New Boys and New Rules
Fishing poles shouldn’t be allowed in the living room. I admit it. There are places for such things, but there are also times when a living room transforms into a staging area. And that’s what ours was last night. The first camping/fishing expedition with the Stevens’ boys is about to be under way, and we were in the living room … umm … we were in the staging area watching Transformers and gearing up for the next few days with our sons.
Yep. We’re adopting finally. After 12 years of marriage, Ellen and I have found our sons, or they have found us. Elijah and Enoch (10 and 9) have been with us 2 weeks, and after 6 months of doing the foster thing, we can adopt them. So this summer is all about relationship building.
What’s better than camping? To endure rainy, cold, bear-crawly woods together is our method, and building relationship is our goal. And last night we used the living room to gear up for fishing. The boys were bouncing off the walls. Grandpa Yadon was giving knife sharpening lessons. I was putting new line on old reels. And in the midst of it all I had to make some impromptu rules. Here are a few:
Rule #1: No sharpening pocket knives while wearing fishing waders. We’d hate to dull the knife while cutting strips out of our new waders … or legs.
This is what I fear would happen during our "pretending to stab the bad person who really deserved it" fiasco.
Rule #2: Fishing poles are to be pointed downward when inside. How often does someone have to make a rule like this? It seems that our ceiling fan creates a magnetic draw to fishing poles, and the boys couldn’t stop it because “it just happened.”
Rule #3: Knives are tools, not toys. They are are sharp and not to be thrown at someone, to someone, or pretending to stab someone … even if the pretend person really deserved it.
Rule #4: What’s mine is yours … technically. These lures here are yours to “oversee”, while I “oversee” these over here. This pole is the one I use, and these flimsy ones are the ones you use.
Rule #5: Hooks are tools, not toys. They are sharp and not to be thrown at someone, to someone, or pretending to stab someone … even if the pretend person really deserved it.
Rule #6: ”Because I say so” is a valid reason for obedience. I knew this one was coming, and I sounded just like my mom when it so easily rolled off my tongue for the first time. I now understand.
RAD … the dream incubator
In the mid 80’s, after watching the multi-award winning movie, RAD, I wanted to be rad. I carefully reasoned within myself about my future … it was silly to want to be the white Michael Jackson or the new Rocky. I wanted to devote my life to all things BMX and delivering newspapers.
I came home from the theater, pulled my old Schwinn bike out of the garage and began trying to do cherrypickers in the driveway that night. I quickly realized I had to get new equipment. I couldn’t do what the RAD guy did with what I had (no footpegs, no number plate, no hand brakes, no name-brand stickers, no bmx t-shirts, no helmet, no pads, no ramps, no paper route).
I couldn’t do what I wanted to do with what I had. Looking back, I suppose I could race and be a freestyler with what I had, but it was easier on the front end to blame it on the lack of proper equipment. Also looking back, I think this is the dilemma of all males. We just want more gear, for whatever venture we may be into. Our closets and garages are not full of enough gear yet. We always want to be prepared to go pro at something if we ever find that we are actually good at it.
So after laying out my reasoning before my dad, he told me he would buy me a new bike. My newest dream could come true. He took me into the big city of Shreveport to pick out the bike I liked, But when he saw the price tags, and that they were not much better than the bike I had already, he decided to do something different.
Every detail in place, except for the yellow Skyway mags.
When we got home, we had work to do. First, we cleaned the garage. the work we were going to do required room. We set up a “BMX magic area” that was designated to transforming junk into BMX magic.
Dad told me this might take some time, and once we started taking it apart, I wouldn’t have anything to ride. So I was going to have to be committed to this process. I thought about it for 2 seconds, and told him I could walk for the next year if I could have that blue GT with the yellow skyway mags and blue tires.
We brought the Schwinn into the BMX magic area. Dad showed me how to remove the handlebars, the tires, the seat, everything. Together, we stripped the old Schwinn down to its bare, ugly frame and then we began abusing it. We sanded and sanded until we had removed every bit of the old color. Then we went to the paint store and picked out a beautiful GT blue, came home and painted it.
