Accessory Before the Fact

Since two of the things I love best are baseball & reading, naturally I love to read about baseball. I know that sounds one-dimensional or even shallow, but there's all kinds of baseball reading out there:

• kids' books
• novels
• mysteries
• nonfiction -- seriously, check this one out; it's not really a 'baseball book' -- part biography, part travelogue, part history lesson, part philosophy, part poetry -- mostly just wonderful reading
• fantasy baseball

And since I also love math & statistics, and I enjoy learning more about how baseball 'works', I've read a lot of what's sometimes called sabermetrics -- baseball research often using statistical analysis. The patron saint of sabermetrics is Bill James, whose work has always been dedicated to the idea you can understand baseball if you find and apply the right tools. But it ain't all square roots and logarithms... he always writes wickedly funny stuff (occasionally more wicked than funny).

One passage I remember vividly (hence, probably, inaccurately) was an analysis of a trade. He pointed out that 'team X' had traded for a pitcher who pitched really poorly, and then almost immediately suffered a career-ending injury. They gave up two players who played well for many years afterwards, and who played positions that 'team X' also then had trouble filling. In other words, basically the Perfect Storm of bad trades... or as Bill put it, "that's what I call hanging yourself with a custom-fit noose."

This weekend, it was my turn to measure out the rope.

For years upon years, my wife has regaled me with tales of her childhood dirt-bike adventures. And the stories always seemed to end up in the same place: "When you're dead, I'm going to get a motorcycle."

Myself, I have no Need For Speed. When it comes to transportation, I want the wind in my face to be coming from the factory-controlled climate system. Given what I experience on the roads these days, I think it only prudent not to venture out without hundreds of pounds of steel and safety glass between me and everyone else. It's not like I'm the life of the party at amusement parks either; when I was a kid, my grades always got me free rides at Hoffman's Playland... except I could never find rides that didn't terrify me. And a 10-year-old doesn't cut a very impressive figure on the Ladybug ride.

So I have always dismissed the motorcycle talk in the minimum possible number of words. But lately, the song has been crescendoing.

Now she's talking about riding a "scooter" -- you know, just around town. OK, maybe a few miles down the highway. If you're thinking of the things you stand on with one foot & push with the other... guess again. She doesn't even want to consider anything with a top speed under 55 (actually, we've had cars that weren't that comfortable at 55).

Given my reluctance to see my bride of nearly 21 years become the shiny silver ball inside a giant pinball machine, why would I do anything to add fuel to the fire? Such as...

This past Saturday, while the kids were on their Annual Amusement Park Outing with their aunt, we had the whole day to ourselves for whatever fun and romance we could dream up.

Instead, I took her to look at scooters.

I guess in part I was hoping that seeing the scooters close up would remind her that not only is it an expensive habit, but also that driving something that unprotected in traffic is a little like trying to fight a forest fire in a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops.

But I'm also a husband, and let's face it: there aren't too many times I'll be able to help put that look of delight and joy and anticipation on her face.

I continue to (gently) remind her of my reservations, and I think she may hold off for now-- but I wonder whether it's just a matter of time till the other boot drops. So do me a favor: if I let you know, if and when it does become a reality, would you mind very much all staying off the streets around here?

Truly Blessed

I usually think of myself as a pretty healthy person. I'm the guy who, if you ask who my doctor is, generally replies, "I don't really have one." I did have a problem with my ear a couple years ago that included some blockage and a truly awful spell of vertigo; I meant to blog at that time about how it was to suffer Medical Care, but by the time I felt like sitting up at a keyboard again, the moment had passed. And if you heard the noise that emanates from my spine when I twist, you might be inclined to call an ambulance... but that may just be the joys of being 46.

As a matter of fact, aside from one ER visit more than 10 years ago, the last time I was in the hospital, I was wrapped in a cozy blue blanket. Never even broke a bone in any of those childhood misadventures. All of that notwithstanding, I take my medicine every day.

