I suppose it's possible my sense of humor has changed over the years -- although this is never not funny:
but I recall a song that, when I was in college, always had me & my roommate in stitches. It was called "Papa Song", by Phil Keaggy, and what made it funny was the voiceover at the beginning of one of his small children saying "Papa!"
Yeah, I know, I just read that over & it didn't make much sense to me either. The kid did kind of sound like he was weaned on helium, and we always giggled -- in fact, many nights we'd just play that few seconds of the song before we went to bed. I suppose "you had to be there, and also then, and maybe even me" doesn't quite cut it in print.
In any case, as a companion piece to my Mother's Day post (there's still time to send the link to your mom as a special post-Mother's-Day remembrance, if you haven't already!), I'm thinking about dads as the big day arrives. You know, the day where everyone makes a big deal out of dads and there are gifts and dinner out and... well, maybe not. I'm not sure Father's Day is quite as much of a big deal; sometimes it seems a bit like an afterthought to me. I already wrote about this a few years back in my trademark snarky/whimsical style, but since it's summertime I'm in reruns.
I was out shopping for the card for dad this week (observing my own card rules & regulations as laid out in the Mother's Day post), and I noticed a curious theme. Mother's Day cards, of course, are all about "Mom, we love you so much and you're so wonderful and you bring joy to our lives".... all very valid & commendable sentiments.
Many of the Father's Day cards, on the other hand, seemed to cluster around this idea: "Dad, even though you find it hard to say how you feel, we know you really love us." In fact, the ones from sons read more like this -- "Dad, even though we never talk about our feelings, I hope you know I love you."
I've always led the charge against this kind of male stereotype -- and I'm well aware that "Hallmark" comes from the Latin, meaning "cliche" ... but I'm a little hesitant to start painting the picket signs just yet. I'm also aware that cliches get to be cliches from a basis in fact, and maybe I've just seen this scenario actually happen too often in real life to automatically dismiss it as slander.
All I can do is work against it in my own house. I make no claims to parental excellence; I just try to control what I can control (which, believe me, does not always include any of the other residents here): I try to make sure I know my kids better than anyone else in the world, and I let them know every day, a bunch of times a day, exactly how I feel about them.
And, you know, probably 73% of the time or more, that's a good thing.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Public Enemy (Grade) 1
I have probably mentioned that my daughter has possibly more than the standard allotment of personality. As my son is fond of saying (when he’s not shrieking her name at jet-takeoff decibels), “Dad, she’s a rascal, dad.” He has in some ways keen powers of observation, but you don’t have to watch her for long to figure out – if not how her mind works, exactly, definitely toward what end.
The first weekend after she started kindergarten, we received a phone call from her teacher. When she identified herself, my heart sank and I immediately imagined all sorts of issues my girl had gotten into in her three-day educational career. But the teacher immediately put my mind at ease: “She’s already become quite a leader. Some of the other kids are timid about trying new things, but when they see that she’s willing to try anything, it puts them at ease.” So I was relieved and only a bit surprised to find she was using her superpowers for good, rather than for evil.
Since then, the teacher reports have been generally quite glowing… although there have been the occasional incidents of Interpersonal Clash (I may have mentioned as well that she is a junior member of the International Society of Frequently Wrong, But Never In Doubt). In any case, we always experience that delightful jolt of uncertainty when it’s the teacher on the phone – as was the case last week.
This time it was not a plaudit, but instead the news that she had been overheard using… colorful language. It would be impolite of me to specify the color, but suffice it to say it was not a word from her spelling list, not to mention one she hadn’t encountered at home.
And yes, I know that’s what they all say, but although all of us in the house are capable of expressing ourselves with force and clarity, I can say with some assurance that she didn’t hear it here, or at the church.
The teacher hastened to add that she had had a visit with the principal and that she seemed visibly and almost violently remorseful. This is as good a time as any to mention that, especially as former teachers, my wife & I make a practice of backing the teacher to the hilt; we told her that we appreciated her dealing with this swiftly and firmly (this is not a girl, if I have not already made this clear, who does well with a long leash).
When she got home, I waited to see if she’d betray any hint of her ordeal, but when her lips (for once) seemed sealed, I confronted her directly with the Stern, Solemn Talk. I told her that these were not words that she learned or heard or would be permitted to use at home, and that we expected her to behave in a respectful and correct way at all times. I impressed on her the embarrassment attached to going to the principal and having the teacher call home; I know she’s sensitive to being embarrassed. She told me that she was just “repeating” the words – which apparently doesn’t count as “saying” the words – and that she wouldn’t do it again.
When mom arrived, we went through the drill once more – this time with a trifle more, um… emphasis. And this time she revealed something I didn’t know: not only had she employed the word I’d already heard (a relatively junior officer in the Colorful Language Army), but had in fact let loose with the Head Honcho, the dreaded F-bomb. In fact, to prove it, she set one off right then & there in the living room.
