I elected, this time, to arrange my shelf. Not only are my books arranged by topic, they are arranged by transitioning from topic to topic through a synergy of similar ideas present in the books. In short, in order to 'read' my bookshelf, you've got to understand a little about the books on it.
For example, I've got a philosophy shelf. It goes from left to right from eras (Plato, Aristotle) to subject (several books on moral philosophy) and ends with the Problem of Evil (more than 5 books on the subject). Then, at the end of the shelf I've placed two books by Dostoevsky (Brothers and Crime and Punishment). Unless you've read or are familiar with the books, the transition from the Problem of Evil to The Brothers Karamazov will seem haphazard; trivial.
A couple of shelves above that, where one's eye is even with the shelf, I've included my favorite books, all the, what I believe, are the most enjoyable in my collection. This transitions down the line to three books, the best, not only in my collection, but the best books ever written: Summa Theologica, Orthodoxy, Mere Christianity. Of note, these books have been laid lengthwise, on their backs. An obvious eye catcher because they are laid differently. Like I am saying, look at these books.
On the highest of the shelves, I've include more literary works that are part of my collection, but not necessarily my favorite. In the center of this shelf is the lynch pin, the Rosetta Stone to my arrangement. Lying lengthwise: How To Read a Book. If you've read it you'll understand my madness. If you have not, you'll note the book's significance at the very least because it is laid differently.
Laying on top of this book is something equally important. It's a book a friend gave me at one of the most difficult times in my life. It's not a great work. Not something I recommend really (a very difficult read). But my friend wrote his own words on the inside cover. Those words mean quite a great deal to me. Their impact on me then and now is immense. It is his words belong on my shelf, just above the key to the entire arrangement. In plain view for me to see and be reminded of.
The book is all everyone sees. But I see those words and I remember the day I received it from him in the mail. How I was feeling before and how I felt after. How much strength, encouragement and hope he gave me during a difficult time. How he gave me a book.
That's how you arrange books. Prove you read them. Prove they had an impact on your life. Prove they are more than words or bindings or authors. Prove they are books.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
On Bending It
So Beckham mania has landed in the U.S. Couldn't be more thrilled except that he's playing for the MLS. I was excited years ago when the MLS began. When the Revolution became New England's contribution to American soccer. Then I watched a game. Yup. The Revolution were certainly contributing to American soccer.
I've played soccer since I was five. And there are videos to prove it. Videos that show me slide-tackling the other team at 7 years old. As my sister point out, "You were playing dirty at 7!". And there's some suspect audio of me yelling at a ref. Proud moments on the pitch, let me tell you. The highlight coming when I slid at the ball, over-slid and locked my arm around the ball, rolling over with the ball, and continuing to bring the ball up-field. That's a handball. It's illegal in soccer.
I watched those videos upon my trip to Maine, having heard about their existence for a couple of years. It was thoroughly entertaining. That, along with the running commentary my brother and I provided, critiquing both of our pre-pubescent abilities on the pitch.
There's not much difference between the talent in those videos and the MLS. I represented the future of soccer in America at one point. Proudly, too. But 20 years later, the future of American soccer is still as murky and unclear and as woefully unsteady as my attempt to sell that handball. Beckham will steady the ship. Generate some buzz. And be thoroughly entertaining to watch. Even if he is washed up. Even if this stint with the Galaxy are not much more than Jordan's allegedly playing with the Wizards (I contend that never happened).
My hope is this will bend things for American soccer. Bending it around a wall of mediocrity. Extending the metaphor, this shot doesn't have to even be close to scoring, doesn't have to hit the post or go in, it just needs to bend around the wall.
The future of American soccer is on the other side.
NOTE: My attempt at joining the legions of EPL fans fell miserably short this year. My new cable system gives me La Liga games, primarily only those featuring Real Madrid. But expect more posts on soccer in the future.
I've played soccer since I was five. And there are videos to prove it. Videos that show me slide-tackling the other team at 7 years old. As my sister point out, "You were playing dirty at 7!". And there's some suspect audio of me yelling at a ref. Proud moments on the pitch, let me tell you. The highlight coming when I slid at the ball, over-slid and locked my arm around the ball, rolling over with the ball, and continuing to bring the ball up-field. That's a handball. It's illegal in soccer.