I scrubbed my dirty yellow mags until they looked new again. I cleaned every part that we removed from the old bike. Some old things we had to replace. We bought a new blue tires, grips, a new seat, new crank, a number plate for the handlebars, a new helmet that matched the new blue bike. We bought bearing grease and chain oil. We tweaked the handlebars a bit so they were more freesyle-like, and then the day finally came. We started the process of putting it all back together.
Part by part and piece by piece, the old Schwinn became that GT I had wanted. The transformation was complete. The last thing we put on it was the number plate. Though I had never raced a day in my life, it looked like I was a pro … number 47 (I think). I rode it around the neighborhood in complete victory, though I had won nothing. Friends were jealous, and began asking their dads to make their bikes into GTs. It was a glorious day.
But the next day was not so glorious. I had supposed that having the right gear, and the right bike I could be like the guy in RAD. But my skills had not improved when the bike changed.
After trying cherry-pickers, front foot endos, bar hops, bar spins, and other tricks that seemed so easy on the movie … I limped home with busted elbows and bleeding knees. I hated that bike. After one afternoon of tying the tricks myself …. I was done.
Soon, the GT became just a mode of transportation again. It was not a BMX racer, it was not a freestyle magic machine. I couldn’t do anything on it. The dream had died.
Until I went to the local bike store’s free BMX show. Pro and corporate riders showed up to teach us tricks and show us what bikes are really meant for. Their excellence and grace and pure guts re-ignited a spark in me. I could do this after all! I could be the champion of all things BMX.
I went home and tried the tricks again … and then got into skateboarding.
No one likes you
Obviously this is not our Ladybug ... though their agility levels are similar.
On Sunday, when we were getting things ready at our church, Ladybug was buzzing around humming one of the songs we had been singing in the car. It wasn’t long, and she was outright singing it with her 7 year old vibrato and doing little dance moves that are part football player, part ballet dancer. When she was humming, I recognized the song. The chorus of the song is “There is no one like you”.
Ladybug’s song, “No one likes you!”
And she closes her eyes and sings it with all her heart as she twirls and raises her hands.
Monkeybar is a verb
Our foster daughter, Ladybug, is one of a kind … or so I thought. She has been lumbering around for the last week with a mongo purple goose egg on her head that she got when she was sledding down into another kid. Most of the time, her hair covers the purple knob, but from time to time it emerges to see what’s going on. I think it looks like we removed her unicorn.
I picked her up from school and was holding her hand as we pulled out of the parking lot. Something was inside her hand. This could be gross I thought. You never really know what you’re gonna find in there. So I pried her fingers open and was relieved to only find a blister.
“Squirt, what happened to your hand? This looks really bad”
“Monkeybaring,” she says, like its a word everyone should be familiar with.
And after eating lunch this week with her 1st grade class, I discovered that the monkeybars are indeed the prize of the playground. Kid after kid bragged to me, with pompous pride they inherited from somebody, and they each told me how far they could monkeybar.
I am not AMAZING!?
When you constantly hear a certain exclamation, it becomes moot after a while. And that word around our house is AMAZING! When it is said, there is always an exclamation point afterward, but I’m beginning to catch on to something that I think has had me bamboozled for 11 years. For over a decade, I’d been led to believe I was indeed an AMAZING! man, husband, super hero, etc. But with the entrance of a 6 year old into our lives via foster parenting, I am learning a lot about myself.
It's amazing how much Spring reveals. Our dog has an amazing ability to poop more than she consumes.
Follow my thought process on how this word that used to have a certain meaning of WOW! has now become more like mmm! Not like “Chocolate is good! … Mmmm!” But more like “Oh, that’s nice dear. Now I’m tired of smiling at you with my eyebrows raised, so I am going to look away now.”