I have one of those weird nonspecific allergies; if I don't dose up on Claritin-D every day, I get this annoying little tickle right at the spot where the clavicles come together, and I start barking. The reason my allergies are nonspecific is that the doctor I went to didn't seem to care why I was barking -- he just said, "Oh, that's allergies; here, take this." I thought it might be nice to have some sense of what I was allergic to... but since the alternative is being poked full of holes, I decided it wasn't altogether crucial.

In those days, Claritin was prescription-only, so I was able to get the insurance company to help me out, but that came to an end a couple years ago. Now I pay the freight solo, which in the most recent instance came to $18.95 for 15 pills. I'm well aware that's not much to people who are paying way more for real heavy-duty meds -- but it's kinda painful to me to pay over $400 a year (and think about it: I'm not even really sure why).

I do know I can't do without. If I miss a day (or even sometimes when I don't), in the mid-evening I start to get that tickle and here comes the bark. I have a pretty short, sharp cough, and usually a single instance at a time (my wife has been known to castigate me for not warning her it was coming; it often makes her jump). For some reason it's quite frequently mistaken for a sneeze, even though it really doesn't sound like my sneeze, so I really hear "God bless you" quite a bit. And at the risk of confounding my public persona, I don't like to make people feel uncomfortable, so instead of correcting them, I usually just say thanks.

And just when I feel like I have the whole thing under control... spring arrives. I've written several times about all the wonders of the season, but of course all that comes with a price. In my case the toll is exacted by a sticky yellow substance wafting in the breeze that makes my eyes itchy and my sinuses fill up with goo and just generally makes me want to send my entire head out to be steam-cleaned.

I was gleeful to the point of being smug when the really nice weather arrived almost simultaneously with my new work laptop. Since I have not only wireless internet access, but also the capability to make & receive phone calls through my laptop, I can work literally anywhere in the house... or even outside the house. A sunny day, relaxing on the deck -- I mean, focused on my work with laserlike intensity while happening to be sitting on the deck. So the first decent day, I packed my stuff and got right out there.

I should point out that, in addition to my susceptibility to pollen, I also have eyes like one of those fish that live at the bottom of the ocean. A lot of times I'm squinting on a cloudy day, so bright & sunny is not always what it's cracked up to be. And while a laptop is plenty portable, it's not really designed to be viewed with an 800-watt bulb glaring in your eyes.

So I sat on the deck, sneezing & blowing my nose, squinting and more or less unable to read my screen. Yes, it was a red-letter, and -nose, day for me. But, you know, it was the symbolism of the thing.

Anyway, if you come looking for me on any vaguely summerlike day, just walk around the back -- you'll find me on the deck. And if you happen to catch me sneezing, you don't have to say God Bless You... I've been blessed enough for any two people.

Interjection Junction

I have to admit that I was never an enormous fan of Schoolhouse Rock back in the day; it appeared on ABC and I always thought their kids' shows & cartoons were somewhat cheesy. CBS (channel 10 back in those days!) was the home of the Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner hour -- hence the home of me, as well. I am on record as stating the cartoon universe belongs to Bugs and everyone else is just drawn into it. He's the king of 'em all, y'all.

No, I had to get my grammar education the old-fashioned way: by diagramming sentences. I really don't remember anything about diagramming sentences at this late date; I have convinced myself that I was really proficient at it, but I suspect that may just be the standard memory trick we all play on ourselves.

Regardless, my zeal for grammar (and punctuation, and spelling, and syntax) remains to this day. In fact, I'm pretty much the Spanish Inquisition of grammar etc. Well, OK, like most of the universe, when using Instant Message I suffer a strange paralysis when it comes time to capitalize and punctuate... but other than that, don't come in here with any of that weak stuff.

Today I'm musing about interjections: any member of a class of words expressing emotion, distinguished in most languages by their use in grammatical isolation, as Hey! Oh! Ouch! Ugh! The problem for me is that I feel like most of the really "popular" interjections related to frustration, anger, distress, etc. seem to be... not a great idea to use around small children. I hasten to add that I'm altogether aware that language you wouldn't use in front of children is most likely language to eschew entirely.