My wife was looking at my face when our 6-year-old girl launched it, and she said the color completely drained from me. I have to admit, that was a milestone experience for me, and not in the best possible sense.
Well, washing her mouth out with Clorox seemed inadvisable, so we had to settle for a just-short-of-unhinged lecture and withdrawal of Electronic Privileges (Game Boy, videos, CD player) for one week. And as we all know, there are few more stringent sentences in the modern world than to be unplugged.
I’d like to think that for a normal kid, that would’ve been the end of the story. But in the midst of this, she also slipped in, “By the way, dad, you need to send in money for my cafeteria account.” I knew I’d just sent in money recently, and she’d brought her lunch every day since, so I couldn’t imagine what had happened. I quizzed her: “You’re just getting milk every day – right?” “Yeah, dad, just milk!” When I looked at the check register, I realized I’d sent in $10 one week prior. All I could figure is that maybe the check didn’t make it all the way to be deposited somehow, so I grabbed the phone book to look up the bank’s 800-number so I could find out whether it had cleared.
That’s when she said, “Um, dad, I think I need to tell you the truth about something.” She had been buying a lunch every day, in addition to bringing a lunch with her. I asked her why; was it to be cool or like the other kids? “No, I just like it.”
So in addition to her Electronic Grounding, she also was lunch-grounded the same day: her account was closed, and she was told all she could buy for the rest of the school year was white milk.
Seeing how much she’s testing our parental ingenuity at age 6, it seems to me like I ought to go on amazon.com or eBay or some such place and find out what it takes to pick up an electronic monitoring ankle bracelet. Ought to come in handy right about 2nd grade.
The first weekend after she started kindergarten, we received a phone call from her teacher. When she identified herself, my heart sank and I immediately imagined all sorts of issues my girl had gotten into in her three-day educational career. But the teacher immediately put my mind at ease: “She’s already become quite a leader. Some of the other kids are timid about trying new things, but when they see that she’s willing to try anything, it puts them at ease.” So I was relieved and only a bit surprised to find she was using her superpowers for good, rather than for evil.
Since then, the teacher reports have been generally quite glowing… although there have been the occasional incidents of Interpersonal Clash (I may have mentioned as well that she is a junior member of the International Society of Frequently Wrong, But Never In Doubt). In any case, we always experience that delightful jolt of uncertainty when it’s the teacher on the phone – as was the case last week.
This time it was not a plaudit, but instead the news that she had been overheard using… colorful language. It would be impolite of me to specify the color, but suffice it to say it was not a word from her spelling list, not to mention one she hadn’t encountered at home.
And yes, I know that’s what they all say, but although all of us in the house are capable of expressing ourselves with force and clarity, I can say with some assurance that she didn’t hear it here, or at the church.
The teacher hastened to add that she had had a visit with the principal and that she seemed visibly and almost violently remorseful. This is as good a time as any to mention that, especially as former teachers, my wife & I make a practice of backing the teacher to the hilt; we told her that we appreciated her dealing with this swiftly and firmly (this is not a girl, if I have not already made this clear, who does well with a long leash).
When she got home, I waited to see if she’d betray any hint of her ordeal, but when her lips (for once) seemed sealed, I confronted her directly with the Stern, Solemn Talk. I told her that these were not words that she learned or heard or would be permitted to use at home, and that we expected her to behave in a respectful and correct way at all times. I impressed on her the embarrassment attached to going to the principal and having the teacher call home; I know she’s sensitive to being embarrassed. She told me that she was just “repeating” the words – which apparently doesn’t count as “saying” the words – and that she wouldn’t do it again.
When mom arrived, we went through the drill once more – this time with a trifle more, um… emphasis. And this time she revealed something I didn’t know: not only had she employed the word I’d already heard (a relatively junior officer in the Colorful Language Army), but had in fact let loose with the Head Honcho, the dreaded F-bomb. In fact, to prove it, she set one off right then & there in the living room.
My wife was looking at my face when our 6-year-old girl launched it, and she said the color completely drained from me. I have to admit, that was a milestone experience for me, and not in the best possible sense.
Well, washing her mouth out with Clorox seemed inadvisable, so we had to settle for a just-short-of-unhinged lecture and withdrawal of Electronic Privileges (Game Boy, videos, CD player) for one week. And as we all know, there are few more stringent sentences in the modern world than to be unplugged.
I’d like to think that for a normal kid, that would’ve been the end of the story. But in the midst of this, she also slipped in, “By the way, dad, you need to send in money for my cafeteria account.” I knew I’d just sent in money recently, and she’d brought her lunch every day since, so I couldn’t imagine what had happened. I quizzed her: “You’re just getting milk every day – right?” “Yeah, dad, just milk!” When I looked at the check register, I realized I’d sent in $10 one week prior. All I could figure is that maybe the check didn’t make it all the way to be deposited somehow, so I grabbed the phone book to look up the bank’s 800-number so I could find out whether it had cleared.