Here are a few examples of how AMAZING! has been used lately to slowly dash my self esteem:
- “Mom, Mom, Mom, I have Egyptian makeup on. Aren’t my eyelids blue?” “That’s Amazing! Now wash that off before your social worker gets here.”
- “Thank you so much. You are AMAZING!” This said after someone has finally picked up their boots from the doorway.
- “Okay, I’ll start putting the lid down. Geez!” “Thank you so much. You are AMAZING!”
- “Mom, Mom, Mom, pretend I’m a ballerina dancer who loves dogs and wants to teach dogs to ballereen!” ”You are AMAZING! Now put Abbey down and finish your dinner.”
- When the social worker arrived one sunny summer day, a 6 year old appeared in the doorway as the greeting party. With hand extended, ready for shaking, she said, “I picked up 2 bucketfuls of poop all by myself!” ”Isn’t she AMAZING!? Please, come on in. The sink is this way, and the soap is on the counter next to the bucket. Aren’t you a little early today?”
Day 3 without the Supreme Bean
It is Lent and I among other things, I am sacrificing coffee for the next 40 days. I truly love Jesus, at least that’s what I thought when I decided to deny myself coffee for any amount of time at all. I must confess, for every single fast I’ve done over the last few years, I overlooked a cup or six cups of coffee during the day. I felt like I wouldn’t have the energy to get done each day what I needed to get done. But I’ve decided that, like TS Eliot, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons … and my body needed the break from dark, lovely caffeinated coffee. And some things just won’t get done.
Herbal tea just doesn't cut it. Every great Master Chief has massive amounts of coffee supporting him.
Here’s the spiritual revelation I’ve had so far: a morning without coffee is like sleep. And, it is headache central in my noggin! Yesterday, in the kitchen at my school, someone had the audacity to make coffee while I was in there staring into the coffee pot. And I realized that coffe smells like freshly ground heaven.
On top of it all, I was a bit boring yesterday while teaching. I had no energy to be creative and witty or even move around very much.
And today, just after waking up, I needed a nap. I’ve heard Dave Letterman say of himself that he’d drunk way too much coffee, but if it weren’t for the coffee, he’d have no identifiable personality whatsoever. On this third day of my self-intervention, I too feel like coffee is the great sustainer.
“I’ll quit coffee. It won’t be easy drinking my Bailey’s straight, but I’ll get used to it. It’ll still be the best part of waking up.” ~From the television show Will and Grace
Sleepwalker
This reminds me of people and dogs I know.
Infatuation with flatulation
Above the coffee pot at our church, there is a big piece of tin that has accumulated some refrigerator poetry. Being a church and family of a tight budget, we mainly buy used things … and these poetry kits came from several garage sales over the past few years. Altogether we have collected 2 gallon-sized Ziploc bags, and mishmashed in them is the Dog-lover’s set, the Erotica set, and others that we can’t quite put our finger on.
So why not let the kids, and whosoever, play with them while getting a cup of coffee? We’ve removed some of the erotica words that could cause some premature questions of parents and pastors.
Now, every time I get a cup of coffee, I stand there … reading and chuckling. Just yesterday, some of the girls were face to the wall reading the various sentences and poems that have been strung together by different people in different phases of their poetic life. I came by for a refill of coffee. One poem almost made me spit out my coffee as I was mid-sip.. It wasn’t because it was really that funny. It was because I recognize that I am a very sad man. I am still a little boy who is in awe of bodily noises.
I still giggle like a girl when Ellen’s dad sticks out his hand and with a grin he extends a finger and nods, “Pull.”
Do we ever outgrow the infatuation with flatulation?
Everything’s amazing; nobody’s happy
I miss the unsolicited input from old people I know. Sometimes it’s that rough advice you weren’t looking for that helps you bolster your framework, through which you can really deal with your life.