I watched those videos upon my trip to Maine, having heard about their existence for a couple of years. It was thoroughly entertaining. That, along with the running commentary my brother and I provided, critiquing both of our pre-pubescent abilities on the pitch.
There's not much difference between the talent in those videos and the MLS. I represented the future of soccer in America at one point. Proudly, too. But 20 years later, the future of American soccer is still as murky and unclear and as woefully unsteady as my attempt to sell that handball. Beckham will steady the ship. Generate some buzz. And be thoroughly entertaining to watch. Even if he is washed up. Even if this stint with the Galaxy are not much more than Jordan's allegedly playing with the Wizards (I contend that never happened).
My hope is this will bend things for American soccer. Bending it around a wall of mediocrity. Extending the metaphor, this shot doesn't have to even be close to scoring, doesn't have to hit the post or go in, it just needs to bend around the wall.
The future of American soccer is on the other side.
NOTE: My attempt at joining the legions of EPL fans fell miserably short this year. My new cable system gives me La Liga games, primarily only those featuring Real Madrid. But expect more posts on soccer in the future.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
A Moment To Brag
By nature, I'm not a proud person. Not one prone fits of grandeur. Quite aware, under normal circumstances, of my limitations. No self-delusions. Not necessarily humble. But not proud either. So indulge me for a moment.
I've been going back to school for the better part of a year. Originally, it was to garner a Master's in Theology. That changed last fall. I've always felt called to be a writer, or to write in some fashion. Reason number one why I started this Internets adventure. So a degree in theology didn't feel or seem quite right. Seemed rather the safe thing to do. I've always liked theology and philosophy. Always done rather well in classes and discussions on the subject. But my approach to it was never worthy of the analysis true philosophers bring to the table. I argue and think apart from reason. My instincts are more imaginative. Realizing this, and after much prayer (much prayer for I never do anything, apart from swallowing, without praying about it first and can't help but wonder if one did pray before they swallowed would that prevent me from choking but I surmise my choking on my food has more to do with my inability to not talk while eating and less to do with the God of the universe wanting to use the Heimlich Maneuver to teach me a lesson but you never know. Jesus used to cast out demons, maybe he used the Heimlich to do it?) and much discussion with the Mrs., decided to go for a Master's in Creative Writing.
It was hard work, changing horses midstream as the saying goes. Finishing up a philosophy class on the Problem of Evil -- which I never did quite solve -- studying for the GRE and composing about 30 pages of original content (which I discussed long ago). Long story short, I got in to the University of Dayton moments after Isaac was born. On a conditional status -- which was fair seeing as how my only English class in college was on Shakespeare -- meaning I had to complete two undergradute English courses, passing both with a 3.0. Well, I'm well on my way.
Mired in the midst of both classes right now, I've gotten grades back on one class dealing with American Literature. First grade: A-; second grade: A. Both papers received praise from my professor for their insight. My last paper was on The Hamlet by Faulkner. One of the better books I've ever read. In the other class, on British Literature, I'm just setting out, having to read Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. But I feel good about the material.
All of this to say it feels good. Not to be doing so well in the classes (though I am and that does feel rather outstanding), but to be doing something I love. And more so, to feel confirmed with every page I read, write and mull over, that this is what I am called to do. It's rather sublime. Rather mystical. Rather like waking up much earlier and on less sleep than you intended but feeling ever so refreshed. I may not every be good at it -- the boulder might knock me back down the hill quite soon. Not like these authors or their critics. But I enjoy it like they do. And I know that I am supposed to be doing it.
I am "stretching myself in this sea" having "gotten my head into the heavens".