That’s when she said, “Um, dad, I think I need to tell you the truth about something.” She had been buying a lunch every day, in addition to bringing a lunch with her. I asked her why; was it to be cool or like the other kids? “No, I just like it.”
So in addition to her Electronic Grounding, she also was lunch-grounded the same day: her account was closed, and she was told all she could buy for the rest of the school year was white milk.
Seeing how much she’s testing our parental ingenuity at age 6, it seems to me like I ought to go on amazon.com or eBay or some such place and find out what it takes to pick up an electronic monitoring ankle bracelet. Ought to come in handy right about 2nd grade.
Monday, May 11, 2009
M Is for...
In American culture, there are all sorts of traditions around Mother's Day. For those of us in geographical proximity to mom, brunch seems quite common, and the local restaurants oblige with high-priced spreads (I saw one place that advertised Mother's Day Brunch and Drink Specials, just in case your family tradition includes getting Mom hammered). Hallmark, of course, is founded upon this kind of occasion -- and it's important to go for the real thing. If you send Mom an American Greetings card, all you're doing is saving yourself the ink for writing inside, "Hi Mom, I threw this in the cart while I was at the grocery store!" And if you use one of the "funny" American Greetings, you weren't at the grocery store, you were at the dollar store (Don't even get me started on those 99-cent cards... which send the clear message: "You haven't changed my old bedroom into an office yet, have you, mom??").
When in doubt, go for Hallmark: the ones that are about as big as a manila envelope, with a flower on the front and that translucent "cover page" on the front. If it has a paper insert inside the card with the words printed on it, so much the better.
Anyway, those of us in the church will recognize another Mother's Day tradition: the mom-centered anthem (this was not quite what I had in mind, but apparently it was for Google). They are usually, let's say, not quite as musically exemplary as the anthems for the week before and the week after. This year's selection here was probably a cut above the average: Honor Thy Father andThy Mother, from a composer I generally enjoy.
It got me thinking about what that phrase -- well, it's not just a "phrase", I guess -- really means. Obviously first it means exactly what the casual reader would suppose: be respectful to your parents. Treat them with honor, and even assume that they know what they're talking about (this is one I'd especially like to impress on my daughter; her default response when I say anything factual to her is "No!" This is age 6, so I'm not really looking forward to 14 or so). Twain said it a long time ago... or maybe not.
But especially for those of us who have gotten past the Teenage Retort stage, I think there's a wider view: honoring your parents also means bringing honor to the name they passed on to you, making sure that the way you live your life and the decisions you make reflect well on them -- even if they're not really getting the credit/blame any more.
And even if you can't fit it into a manila envelope.
When in doubt, go for Hallmark: the ones that are about as big as a manila envelope, with a flower on the front and that translucent "cover page" on the front. If it has a paper insert inside the card with the words printed on it, so much the better.
Anyway, those of us in the church will recognize another Mother's Day tradition: the mom-centered anthem (this was not quite what I had in mind, but apparently it was for Google). They are usually, let's say, not quite as musically exemplary as the anthems for the week before and the week after. This year's selection here was probably a cut above the average: Honor Thy Father andThy Mother, from a composer I generally enjoy.
It got me thinking about what that phrase -- well, it's not just a "phrase", I guess -- really means. Obviously first it means exactly what the casual reader would suppose: be respectful to your parents. Treat them with honor, and even assume that they know what they're talking about (this is one I'd especially like to impress on my daughter; her default response when I say anything factual to her is "No!" This is age 6, so I'm not really looking forward to 14 or so). Twain said it a long time ago... or maybe not.
But especially for those of us who have gotten past the Teenage Retort stage, I think there's a wider view: honoring your parents also means bringing honor to the name they passed on to you, making sure that the way you live your life and the decisions you make reflect well on them -- even if they're not really getting the credit/blame any more.
And even if you can't fit it into a manila envelope.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Face the Virtual Nation
Some time back, I mentioned to my niece -- as I have to virtually every living creature I encounter -- that I was writing a blog (this was way back when I was actually, you know, posting something once in awhile). She said, "Oh, on your MySpace page?"
I had to admit that I didn't have a MySpace page; I didn't add that I felt I was being pretty hip just to have a blog. Now, I'm not going to beat into the ground the extent of my non-hipitude; I've been over that ground before and it may fall pretty well into the dog-bites-man category anyway. But I've always been at least a wee bit (sometimes less wee) behind the times, even on techie-related stuff. I'm certainly not a rusher-into-things by nature.
I had actually been thinking a bit about Twitter recently. You can't turn on the TV or pick up a magazine without encountering a Twitter reference -- even the sports mags are talking about who's Tweeting (and sometimes when). And it did kind of appeal to me because there are times I have something brief I'd like to say; it doesn't seem quite like a whole blog post, but it would be nice to put it out somewhere (usually it's a joke or maybe something that strikes me weird on TV or in the newspaper).