Being fairly new in Alaska, I’ve not had the opportunity … or taken the opportunity to get to know people outside my age group (+/- 10 years). And I crave input from people my parents would call “sir” or “ma’am”. On the outside, the elderly may just seem like cranky, crochety geezers who smell funny. But slow down and really listen. Some of them have gone kooky from dealing with life; but even that’s a lesson. The sane ones, when they give their input, have wisdom to pour out. It’s not likely you’re going through anything they didn’t go through. Life isn’t so bad. Like Garrison Keillor says, “It could be worse.”
When I saw this clip, it made me think of how one-dimensional I/we have become. He was my old geezer today. His words reminded me that all the things we have and want that are supposed to help us … well … sometimes they ends up making us … punks.
Pat McManus on “Sequences”
Pat McManus has written the funny stories at the back of Outdoor Life magazine for years. One of my favorites is called “Sequences”. In it, he analyzes the chain of events that have to take place for some things to happen. This he labeled “sequences”.
He grew up on a farm and understands that you never just go out and do the work you intended. Ha! First you determine the lengthy sequence of events that must take place just to begin the work, then once you realize the preparatory activites will take so long you will never even get to the job … so you go fishing instead.
He tells a story about his stepdad who always fell prey to the sequences hiding behind every tackle box and guilty pleasure. As they were loading the gear to go fishing, he noticed the fence in the pasture was down. A 20 minute job, he thought. Twenty minutes and they could go fishing. A simple fix.
But he first needed to go over to the Haversteaders and borrow their wire stretcher. But before he could do that he had to go the the Malloys and get his post hold digger that they borrowed, and it was on the way to the Haversteaders. Just then, he realized he was out of fence staples, so after he went to the Malloys to get the post hole digger, he would then go to Jergen’s hardware store for staples, and then go on to the Haversteaders to borrow their wire stretcher.
But just as he was about to head to the Malloys, he remembered that he promised Sam Jergens (at the hardware store) he’d haul him a load of hay bales the next time he came into town. To do that, he’d have to take the truck … which meant he’d first have to go over to LaRoy’s and get the leaky tire that he had taken last week to Laroy to fix. The story just dwindles into an afternoon of … well … sequences.
I, too, have had this pleasure of being acquainted with sequences. And I, too, keep coming to the same conclusion … just go fishing. Unless Ellen is somehow involved in the string of sequences.
Dingalingaling
In the garage today, working on the bike and listening to odd radio stations, I heard a song that made me stop wrenching and just stare at the radio with wide eyes and giggle.
Okay … some background:
Chuck Berry is rock and roll. According to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, no one individual invented rock and roll, but they hold that “Chuck Berry comes the closest of any single figure to being the one who put all the essential pieces together.” John Lennon said: “If you tried to give rock and roll another name, you might call it ‘Chuck Berry’.”
One of Chuck Berry’s most popular songs (even young people know it because of Michael J. Fox in Back To The Future) is “Johnny B. Good”. A Rolling Stone article quoted Joe Perry of Aerosmith as saying about this song in particular, “If you want to play rock & roll, you have to start here.”
But “Johnny B Good” never made it to number 1. A funny thing happened. In and out of jail, on and off the charts, Chuck Berry didn’t have a number 1 hit until 1972 … 24 years after his first album. And in a wierd twist of irony, one of the greatest songwriters of the rock and roll era achieved his only number 1 hit with a sophomoric schoolyard sing-a-long called “My Ding-A-Ling.” It became Berry’s best-selling single ever.
If I were Chuck Berry, I would lie awake at night thinking, “I worked my butt off all my life to change the face of music, and I’m most known for this? “
Music opens many doors in the soul
I burned Kate a bunch of CDs last week, some music by some bands who will remain nameless. Let’s just call them good groups who worship God through music and who are not played on cheesy Christian radio stations. Is that vague enough so I won’t get sued?
She facebooked me about the music, and I was shocked by her response. It is something I’d like to remember, and I’d like others to learn. I got her permission to quote her here …
“It has totally changed my outlook/attitude. I’m getting something out of the christian music that I wasn’t getting with the other music. I am finding that by doing something as simple as turning on the cd player makes my want to pray. I am wanting to talk to God more, and more than that I want to hear him talk back. It is so cool! I had the best day yesterday, and I can’t even tell you why. Instead of looking at the world as a dark, over populated, mess, I have been looking at it thinking to myself ‘I love that person,’ or ‘that person loves me.’