I've been going back to school for the better part of a year. Originally, it was to garner a Master's in Theology. That changed last fall. I've always felt called to be a writer, or to write in some fashion. Reason number one why I started this Internets adventure. So a degree in theology didn't feel or seem quite right. Seemed rather the safe thing to do. I've always liked theology and philosophy. Always done rather well in classes and discussions on the subject. But my approach to it was never worthy of the analysis true philosophers bring to the table. I argue and think apart from reason. My instincts are more imaginative. Realizing this, and after much prayer (much prayer for I never do anything, apart from swallowing, without praying about it first and can't help but wonder if one did pray before they swallowed would that prevent me from choking but I surmise my choking on my food has more to do with my inability to not talk while eating and less to do with the God of the universe wanting to use the Heimlich Maneuver to teach me a lesson but you never know. Jesus used to cast out demons, maybe he used the Heimlich to do it?) and much discussion with the Mrs., decided to go for a Master's in Creative Writing.
It was hard work, changing horses midstream as the saying goes. Finishing up a philosophy class on the Problem of Evil -- which I never did quite solve -- studying for the GRE and composing about 30 pages of original content (which I discussed long ago). Long story short, I got in to the University of Dayton moments after Isaac was born. On a conditional status -- which was fair seeing as how my only English class in college was on Shakespeare -- meaning I had to complete two undergradute English courses, passing both with a 3.0. Well, I'm well on my way.
Mired in the midst of both classes right now, I've gotten grades back on one class dealing with American Literature. First grade: A-; second grade: A. Both papers received praise from my professor for their insight. My last paper was on The Hamlet by Faulkner. One of the better books I've ever read. In the other class, on British Literature, I'm just setting out, having to read Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. But I feel good about the material.
All of this to say it feels good. Not to be doing so well in the classes (though I am and that does feel rather outstanding), but to be doing something I love. And more so, to feel confirmed with every page I read, write and mull over, that this is what I am called to do. It's rather sublime. Rather mystical. Rather like waking up much earlier and on less sleep than you intended but feeling ever so refreshed. I may not every be good at it -- the boulder might knock me back down the hill quite soon. Not like these authors or their critics. But I enjoy it like they do. And I know that I am supposed to be doing it.
I am "stretching myself in this sea" having "gotten my head into the heavens".
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
On The Small Goodbyes
Now that we've officially moved to the other side of Columbus, I'm getting used to new people. The people who are infused in our lives but we don't give much thought to. Of the places I frequent, there is a new Blockbuster, Tim Horton's, Starbucks and Subway that I must familiarize myself with. I must find a new Sam, Norm and Cliff.
But in all the moving, I never officially had my last Frappe, Spicy Italian, Donut or rented my final movie from the places I spent the last two and a half years visiting. And I will miss those people. I will miss Karen, the Blockbuster owner who knew me by name. Who gave me a hard time because I never wanted to sign up for Blockbuster Online because I got movies for free via Discover Card. Who always had an opinion on the movie I was renting. Who got mad at me when I knocked over a shelf. I'll miss one of her managers, Todd who shared a similar taste in movies and who's opinion of movies I came to value.
Then there's the Subway guy. When we talked, he talked about high school basketball. I just listened. Mostly we shared bemused glances because there was always something or someone weird every time we were in there together.
I won't really miss the Tim Horton's people. Every time I got a Boston Creme Donut they took little care in giving it to me. Throwing it into the bag and that inevitably resulted in the chocolate, the best part, getting stuck to the inner linings of the bag. It was a sigh of relief when this morning, from my new TH, I received the same donut in a box. Resulting in an unspoilt layer of chocolate.
I'm not sure what it is or was about these people, but I've come to miss them. Miss that I never got to say goodbye. That I just stopped showing up. Stopped being able to enjoy a conversation with them. They were like characters in a novel I got to know. Then the book ended. There was no final episode. No highlight show. So grand send-off.
These are the small goodbyes. The trifle things that are no more and really weren't much when they were. But in the loss there is a loss of sorts. A loss of the way things were. And that's the toughest of goodbyes.
But in all the moving, I never officially had my last Frappe, Spicy Italian, Donut or rented my final movie from the places I spent the last two and a half years visiting. And I will miss those people. I will miss Karen, the Blockbuster owner who knew me by name. Who gave me a hard time because I never wanted to sign up for Blockbuster Online because I got movies for free via Discover Card. Who always had an opinion on the movie I was renting. Who got mad at me when I knocked over a shelf. I'll miss one of her managers, Todd who shared a similar taste in movies and who's opinion of movies I came to value.