Still, I was kind of waiting it out; I wasn't sure if I could keep two Webby things going and I was a little worried about that little touch of OCD I have: would I be Tweeting every hour on the hour?
As I pondered, I got a comment right here on this blog from a friend I hadn't heard from in 25 years. I wanted to contact her back and catch up, so I googled her & discovered she had a Facebook page. Well, since Facebook has more or less been supplanted by Twitter in the public consciousness (I'm sure that Entertainment Weekly would call it "5 Minutes Ago"), that really makes it right up my alley.
So I got myself a Facebook page and started hunting down people from my life both past and present. One of the really difficult aspects of Facebook, especially when you're a newcomer, is that you have to ask people to add you as a friend, and then wait to see if they do. I made sure to add a little personal message, in some cases almost a "hey, I'm not really stalking you" kind of vibe. Nevertheless, sometimes you don't hear back so you have to ask yourself: did they decide to Ignore me, or are they just not very active users?
Then after I connected with a few people from college, I started to hear from their friends -- often people I'd recognize, but not necessarily close friends even back in the day. Then I was on the responding side and had to decide: do I accept people I don't have a close connection with? It was a lot like going to a reunion and trying to decide where to sit.
On the other hand, at the reunion, if I sit down I'm obligated to make small talk... in the online reunion, we've essentially all agreed that we'll eavesdrop on each other but we don't necessarily need to speak directly to each other. So sure, if you want to listen to me on those terms, come on aboard! And I quickly realized as well that I could potentially pick up a few new readers for the blog.
The bad news: I'm every bit as compulsive about checking my page as I feared I was going to be. Several times a day, most days, I check to see if anyone's posted something of interest, or has commented on one of my Major Pronouncements. It's a little like hanging around the ballfield waiting to be picked; at least I can't see anyone else's home page and discover they've hidden my posts.
I suspect I've probably repurposed a few of my formerly blog-dedicated brain cells (although not to tremendous benefit so far -- I'm not sure I've really advanced the cause of online literature with my contributions to date). But you know I'll keep trying to find the groove; first of all, I'm a sucker for connecting with my past, and the majority of my Friends so far come from my prior experiences. But mostly it's another chance, just like this is, to talk and hope that someone out there is actually listening.
I had to admit that I didn't have a MySpace page; I didn't add that I felt I was being pretty hip just to have a blog. Now, I'm not going to beat into the ground the extent of my non-hipitude; I've been over that ground before and it may fall pretty well into the dog-bites-man category anyway. But I've always been at least a wee bit (sometimes less wee) behind the times, even on techie-related stuff. I'm certainly not a rusher-into-things by nature.
I had actually been thinking a bit about Twitter recently. You can't turn on the TV or pick up a magazine without encountering a Twitter reference -- even the sports mags are talking about who's Tweeting (and sometimes when). And it did kind of appeal to me because there are times I have something brief I'd like to say; it doesn't seem quite like a whole blog post, but it would be nice to put it out somewhere (usually it's a joke or maybe something that strikes me weird on TV or in the newspaper).
Still, I was kind of waiting it out; I wasn't sure if I could keep two Webby things going and I was a little worried about that little touch of OCD I have: would I be Tweeting every hour on the hour?
As I pondered, I got a comment right here on this blog from a friend I hadn't heard from in 25 years. I wanted to contact her back and catch up, so I googled her & discovered she had a Facebook page. Well, since Facebook has more or less been supplanted by Twitter in the public consciousness (I'm sure that Entertainment Weekly would call it "5 Minutes Ago"), that really makes it right up my alley.
So I got myself a Facebook page and started hunting down people from my life both past and present. One of the really difficult aspects of Facebook, especially when you're a newcomer, is that you have to ask people to add you as a friend, and then wait to see if they do. I made sure to add a little personal message, in some cases almost a "hey, I'm not really stalking you" kind of vibe. Nevertheless, sometimes you don't hear back so you have to ask yourself: did they decide to Ignore me, or are they just not very active users?
Then after I connected with a few people from college, I started to hear from their friends -- often people I'd recognize, but not necessarily close friends even back in the day. Then I was on the responding side and had to decide: do I accept people I don't have a close connection with? It was a lot like going to a reunion and trying to decide where to sit.
On the other hand, at the reunion, if I sit down I'm obligated to make small talk... in the online reunion, we've essentially all agreed that we'll eavesdrop on each other but we don't necessarily need to speak directly to each other. So sure, if you want to listen to me on those terms, come on aboard! And I quickly realized as well that I could potentially pick up a few new readers for the blog.
The bad news: I'm every bit as compulsive about checking my page as I feared I was going to be. Several times a day, most days, I check to see if anyone's posted something of interest, or has commented on one of my Major Pronouncements. It's a little like hanging around the ballfield waiting to be picked; at least I can't see anyone else's home page and discover they've hidden my posts.