Somehow I am starting to start building myself back up, instead of looking at my life like it is a huge pile of nothing, where everything goes badly.”
This reinforces my theory that music opens many doors in the soul … some good doors … some not so good.
Attempted Sleep-In
The MONSTER got me
We were without warning, without hope of life continuing as it had been. We were asleep, getting the deep snooze that only comes an hour or two before the alarm goes off. But this morning, there would be no alarm. I heard a creak of the floorboards outside the bedroom. Ellen stirred. The door opened slowly, almost silently. And there it stood in the dark morning light … the MONSTER!
Moving toward the weaker of us, it went to Ellen first. She awoke in terror, with it’s foul breath in her face. She didn’t stand a chance, and succumbed to it’s grasp. I pretended to not notice, fake-sleeping until my chance to escape. But i didn’t even make it out of the room before …
When kids are sick
Why is it, when kids are sick … when you have picked them up from school and they looked horribly horrible and vomity … that they can perform the best dance-off ever when they get home?
WHEN DAD DOESN’T LIKE YOUR BIKE!!!
Safety is a huge concern for me. I have 34 years of being the son of an insurance salesman under my belt … which means I’ve heard more horrific stories than I care to tell. The fear of motorcycle is in me … but it is just barely overridden by the love of motorcycle. So when I found a bike that suited my wife’s price range, my next hurdle was safe gear: helmet, armored coat and pants, forcefield, etc.
Jim Blackshear, the guy who is likely responsible for this new hobby, told me I needed to get Barb at Alaska Leather to suit me up. I went and told her m
Dad loves 4 wheels touching the ground.
y dilemma, “My dad doesn’t like the fact that I’m old enough to be out of his house … and he really doesn’t like the fact I have bought and will ride a motorcycle on the street. Considering that, what do you have for me?”
I ended up with a doozy. She called it HIGH-VIZ GREEN. Yeah, it had all the bells and waterproof whistles and shoulder pads, pockets, vents and armor. But it was excruciatingly bright and boxy. I considered one of the more subtle jackets next to it. They were cool. They were like real motorcycle jackets: black, hunky, not violently loud. Dad’s voice was in the back of my head, “DO WANT TO BE SEEN? IT DOESN”T MATTER IF YOU LOOK LIKE SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS! IT WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE, MAYBE!”
In my head, my dad regularly gives insurance/safety/common sense lectures to me, and they are always in bold with exclamation points at the end. I can’t remember one time growing up when he left a note for me on the counter when it wasn’t in ALL CAPS and with ! at the end of each sentence. MOW THE YARD! CLEAN MY TRUCK AFTER YOU USE IT! WHERE IS MY JIGSAW?!!!
Dad’s not a yeller by any means. And he wouldn’t even raise his voice if he came home and found that I had burned down the house. But his eyes spoke simple and clear, like James Earl Jones. All the time growing up, I got the look that said, “I am disappointed, Bud … and that is enough to straighten you up.” He’s always called me Bud. And I always straightened up. I suddenly remember wanting to be spanked as a child, but I was lectured instead. It was slow death.
I suppose this venture into motorcycling is an un-doing of me straightening up, in one category at least. There were 2 other motorcycles in my past; those lovely demons. One I stole and later returned (with a full tank of gas). The other I bought while away at college. I only rode once before being forced to sell it. Dad’s eyes spoke over the phone very loudly that day. I could even sense the CAPS and !!!
That is what I love about my dad. He’s sensible, and he loves me and my family and even my friends enough to sit you down and tell you why what you’ve done or about to do is not so smart. His eyes convey that love too.
Even though his eyes were in Louisiana, his words were in my mind when I bought the Spongebob jacket.