Then there's the Subway guy. When we talked, he talked about high school basketball. I just listened. Mostly we shared bemused glances because there was always something or someone weird every time we were in there together.
I won't really miss the Tim Horton's people. Every time I got a Boston Creme Donut they took little care in giving it to me. Throwing it into the bag and that inevitably resulted in the chocolate, the best part, getting stuck to the inner linings of the bag. It was a sigh of relief when this morning, from my new TH, I received the same donut in a box. Resulting in an unspoilt layer of chocolate.
I'm not sure what it is or was about these people, but I've come to miss them. Miss that I never got to say goodbye. That I just stopped showing up. Stopped being able to enjoy a conversation with them. They were like characters in a novel I got to know. Then the book ended. There was no final episode. No highlight show. So grand send-off.
These are the small goodbyes. The trifle things that are no more and really weren't much when they were. But in the loss there is a loss of sorts. A loss of the way things were. And that's the toughest of goodbyes.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
On The Little Wonders That Still Remain
They've, or, apparently, we've named the new 7 Wonders of the World. Congratulations. You have chosen wisely.
I disagree little with this list. In fact, I don't think I disagree with it at all. There's no denying the architectural masterpieces. Indelible contributions of the genius of man to the sustenance of the human race.
My nomination for this list is Machu Pichu. Though I also like Petra -- as referenced earlier -- but not the group.
But why is it limited to 7? Seems a rather arbitrary number. One for each day of the week? Why not 13? Or 22? Or even 1? If the latter is to be the case, the Pyramids win, hands down. Though the Great Wall has a 'dog in that fight'.
I have been intrigued by architecture since I read The Fountainhead. Awed by it's genius. Fascinated by it as an art form -- an idea I never considered before I read the book.
And while I think it rather sophomoric that we should in some way belittle the other masterpieces on this list because they are the geeks at this architectural prom they just had online, I do believe that voters got it right.
But honestly, how could you get it wrong? It's like being in a room of every flavor of ice cream and asked to pick the best. It's ice cream! There's no such thing as bad ice cream.
Things like this are subjective. I grant you that, beauty in the eye of the beholder and all. But, like Plato posited: beautiful things are beautiful things. And not just because we say they are. But is there a more beautiful sight than this? I say not.
I disagree little with this list. In fact, I don't think I disagree with it at all. There's no denying the architectural masterpieces. Indelible contributions of the genius of man to the sustenance of the human race.
My nomination for this list is Machu Pichu. Though I also like Petra -- as referenced earlier -- but not the group.
But why is it limited to 7? Seems a rather arbitrary number. One for each day of the week? Why not 13? Or 22? Or even 1? If the latter is to be the case, the Pyramids win, hands down. Though the Great Wall has a 'dog in that fight'.
I have been intrigued by architecture since I read The Fountainhead. Awed by it's genius. Fascinated by it as an art form -- an idea I never considered before I read the book.
And while I think it rather sophomoric that we should in some way belittle the other masterpieces on this list because they are the geeks at this architectural prom they just had online, I do believe that voters got it right.
But honestly, how could you get it wrong? It's like being in a room of every flavor of ice cream and asked to pick the best. It's ice cream! There's no such thing as bad ice cream.
Things like this are subjective. I grant you that, beauty in the eye of the beholder and all. But, like Plato posited: beautiful things are beautiful things. And not just because we say they are. But is there a more beautiful sight than this? I say not.
Friday, July 06, 2007
On The Fog
Coming in this morning there was just about every shade of blue imaginable filling the sky. Including the color of my kitchen in the northwest part of the atmosphere. There was also a thick layer of fog settling down around houses, street lamps and baseball fields.
"Ah yah, it was as thick as a pea soup, it was, ah yah."