In fact, as pointed out by a favorite book of mine (regrettably I can't lay hands on it right now), the majority of our common exclamations -- even "darn" -- are actually euphemisms for words you can't use in polite company. Wow, I just thought: that's really an archaic concept, isn't it? I should say, words you wish people wouldn't use in polite company, or any company. And I have to be doubly careful, because I frequently stress to the kids that they shouldn't look for sneaky ways to say bad words without really saying them ("poopy" is one of the ones they try to sneak in).

This is slightly off the point -- at least I think it is; no one knows better than I how challenging it can be to deduce my actual point -- but I'm reminded of a recent occurrence here. My son was having one of his occasional meltdowns the other day, during which he quite often screams the angriest, rudest words he can think of. I had more or less tuned him out when I realized he was shouting, "Did you hear me? I said 'the S-H word'!" Alarmed, I did a mental rewind to discover he had hollered, "shut up!" which of course is not acceptable, but still a relief compared to what I thought he meant.

And as a bonus, a digression from the digression: why is it that 'be quiet', 'hush', and 'close your mouth' are acceptable, but 'shut up' is a capital offense? Don't they all mean I don't want to hear anything you say?

Anyway (rejoining the blog, already in progress), I'm kind of casting around for an expression to compensate for the fact that I (a) get frustrated frequently and (b) talk to myself a lot. I need something brief, with sufficient explosive consonants. I still remember an episode of the original Bill Cosby Show in which his basketball team got in trouble for using bad language on the court; by the end of the episode, one of the players managed to substitute "Fudge cake!" I use that occasionally, but usually kind of ironically & not in the heat of battle. And I've tried "dagnabbit', but I always feel a bit like Walter Brennan.

For some other possibilities, check out #6o in this list ... or perhaps #17 here.

I may just have to coin my own word... but of course, if you have any suggestions, feel free to pass them along.

Building a Rep

I finally get out of my basement, and about all I get for my trouble is a shoe full of water.

The weather in our area has been lovely and halfway summerlike, but as a Remote Employee I have been stashed away in my subterranean office, remote from spring as well. However, this week I'm in the midst of a rare business trip. Naturally, as soon as I mount the basement steps, the temp drops 20 degrees and it starts raining.

Tonight I was out shopping for breakfast -- should I go down to the dining room in the morning and wait for them to bring me 10 dollars' "worth" of breakfast, or should I go to the grocery store and buy 2 days' worth of breakfast for less than that? -- and on my way across the soggy parking lot I noted a sudden sensation of wet/cold on one foot. When I got inside, I discovered a big split in the sole of my shoe. Not to worry, I only have to wear it for 2 more days. Rainy days.

I just don't understand American workmanship these days. I've only had these shoes for 10 or 15 years (OK, it might be 20) and they're worn out already?

The good news is that this week's blog is being brought to you by the Official Hotel of Random Access. I do love me some Courtyard. King-size bed, sitting area, deluxe bathroom, and free wi-fi... can't hardly beat that. The breakfast prices are exhorbitant, but if you hit the lobby at the right time, you can find free cookies. OK, 'free' is a relative term -- I'm on record about the scam of 'complimentary' hotel amenities. By the way, this trip is relatively local to home, so this entry is not also brought to you by the Official Airline of Random Access.

I'm reminded of another trip, almost exactly a year ago, when (just like tonight) I was faced with sports-news hysteria. I am way at the back of the line for the Roger Clemens Fan Club, but is this really stop-the-presses news? I was watching the ballgame, and the ESPN crawl at the bottom of the screen -- which usually features headings like 'NL', 'AL', 'NBA' and 'Golf' -- suddenly sprouted a new category: 'CLEMENS'. There is the sense that he's made his own bed... um, perhaps not the best choice of words... but he may have reached the point where whatever he does will be construed as something horrible -- preceded by his reputation.

And that idea -- like almost everything else -- brings me back around to me. Unfortunately. See, this is actually my 2nd consecutive trip; last Friday, I had to make a flying trip (speed, not mode of transport) to the office where I used to be based. I was getting a new computer, so while the swap was in progress, I walked around to say hi to some people I hadn't seen for several years.