I suspect I've probably repurposed a few of my formerly blog-dedicated brain cells (although not to tremendous benefit so far -- I'm not sure I've really advanced the cause of online literature with my contributions to date). But you know I'll keep trying to find the groove; first of all, I'm a sucker for connecting with my past, and the majority of my Friends so far come from my prior experiences. But mostly it's another chance, just like this is, to talk and hope that someone out there is actually listening.
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Landlord
A veteran baseball executive was asked some years ago (on live TV, no less) why there were so few black managers and executives in the major leagues. He answered that blacks lack the "necessities" for management; despite fervent testimonials from his friends of all races, and a sneaking suspicion that he had probably meant "prerequisites" (i.e., experience), he was essentially out of a job before he finished the sentence.
I am pretty sure that I lack the necessities, in this case probably related to a second X chromosome, to explain the wreath on our front door. Let me hasten to clarify: it's not a Christmas wreath. That, actually, I could explain with ease -- it's not entirely unheard-of that a Christmas decoration might be left a tad out of season by our Outdoor Decor Management staff.
I can't honestly say the wreath is particularly spring-y either, although clearly my genetically-impaired opinon can't be fully credited. To me, it's... well, it's a circle made up of twisted-up plastic stuff. You might not want to use that description when you visit your local wreath retailer in search of a duplicate.
I tolerate it because first of all, you have to pick your battles (and could there be any more inspiring marital advice than that?); but mostly because what little time I spend on the front steps is generally facing away from the door. It's not like it's hanging over my desk or anything.
At least one local resident has expressed unqualified approval, however. One morning as I stepped out to grab the newspaper, I found a handful of dead grass and leaves half-nestled in the middle; other times, opening the door has precipitated a flurry of wings and avian grumbling, as a little feathered construction worker is interrupted mid-task.
Every morning we've been checking for building progress, and throwing away whatever we find there in the hopes that the prospective tenant would give up and try one of the trees nearby. Regrettably, the epithet "birdbrain" does have a basis in fact, as it appears he can't take a hint. And he even got some small measure of revenge one day as I came abruptly up the steps and scared him off -- he nearly parted my hair as he went.
A couple of days ago when I checked for twigs, I found instead a signed lease: there was a perfectly symmetrical and complete nest tucked in there. And while I could try to disrupt construction progress, I didn't have the heart to demolish a completed dwelling. Before we knew it... there were eggs in the nest.
So if you're planning to come see us over the next several weeks, you'll have to either come through the garage... or wait till summer.
I am pretty sure that I lack the necessities, in this case probably related to a second X chromosome, to explain the wreath on our front door. Let me hasten to clarify: it's not a Christmas wreath. That, actually, I could explain with ease -- it's not entirely unheard-of that a Christmas decoration might be left a tad out of season by our Outdoor Decor Management staff.
I can't honestly say the wreath is particularly spring-y either, although clearly my genetically-impaired opinon can't be fully credited. To me, it's... well, it's a circle made up of twisted-up plastic stuff. You might not want to use that description when you visit your local wreath retailer in search of a duplicate.
I tolerate it because first of all, you have to pick your battles (and could there be any more inspiring marital advice than that?); but mostly because what little time I spend on the front steps is generally facing away from the door. It's not like it's hanging over my desk or anything.
At least one local resident has expressed unqualified approval, however. One morning as I stepped out to grab the newspaper, I found a handful of dead grass and leaves half-nestled in the middle; other times, opening the door has precipitated a flurry of wings and avian grumbling, as a little feathered construction worker is interrupted mid-task.
Every morning we've been checking for building progress, and throwing away whatever we find there in the hopes that the prospective tenant would give up and try one of the trees nearby. Regrettably, the epithet "birdbrain" does have a basis in fact, as it appears he can't take a hint. And he even got some small measure of revenge one day as I came abruptly up the steps and scared him off -- he nearly parted my hair as he went.
A couple of days ago when I checked for twigs, I found instead a signed lease: there was a perfectly symmetrical and complete nest tucked in there. And while I could try to disrupt construction progress, I didn't have the heart to demolish a completed dwelling. Before we knew it... there were eggs in the nest.
So if you're planning to come see us over the next several weeks, you'll have to either come through the garage... or wait till summer.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Going Through a Much Rougher Spell
I read a quote not long ago that really stuck with me. I'm sure I'd heard it before, but this time I guess it just hit me right. It's from Faulkner -- and you have to admit, that's a lot classier than quoting, I don't know, "Stripes" or something.
The quote is, "The past isn't dead. It isn't even past." I find that to be particularly true for the parts of our past (or my past) that didn't play out the way we wished the first time around. While I have little enough imagination that I occasionally repeat myself... I find that I have already made a couple of previous references to something that happened to me a mere 36 years ago. So at least that part of my past certainly isn't past, but I'm really hoping that another 36 years will do it.