That's the saying, anyway. Not quite sure how it came about. Pea soup, if you've ever had it, is not exactly a breakfast food, which is the time of day your most likely to come across thick fog. But I can see why other soups aren't used. Wedding Soup, Chicken Noodle Soup, even Broccoli and Cheddar, just don't quite describe the thickness of the fog, nor do they have the same ring to it. 'As thick as Lobster Bisque?' No. Maybe Campbell's could advertise the thickness of their Chunky's brand by trying to re-invent the expression.
We always describe things in terms of other things. Like fog and pea soup. Like the morning sky and my kitchen. But I'm not entirely sure how to describe things as they intrinsically exist.
Besides, my grandfather's expression wouldn't have resonated with me had he waxed on about the opacity and the paradox of the magnificent translucency of the morning fog, dense with vapors of a coming day, yearning to burn off and reveal the hours before us, hours that were hinted at by stray rays of sunlight here and there, sunlight already searing through an otherwise wall of whiteness. One that disappeared the moment you tried to touch it. The future comes to us, we must wait for it to reveal itself. Ah yah.
Pea soup says it much better.
"Ah yah, it was as thick as a pea soup, it was, ah yah."
That's the saying, anyway. Not quite sure how it came about. Pea soup, if you've ever had it, is not exactly a breakfast food, which is the time of day your most likely to come across thick fog. But I can see why other soups aren't used. Wedding Soup, Chicken Noodle Soup, even Broccoli and Cheddar, just don't quite describe the thickness of the fog, nor do they have the same ring to it. 'As thick as Lobster Bisque?' No. Maybe Campbell's could advertise the thickness of their Chunky's brand by trying to re-invent the expression.
We always describe things in terms of other things. Like fog and pea soup. Like the morning sky and my kitchen. But I'm not entirely sure how to describe things as they intrinsically exist.
Besides, my grandfather's expression wouldn't have resonated with me had he waxed on about the opacity and the paradox of the magnificent translucency of the morning fog, dense with vapors of a coming day, yearning to burn off and reveal the hours before us, hours that were hinted at by stray rays of sunlight here and there, sunlight already searing through an otherwise wall of whiteness. One that disappeared the moment you tried to touch it. The future comes to us, we must wait for it to reveal itself. Ah yah.
Pea soup says it much better.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
A Self-Titled Day
Picked up a new CD yesterday. Not a common practice for me these days. Especially since I've discovered the Library -- where I can get all the music I want, for free, and rip it to the computer. I'm very particular about music -- as many of you know. But truth be told, my musical taste reflects my taste in clothes, most notably my penchant for wearing the same jeans over and over again. All this to say, I don't go for much more than what I already have.
But in the recent year I've grown fond of a group called Wilco. It's not music for everyone. Many times, it's hard to listen to. Uneasy on the ears. If it's ever playing when the Mrs. is home I am frequently asked to change the song. It's just not something that plays in the background. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was a pretty darn good album. Slightly over-hyped, though. A Ghost is Born got little play from me. But their newest release, Sky Blue Sky, is something I can listen to at 5:20am on my way to work, with my father-in-law on the way to the Man Store and something the Mrs. will enjoy.
That's not to mistake the album presenting a sort of conforming quality to the tastes of others (i.e. how everyone can listen to Hootie or Chicago), but rather evidence to the musical pallete present on the album and how it pulls from the colors that everyone knows. Those primary colors, the reds, blues and yellows that influence every other color. It's music that's not made much anymore, but music that sounds like it's always existed. Lyrically it reminds me much of ee Cummings and how it dances in and out of a "stream of thought stringing of words". (Don't expect to find "I am an American aquarium drinker/ I assassin down the avenue"-type lyrics. For good or for bad).
Ever have a day that your not sure how to refer to it? Reminds me of how every now and then a band puts out a "Self-Titled" album. And when you try to tell others about it, you're like "Hey check out so-and-so's new album, ______"? Always a challenge. Especially when it's not the group's first album, or the group's latest album.
Anyway, that was yesterday. If I had to tell you about three years from now, I'm not sure how I'd refer to it. Or even if I could. We all have these Self-Titled days.
One thing I will remember about it, it was clear, cool and breezy. And over my head, ringing in my ears, there was this blue sky.