One of my old colleagues told me that someone had said something sarcastic the other day, and he told me, "Whenever that happens around here, I always say, 'Boy, I really miss Mark.'" Then someone else in the conversation, who barely knew me at all, recounted something I had said to bust someone else's chops.

And OK, we all know the difference between an affectionate poke at someone and truly ripping them up... but even I had to ask myself, "Is this really what I want to be known for?" I have over the years built up my Lovable Curmudgeon act; I can always make people laugh by grumbling about this and that, especially about work. The workplace is always fertile soil for complainers -- that's why we laugh at Dilbert.

A while back, I heard someone on the radio talking about being a Christian and representing Christianity to others. The hope, of course, is that others can see a difference in your behavior and demeanor (and hopefully ask, "What's that about?"). I want to be that guy, but I couldn't swear to it at this point. They say that entropy is a powerful force and it's easier to knock something down than to build it... unfortunately, it seems I saved my best workmanship for building a rep.

Kerouac Had No Kids

Recently I found myself thinking about Boston, Lexington, & Plymouth MA; Philadelphia; Washington DC; Niagara Falls (both sides) and Dearborn MI. These were the destinations for a few of our family vacations when I was a kid. In my mind's eye, I seem to see a speeded-up slide show: flashes of images like Plymouth Rock, and steelmaking in Dearborn, and the rickety elevator at the Battle Green Inn (the first elevator I ever operated myself), and driving around DC lost -- a family tradition I'm proud to say I upheld last summer. Mostly, it leaves me wanting to say something to my parents:

What were you thinking??

OK, and "thank you", of course; I had some wonderful experiences. But having just survived my own Family Vacation Trip, my initial reaction is wonderment that anyone would do it voluntarily. I don't know whether they went places they wanted to go, or whether they planned it around our Educational Benefit. But I can say from personal experience that a vacation based around Children's Museums can be pretty tough on the parents.

I'm also amazed that they could pull off such complicated itineraries in the days before Google. If I can't do a Web search for hotels -- I'm no Patrick Henry, but Give me a suite with a separate bedroom, or give me death -- and then print off a map with turn-by-turn directions, I'd be inclined to stay home. Maybe we could put a blanket over the dining room table and go "camping".

And while I'm sure the French are still grateful to Gen. Eisenhower for bailing them out of that Nazi business, I'm kinda partial to the Eisenhower Interstate Highway System. Sure, he meant it for transporting troops & missiles and the like, but I'd hate to try a 700-mile trip in 4 days without it. For that matter, while I'm thinking of it, I'm often heard to say that if Eisenhower had had to take small children along on D-Day, we'd all be speaking German now.

The silver lining to any trip is always the resulting blog... particularly if I'm already "behind schedule" (I'm flattering myself to think that someone's missed me in my absence... you did notice it's been a couple weeks, right?) due to taxes and work and church obligations (and planning & executing a vacation). Even better, a trip really lends itself to bullet points:

• Which means I don't have to worry about making it a cohesive narrative with a unified point.
• It can just be a series of observations.
• Opossums have the most teeth of any land mammal (50).
• See how I worked in a random fact there?
• Actually, I learned that at ... a Children's Museum.

So it was 5 museums in 4 days in 2 states. Two of the museums were officially designated as Children's Museums, which mainly served to illustrate that there is no central authority that delineates a Children's Museum from a cinderblock basement scattered with secondhand "educational" toys. OK, really there is; I'm not sure whether there's any qualification process or it's just sending in box tops or something.

We also did three legitimate big-time museums that also feature Interactive Hands-On Exhibits for Kids. I have to say there was some no-doubt cool & educational stuff there, but even so it ended up being more hands-on than interactive (i.e. push all the buttons, yank all the levers, spin all the dials, run as fast as you can to the next one).

I of course found all sorts of interesting tidbits along the way... so that must mean it's time for the Bullet-Point Round!