I'm going to just close my eyes and plunge into this. When I was in 6th grade, I represented my elementary school in the city-wide spelling bee. At that time I viewed myself as a budding genius, always in heated competition with Bridget Witbeck to determine which of us was the smartest in the class (of course it's completely possible someone else entirely was actually the smartest, but we were clearly the two most successful students). And while I must admit I have learned the limits of my not necessarily gargantuan intellect, one thing at which I have always been really excellent is spelling. Couple a fanaticism for reading with a just slightly obsessive-compulsive personality and what you end up with is a decent speller.
While I was nervous about performing, I was fairly confident that I would do well, and I started strong enough... I guess. While I must've won the school-wide contest to get there, and must've gotten something right once I did, I can remember absolutely none of that. I do, however, recall with Technicolor clarity the immensity of my eventual failure.
I've been willing over the life of this blog to humiliate myself a bit here and there in the pursuit of a laugh or a lesson, but all I'm willing to say is that it was a word I knew well but for some reason it didn't sound right to me. Somehow I couldn't make sense out of it and... well, if the contest had been for coming the farthest from the correct spelling, I would've had a decent shot. I'm just hoping that I will understand and/or come to terms with it before I die (the good news is, it's only been 36 years so far).
When I heard that our local library was co-sponsoring a spelling bee for adults, my heart leapt. I thought it sounded fun, I believed I had a shot at winning -- and I sensed an opportunity to undo one of my life's disappointments. I steeled myself ahead of time against the possibility of losing, but I promised myself I would not lose on a word I knew.
Arriving at the library at the specified time, I figured I might be in the wrong place: there were maybe a dozen people in an auditorium that seats 140. I quickly identified my principal rival, a tall, gray-haired woman who looked like one of those people who's always carrying around a big thick book in a sensible tote bag. I was soon to find that in our entire "metropolitan" area, there were only eight souls brave/geeky enough to show up for a spelling bee.
They lined us up in the front row, and I ended up quite by accident in the "coveted" lead-off position. Each of us stood in turn, got a word, had to repeat it and then spell it. The first round was clean, but two bombed the second round and three crashed & burned the second time around -- so there were three of us left. The first three rounds, with my words in bold and the misspelled words in italics:
cumulative, acoustics, precipice, blasphemous, sophisticated, tuberculosis, vaudeville, stenographer, affiliated, decadence, grimace, furlough, clientele, overwrought, conglomerate, silhouette, harangue, scuttlebutt, vociferous, symbiosis, bailiwick, toxicologist.
I was frankly a little surprised that the words weren't harder -- although I was thrilled to note that I knew how to spell all of them.
I kicked off the fourth round with facilitate; I noted that the middle of the word was a little tricky with alternating vowels/consonants, so I carefully negotiated it and made ready to sit down... only to hear, "I'm sorry, that's incorrect." The moderator said, "it's f-a-c"; I looked at him in complete shock and said, "That's what I said!" He replied, "No, you said f-e-c". I looked around and people were nodding -- yup, you said "f-e-c".
I was completely dumbfounded. As I said later, I would have testified in court that I said f-a-c. All I can think is that I was concentrating so hard on the middle of the word that I wasn't paying attention to what I said at the beginning and just misspoke.
The competition went on: facilitate (F-A-C-I-L-I-T-A-T-E), derelict, ikebana (both remaining contestants got this one wrong), fledgling, epidermis. The winner: the tall, gray-haired woman. I was appalled to note that I actually knew how to spell every single word in the entire contest, and still finished third.
I think, however, I might have cheerfully finished last (well, OK, maybe not last) -- if I had only met my single, solitary stated objective for the day. But of course, in making that my focus, I probably made it inevitable that I would lose focus on the words themselves.
What I can say for nearly certain is that in about 11 1/2 months -- or only 37 years from the original precipitating event -- I will be back in the same auditorium to try it again. In fact, I may just plant my sleeping bag in the hallway now.
The quote is, "The past isn't dead. It isn't even past." I find that to be particularly true for the parts of our past (or my past) that didn't play out the way we wished the first time around. While I have little enough imagination that I occasionally repeat myself... I find that I have already made a couple of previous references to something that happened to me a mere 36 years ago. So at least that part of my past certainly isn't past, but I'm really hoping that another 36 years will do it.
I'm going to just close my eyes and plunge into this. When I was in 6th grade, I represented my elementary school in the city-wide spelling bee. At that time I viewed myself as a budding genius, always in heated competition with Bridget Witbeck to determine which of us was the smartest in the class (of course it's completely possible someone else entirely was actually the smartest, but we were clearly the two most successful students). And while I must admit I have learned the limits of my not necessarily gargantuan intellect, one thing at which I have always been really excellent is spelling. Couple a fanaticism for reading with a just slightly obsessive-compulsive personality and what you end up with is a decent speller.