But in the recent year I've grown fond of a group called Wilco. It's not music for everyone. Many times, it's hard to listen to. Uneasy on the ears. If it's ever playing when the Mrs. is home I am frequently asked to change the song. It's just not something that plays in the background. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was a pretty darn good album. Slightly over-hyped, though. A Ghost is Born got little play from me. But their newest release, Sky Blue Sky, is something I can listen to at 5:20am on my way to work, with my father-in-law on the way to the Man Store and something the Mrs. will enjoy.
That's not to mistake the album presenting a sort of conforming quality to the tastes of others (i.e. how everyone can listen to Hootie or Chicago), but rather evidence to the musical pallete present on the album and how it pulls from the colors that everyone knows. Those primary colors, the reds, blues and yellows that influence every other color. It's music that's not made much anymore, but music that sounds like it's always existed. Lyrically it reminds me much of ee Cummings and how it dances in and out of a "stream of thought stringing of words". (Don't expect to find "I am an American aquarium drinker/ I assassin down the avenue"-type lyrics. For good or for bad).
Ever have a day that your not sure how to refer to it? Reminds me of how every now and then a band puts out a "Self-Titled" album. And when you try to tell others about it, you're like "Hey check out so-and-so's new album, ______"? Always a challenge. Especially when it's not the group's first album, or the group's latest album.
Anyway, that was yesterday. If I had to tell you about three years from now, I'm not sure how I'd refer to it. Or even if I could. We all have these Self-Titled days.
One thing I will remember about it, it was clear, cool and breezy. And over my head, ringing in my ears, there was this blue sky.
Monday, July 02, 2007
On Playing Catch
There's a lot that can be said about playing catch. From infancy we are prodded to catch things. If you're a boy, that develops from stuffed plush-toys to baseballs and softballs, footballs and basketballs, and, for some, fish. I've had my own version of catch my brother and I used to play. And it wasn't because regular catch was boring, sometimes a steak just needs a little A1 sauce.
There have been more than a few memorable scenes on television and on the silver screen that involved the playing of catch. Most notably, an entire movie was based around the singular concept of playing catch with Dad. So I don't think I can do much better in romanticizing the particulars on a whole.
But recently my Dad, brother and I played catch in the same street we'd played catch in for years. In front of my Nana's house. Aside from being older, and battling severe tendinitis in my throwing arm, this was not much different. My father, remember I'm 27, was still holding his glove in certain locations, begging me to hit it. Throughout childhood, this was how I learned to aim my throws. Dad wouldn't even move his glove if I was going to miss. And when I did, I had to shag the ball down. Proudly I tell you, this time, I hit the target every time. Thanks, Dad.
A slight addition to this game was the presence of old gloves. Not worn-out discarded remnants of our childhood. Remnants of generations passed. Gloves that looked more like gloves. Leather padding, a small pocket. Gloves that made you feel like playing baseball was like being in the fields, or working in yard, or in woodshop. Gloves that made you feel like you were working with your hands.
They were gloves from my grandfather's childhood. From the 1930s and 40s. And there's only a few ways to catch a ball with these gloves. Which, through trial and error that involved shagging passed balls, my brother and I quickly figured out. Even the "hot-dogging" that comes so easy with 21st century mitts, was nearly impossible. All you could do was use two hands and squeeze the ball when you felt contact. Sometimes it stung. Sometimes it smarted. But there's has yet to be a better way to catch a pop fly than running underneath it and feeling it fall into your leather-bound hand.
Much like an author prefers pen and paper to Microsoft Word, I, the baseball player, prefer to catch a ball this way, with this glove. Even the baseball was "old-world" quality. Not wound as tight. A little deadened. Worn out covering.
We played catch like, for generations, fathers and sons have played catch. And I think, even if we had used our oiled-up, rope bound and car-run-over broken in mitts, not much would have changed about that experience.
Still... There's a lot to be said for an original manuscript.
There have been more than a few memorable scenes on television and on the silver screen that involved the playing of catch. Most notably, an entire movie was based around the singular concept of playing catch with Dad. So I don't think I can do much better in romanticizing the particulars on a whole.