• You have to love a state like New Hampshire, with state-sponsored liquor stores located conveniently adjacent to their interstate highways. If you must drink and drive, make sure you pay directly to the government before you kill someone.
• It's pretty complicated to nourish kids intellectually AND physically at the same time. It seems like road food always degenerates into chicken nuggets, mac & cheese, pizza, and hamburgers. We also squeezed in pancakes, omelets, and French toast. I'm pretty sure the most nutritious food we saw was the strawberries and grapes they were feeding the opossum -- although I understand that mealworms are awfully good for you too.
• On a side trip to Cambridge to visit family, we ended up at a neighborhood playground dominated by an enormous slide only accessible through an elaborate rope climbing net. I wanted to set a good example for my risk-averse son, so I clambered up myself... only to find myself clinging desperately to the precipice (not quite the message I was trying to send). He did eventually try it -- and I did get down alive. When he was balanced 10' up yelping with fear, I kept telling him, "You're fine, I've got you, just keep hanging on and going upward," but I was thinking, he's going to fall and be killed and there's nothing I can do to stop it. One of my less-favorite things about parenting: I have to keep doing things that scare me, so they don't end up scared of everything.
• You can end up in some odd places killing time with kids. After lunch one day, we visited a costume store. Then my son said, "Hey dad, that one looks just like you!" Was it Superman? A weightlifter? Some other hero-type? No, it was this guy.
• I can't emphasize this enough: Suite with separate bedroom, good; "standard" room with 2 (very) adjacent queen-size beds, bad.

Stranger in Our Midst

The unmistakeable signs of spring are all around us: We've had that last, false-hope-crushing snowfall.... The drive-in up the road is open, and the locals are huddled around the picnic tables in forlorn knots of 2 and 3, eating their First Ice Cream of Spring.... Tax season is upon us, and I'm getting my laptop charged up so I can finish my return next Tuesday on the way to the post office.

My Leading Indicator is always the crack of the bat being heard all across this great land of ours. Around here, we've been observing our own forms of Spring Training, on two fronts -- first, I used the March exhibition games to get the troops a little hyped on watching the Mets again... hoping that if I can amass three votes, I might prevail against our local Superdelegate, who is definitely voting "against." And, rare is the day when the girl doesn't jam on her Mets cap and say, "Dad, will you play catch with me?"

She's even starting to recognize individual players on TV. Naturally, most sports enthusiasms and loyalties are acquired virally, from someone close to you who already has the bug (although I think mine was definitely a spontaneous genetic mutation).

I just consider it responsible parenting to do whatever I can to nurture the ardor for baseball in general, and the Mets in particular -- although last fall my son, especially, figured it might be cool to be a Red Sox fan, since they were the champs.

So I was a trifle surprised when my girl came home from a trip with her grandmother to Wal-Mart with a shirt bearing the logo of...

I can't even say it. Suffice it to say that it's rumored that there's a second major league that also has a team located in New York. The New York Yonkers, or something like that.

She saw it in the store, it was sporty, they didn't have any Mets stuff in her size; so she begged Nanny, who ended up going back to get it for her.

At first, she thought it was the coolest shirt ever... then she said she didn't want to wear it to school and have kids laugh at her (as she herself has been known to do to perfect strangers -- perfectly large, beefy strangers, whom she spots on the street wearing similarly non-Mets attire).

But then as we were snuggling later that evening, she suddenly said, "Dad, what happens if I like the Yankees?" One of those times that tests your parenting skills.

I hugged her tight and said, "Sweetie, you can like whoever you want to." She seemed pleased with that answer... and fortunately has not yet noticed that Dad, who does the laundry, has somehow not yet gotten that shirt back in her drawer...

Math for Everyday Life

Once upon a time when I was a math teacher, I tended to specialize in the basic algebra courses. I should just leave it at that... I was a "specialist" -- yeah, that's the ticket. You know, like I turned down the higher-level stuff to pursue my calling of helping the confused entry-level guys.... Sounds better than the truth: as a long-time adjunct, I often got stuck did I say stuck? I meant assigned the courses that had a lot of sections to cover and were perhaps not quite as popular with the regular faculty.

In any case, I probably taught some variation on Elementary Algebra 20 or 30 times, and while I wouldn't say I did it in my sleep (OK, some of those 7 AM classes were borderline), I did definitely develop a somewhat ritualized shtik.