While I was nervous about performing, I was fairly confident that I would do well, and I started strong enough... I guess. While I must've won the school-wide contest to get there, and must've gotten something right once I did, I can remember absolutely none of that. I do, however, recall with Technicolor clarity the immensity of my eventual failure.
I've been willing over the life of this blog to humiliate myself a bit here and there in the pursuit of a laugh or a lesson, but all I'm willing to say is that it was a word I knew well but for some reason it didn't sound right to me. Somehow I couldn't make sense out of it and... well, if the contest had been for coming the farthest from the correct spelling, I would've had a decent shot. I'm just hoping that I will understand and/or come to terms with it before I die (the good news is, it's only been 36 years so far).
When I heard that our local library was co-sponsoring a spelling bee for adults, my heart leapt. I thought it sounded fun, I believed I had a shot at winning -- and I sensed an opportunity to undo one of my life's disappointments. I steeled myself ahead of time against the possibility of losing, but I promised myself I would not lose on a word I knew.
Arriving at the library at the specified time, I figured I might be in the wrong place: there were maybe a dozen people in an auditorium that seats 140. I quickly identified my principal rival, a tall, gray-haired woman who looked like one of those people who's always carrying around a big thick book in a sensible tote bag. I was soon to find that in our entire "metropolitan" area, there were only eight souls brave/geeky enough to show up for a spelling bee.
They lined us up in the front row, and I ended up quite by accident in the "coveted" lead-off position. Each of us stood in turn, got a word, had to repeat it and then spell it. The first round was clean, but two bombed the second round and three crashed & burned the second time around -- so there were three of us left. The first three rounds, with my words in bold and the misspelled words in italics:
cumulative, acoustics, precipice, blasphemous, sophisticated, tuberculosis, vaudeville, stenographer, affiliated, decadence, grimace, furlough, clientele, overwrought, conglomerate, silhouette, harangue, scuttlebutt, vociferous, symbiosis, bailiwick, toxicologist.
I was frankly a little surprised that the words weren't harder -- although I was thrilled to note that I knew how to spell all of them.
I kicked off the fourth round with facilitate; I noted that the middle of the word was a little tricky with alternating vowels/consonants, so I carefully negotiated it and made ready to sit down... only to hear, "I'm sorry, that's incorrect." The moderator said, "it's f-a-c"; I looked at him in complete shock and said, "That's what I said!" He replied, "No, you said f-e-c". I looked around and people were nodding -- yup, you said "f-e-c".
I was completely dumbfounded. As I said later, I would have testified in court that I said f-a-c. All I can think is that I was concentrating so hard on the middle of the word that I wasn't paying attention to what I said at the beginning and just misspoke.
The competition went on: facilitate (F-A-C-I-L-I-T-A-T-E), derelict, ikebana (both remaining contestants got this one wrong), fledgling, epidermis. The winner: the tall, gray-haired woman. I was appalled to note that I actually knew how to spell every single word in the entire contest, and still finished third.
I think, however, I might have cheerfully finished last (well, OK, maybe not last) -- if I had only met my single, solitary stated objective for the day. But of course, in making that my focus, I probably made it inevitable that I would lose focus on the words themselves.
What I can say for nearly certain is that in about 11 1/2 months -- or only 37 years from the original precipitating event -- I will be back in the same auditorium to try it again. In fact, I may just plant my sleeping bag in the hallway now.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Under the Spell
Just this past weekend, I was faced with an agonizing choice: take my son to see a high school musical (no, not the High School Musical), or spend the afternoon cleaning the basement.
I'm not sure how long the Jeopardy theme lasts, not that I'm planning to pay royalties to Merv Griffin's estate... but let's just say the decision didn't take that long.
Start with the fact that I am myself the veteran of a number of stage musicals -- anyone who knows me even casually would probably guess that. Add the twist that the show was being presented by my alma mater. Plus, the wife is not so much a fan of the melodic arts (and besides, she was On Duty for the school project we've been trying really hard to pretend was not coming around again via child #2), so if one of us was taking the boy, it figured to be me. In addition, I kind of "collect" classic musicals, and this was one I'd never seen... and for the clincher, it was Godspell.
When you put all of that together, what you end up with is yet another of those perfect storm situations -- or as I often say, if nothing else, I'll get a blog out of it.
I'm probably fortunate that they've redesigned my high school to the extent that the interior is pretty much unrecognizable; there's only so much sensory input I can process at once, and nostalgia all by itself tends to blow my circuit breakers. Still, the auditorium hadn't changed much, so I got an instant zing walking down the aisle.
Before the show, we got an orientation from the director, pointing out that the basic book (script) is meant to be supplemented with more current cultural references (it was written almost 40 years ago, after all). And indeed there were enough extra "bits" that it threatened to veer into Monty Python territory at times, but it mostly all worked as part of the atmosphere.