But recently my Dad, brother and I played catch in the same street we'd played catch in for years. In front of my Nana's house. Aside from being older, and battling severe tendinitis in my throwing arm, this was not much different. My father, remember I'm 27, was still holding his glove in certain locations, begging me to hit it. Throughout childhood, this was how I learned to aim my throws. Dad wouldn't even move his glove if I was going to miss. And when I did, I had to shag the ball down. Proudly I tell you, this time, I hit the target every time. Thanks, Dad.
A slight addition to this game was the presence of old gloves. Not worn-out discarded remnants of our childhood. Remnants of generations passed. Gloves that looked more like gloves. Leather padding, a small pocket. Gloves that made you feel like playing baseball was like being in the fields, or working in yard, or in woodshop. Gloves that made you feel like you were working with your hands.
They were gloves from my grandfather's childhood. From the 1930s and 40s. And there's only a few ways to catch a ball with these gloves. Which, through trial and error that involved shagging passed balls, my brother and I quickly figured out. Even the "hot-dogging" that comes so easy with 21st century mitts, was nearly impossible. All you could do was use two hands and squeeze the ball when you felt contact. Sometimes it stung. Sometimes it smarted. But there's has yet to be a better way to catch a pop fly than running underneath it and feeling it fall into your leather-bound hand.
Much like an author prefers pen and paper to Microsoft Word, I, the baseball player, prefer to catch a ball this way, with this glove. Even the baseball was "old-world" quality. Not wound as tight. A little deadened. Worn out covering.
We played catch like, for generations, fathers and sons have played catch. And I think, even if we had used our oiled-up, rope bound and car-run-over broken in mitts, not much would have changed about that experience.
Still... There's a lot to be said for an original manuscript.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
On Having A Home
The move is complete. At least, the part that involved the transfer of everything we owned into the largest thing we've ever owned. There's still much, much work left to be done. "So little to do, so much time." Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. All apologies to my readers, but the blog takes a backseat to that.
It's quite a surreal feeling, owning a home. We've been in and out of our place for the last month: fixing walls, carpeting, washing floors, painting, etc.. But sleeping in the house last night, waking up early this morning and locking the doors as a stepped out into the chilled morning air, I looked out on the neighborhood that had a slight fog settling over it. I was leaving home.
On tap for today is the living room -- setting up all the entertainment related stuff, sofa, chairs and what not. Then it's off to the Man Store to by a grill so we can cook tonight. I'd already planned to get a nice grill sometime this week, but a faux pas on my part resulted in us not having any gas in the house, i.e. no hot water. So in order to avoid eating out for the 15th straight day, it's off to buy a grill. Then tonight, I imagine, we'll grill out, sit on the lawn and enjoy what should be a very nice evening.
Of course, for all that to happen, I have this little thing I must do that will set it all in motion. This simple, but slightly profound exertion on my part. This soon-to-be taken for granted practice. After I leave work: Go Home.
It's quite a surreal feeling, owning a home. We've been in and out of our place for the last month: fixing walls, carpeting, washing floors, painting, etc.. But sleeping in the house last night, waking up early this morning and locking the doors as a stepped out into the chilled morning air, I looked out on the neighborhood that had a slight fog settling over it. I was leaving home.
On tap for today is the living room -- setting up all the entertainment related stuff, sofa, chairs and what not. Then it's off to the Man Store to by a grill so we can cook tonight. I'd already planned to get a nice grill sometime this week, but a faux pas on my part resulted in us not having any gas in the house, i.e. no hot water. So in order to avoid eating out for the 15th straight day, it's off to buy a grill. Then tonight, I imagine, we'll grill out, sit on the lawn and enjoy what should be a very nice evening.
Of course, for all that to happen, I have this little thing I must do that will set it all in motion. This simple, but slightly profound exertion on my part. This soon-to-be taken for granted practice. After I leave work: Go Home.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, June 25, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, June 22, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
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...
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...
Saturday, June 09, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, June 08, 2007
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....
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....
Thursday, June 07, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, June 04, 2007
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.
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.
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