For example, opposites. Low-level math students are conditioned to think of - as "minus" or perhaps "negative"... but is "-x" a negative number? I tried to get them to read this as "the opposite of x", and I told them: it depends on where you're standing. If you're on the number line to the right of zero (positive), the opposite is in fact negative; but if you're on the other side of zero, taking the opposite results in a positive number. Make sense? All right, for your homework, do the odd-numbered problems on page 117....

Well, as I so often told my students: the math you're paying for, but the philosophy you get for free -- and so it is that so much in life depends on where you're standing.

Like Robin Williams. It's amazing how many of his movies I've seen, but I can't think of too many of them that really involved me viscerally. That may be because we never quite lose the awareness that we're watching **Robin Williams**; a high percentage of his movies exist for the sole purpose of allowing him to do his running-around, arms-flapping, funny-voices, high-energy thing he does... but again, maybe it depends on where you're standing.

Recently I re-watched Mrs. Doubtfire, many years after my first viewing. First of all, I have to say it's really not a documentary. It might be in the same zip code as plausible, but it's certainly not walking distance. The mere fact that a man who's obviously hairier than several species of apes can pass for a woman is actually only the tip of the iceberg.

And, OK, it's not trying to be. It's a fairly broad comedy with an inoffensive "awwww...." kind of moral to it, and it's enjoyable enough on that level. Then, we reached the pivotal courtroom scene.

In that scene, the ex-wife (Sally Field) is petitioning for sole custody of the kids, and he delivers a speech about how losing touch with his kids would devastate him; there's no way he could live without them. And suddenly I found myself on the verge of tears, putting myself inside the scene and thinking what it would be like not to see my kids every day.

Now, I saw this 10 or 15 years ago and enjoyed it -- certainly wasn't traumatized by it -- but this time it was like all the air was being sucked out of the room. I'm surely standing in a different place now... maybe even the opposite of where I was then.

TFD: Like Looking in the Mirror

I am always mindful of writing for a varied audience -- granted, my 'usual audience' could probably assemble in a standard cubicle, and my circle of acquaintances doesn't reach the level of diversity of the average reality show cast (or war movie, if you prefer). A high proportion of my connections are made through the church, so we share that faith vocabulary; others of my readers don't relate to that topic as much. So while one of my major categories is "Theology For Dummies", I try to balance out my subjects.

Last year during Holy Week, I tried something a little different... I was a bit tentative about combining, you know, crucifixion & jokes. I'm not sure there's a huge overlap between my audience and Monty Python's, but I just read it again and I think it came out all right. It still makes me smile a little, at least.

Anyway, here we are at Holy Week again and I didn't set out to write a "Holy Week piece", but I kind of fell into it by rereading the story. The story of Holy Week is of course focused on Jesus and His sacrifice; but what struck me on this reading was really the story of the people around Jesus:

• Judas is of course the agreed-upon villain of the piece, and he makes such an inviting target. Probably the most famous betrayal in history, don't you think? And none of us would ever do a thing like that. Except... some scholars think he really did it to try to force Jesus to do something miraculous, or publicly declare himself a king. We can't know for sure, of course, but something about that explanation resonates with me. Is it just vaguely possible that the reason that makes so much sense to me is that I'm personally familiar with the concept of Knowing Better Than God? No, Lord, your timing's pretty good, but you'd be better off doing it my way...
• Peter takes a fair amount of abuse too, traditionally. He's the one who takes front & center claiming, "What, are you kidding, Lord? I've got your back!" and then of course, given that blatant foreshadowing, it's seemingly a matter of moments before he's saying, "What, are you kidding? Never heard of the guy!" Now most of us probably don't cuss out somebody who "accuses" of of being Christians... but I know for myself it's not quite unprecedented to make a promise to God about my behavior or my attitudes, only to see that promise slip away when the opportunity comes to follow through.
• You can group the rest of the disciples, whose major contribution to the story really consists of dozing off while Jesus needs them the most. And again, while they come off as buffoons, I don't think it's a huge stretch to see in their failure a reminder that all of us (OK, I'll just speak for myself) tend to fall asleep at the switch when God calls us to do something. For that matter, I can be much more literal and admit that bedtime prayer & reading time sometimes has about the same effect on me as diphenhydramine.