You can see that, as usual, I was dealing with the Curse of the Blogger -- the affliction wherein I can't really just experience anything for itself. I'm always a little bit outside myself... asking, "Am I enjoying this? Is this really good? What's it like for the people involved?"
I should note, this didn't come about as a result of the blog; if anything, it's the cause. I like to think, at least, that it helps me develop more of a unified 'storyline' to the topics I write about, and maybe even dig out the essence or most important/interesting aspects of an event. However, it can also be kind of a pain in the keister to never quite be all the way in the moment.
I could almost feel the different parts of my brain firing simultaneously as we reached the show's climax. I had been wondering throughout: what's it like for a bunch of "random" high schoolers to be in a show based on the words of Jesus? Did any of the words get through? Were any of them more curious about discipleship than before they started?
At the same time I was also mindful of the experience of putting on a show, keeping an audience's attention, getting applause -- the rush of entertaining; but also the sort of foreboding that comes during the last show, as the intense experience you've been sharing for so many weeks is about to come to an end.
The emotional high point of the show is when Jesus is crucified -- symbolically, not violently, but it's still a wrenching moment. And much of the cast was crying or near tears. I wondered... are they just really good actors? Maybe some of them are painfully aware that in 10 minutes the show will be over forever. Or... could it be that one or more of the kids up there is being overwhelmed by the truth of the gospel?
Hard to say from my vantage point. But it's kind of ironic that keeping myself "outside" the show really worked to draw me in, to really feel what the cast members must've been feeling -- both the performance experience and the true majesty of the story. And as the triumphant conclusion unfolded to the strains of "Long Live God", and then the cast returned laughing and crying at once for the encore, I paused for a moment (choking back my own tears) to pray for the hearts of a group of kids, that they would always contain all the words they had spoken and sung.
I'm not sure how long the Jeopardy theme lasts, not that I'm planning to pay royalties to Merv Griffin's estate... but let's just say the decision didn't take that long.
Start with the fact that I am myself the veteran of a number of stage musicals -- anyone who knows me even casually would probably guess that. Add the twist that the show was being presented by my alma mater. Plus, the wife is not so much a fan of the melodic arts (and besides, she was On Duty for the school project we've been trying really hard to pretend was not coming around again via child #2), so if one of us was taking the boy, it figured to be me. In addition, I kind of "collect" classic musicals, and this was one I'd never seen... and for the clincher, it was Godspell.
When you put all of that together, what you end up with is yet another of those perfect storm situations -- or as I often say, if nothing else, I'll get a blog out of it.
I'm probably fortunate that they've redesigned my high school to the extent that the interior is pretty much unrecognizable; there's only so much sensory input I can process at once, and nostalgia all by itself tends to blow my circuit breakers. Still, the auditorium hadn't changed much, so I got an instant zing walking down the aisle.
Before the show, we got an orientation from the director, pointing out that the basic book (script) is meant to be supplemented with more current cultural references (it was written almost 40 years ago, after all). And indeed there were enough extra "bits" that it threatened to veer into Monty Python territory at times, but it mostly all worked as part of the atmosphere.
You can see that, as usual, I was dealing with the Curse of the Blogger -- the affliction wherein I can't really just experience anything for itself. I'm always a little bit outside myself... asking, "Am I enjoying this? Is this really good? What's it like for the people involved?"
I should note, this didn't come about as a result of the blog; if anything, it's the cause. I like to think, at least, that it helps me develop more of a unified 'storyline' to the topics I write about, and maybe even dig out the essence or most important/interesting aspects of an event. However, it can also be kind of a pain in the keister to never quite be all the way in the moment.
I could almost feel the different parts of my brain firing simultaneously as we reached the show's climax. I had been wondering throughout: what's it like for a bunch of "random" high schoolers to be in a show based on the words of Jesus? Did any of the words get through? Were any of them more curious about discipleship than before they started?
At the same time I was also mindful of the experience of putting on a show, keeping an audience's attention, getting applause -- the rush of entertaining; but also the sort of foreboding that comes during the last show, as the intense experience you've been sharing for so many weeks is about to come to an end.
The emotional high point of the show is when Jesus is crucified -- symbolically, not violently, but it's still a wrenching moment. And much of the cast was crying or near tears. I wondered... are they just really good actors? Maybe some of them are painfully aware that in 10 minutes the show will be over forever. Or... could it be that one or more of the kids up there is being overwhelmed by the truth of the gospel?
Hard to say from my vantage point. But it's kind of ironic that keeping myself "outside" the show really worked to draw me in, to really feel what the cast members must've been feeling -- both the performance experience and the true majesty of the story. And as the triumphant conclusion unfolded to the strains of "Long Live God", and then the cast returned laughing and crying at once for the encore, I paused for a moment (choking back my own tears) to pray for the hearts of a group of kids, that they would always contain all the words they had spoken and sung.
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