I've heard it said that one way to read Scripture is to put yourself in the story... and all I can say for myself in this case is that it doesn't take much imagination. I think I've probably mentioned this before (since I've written over 110 posts and I've only ever had about 17 ideas) but one of the fascinations of the Bible for me is that I can open it at random and find a story about someone I know. A lot of times it's me, in fact... and not usually wearing the white hat, either....

Spring Ahead, Fall On Your Face

Any parent with more than a few weeks' experience can tell you that medical crises don't occur at 1:00 on a Tuesday afternoon. No, in fact, even children too young to read a clock are inclined to wait till the household's abed. Bonus points are awarded if the episode coincides with the beginning of Daylight Savings Time.

So I was less than astonished Saturday night when my bedtime preparations (early to try to beat the time change) were interrupted by a fit of barking. In fact, it took mere seconds to recall that we don't even have a dog. Well, of course that's hyperbole: it sounded more like a seal, and I was instantly sure we didn't have one of those.

The daughter had progressed directly from a slight cold to full-on croup (again, not surprisingly, since I had just told my wife I'd looked in and she was sleeping peacefully). This could only mean that it was sauna time -- facilitated by the phone-booth dimensions of our shower. In fact, our entire bathroom could fit inside a lot of the showers you see on HGTV.

Needless to say, the early-to-bed -- which wasn't going to turn out all that early anyway -- was completely by the boards, but at least my pores got a good cleansing.

Our household's Crack Medical Staff determined that the best arrangement would be for the girl to sleep on the floor in our bathroom -- a warm, moist space close at hand -- and further that occasional scheduled check-ins would be necessary throughout the night. Scheduled, as in setting the alarm... and since I am both the keeper and the hearer of the alarm, I would also have scheduled wakeys.

It's not like I ever get much sleep on Time-Change Night anyway. For the "fall-back" event, I always seem to stay up way too late, figuring I'll get it back anyway, and more often than not end up in deficit.

And I've slept with one eye open on Spring-Forward night ever since the fateful events of 2000. I've alluded to this before, but I think I'm finally ready to talk about it. I am, as established, in charge of anything electronic in the house, particularly the items with digital display. However, in 2000 I was a bit preoccupied with my 4-month-old firstborn son, and I neglected to make the rounds of the clocks on that Saturday night... most importantly, of course, the alarm clock.

So it was that, Sunday morning at "7:55", I sat in the rocker feeding the boy as my wife began her leisurely preparation for the morning's first church service. That is, the 9 a.m. service. I happened to glance toward the TV....

Can I just say, while I'm not a huge fan of The Cable Company -- although I'm sure yours is very different, of course -- there is one thing they do that's an indisputable, maybe even indispensable, public service: they deliver the correct time to your home. And that was how I discovered that it was actually 8:55... I'm sure there was an audible clicking of mental levers and switches as my omission dawned on me.

Naturally the scene devolved into a Keystone Kops short from there, but we were able to phone ahead (to a neighbor, since the church itself had no phone!) and basically ask them to start the service and keep it going till she could get there.

So... perhaps you can understand why I get a little bit unsettled round about this time of year.

I did find a way, for once, to foil the Amazing Alarm-Clock Boy. I actually forgot to reset his clock before bed, and then I thought, "Let's see what happens!" Sure enough, he didn' t emerge to use the bathroom till "6:30", little knowing it was really 7:30. Think he'd notice if I set it back another hour?

I'll Take Geeks for $1000, Alex

It struck me today that I have something in common with the denizens of a certain fictional island. If you're a fan, you'll remember the hatch people, having to push the button every 108 minutes.... sometimes the timer would get down close to zero and the alarms would start howling -- someone would have to leap to the keyboard before the time ran out.

I've got that same little clock running in my head all the time when I haven't posted. Once I get past about a week (in recent months I've stretched it to 8 or 9 days), the alarm starts shrieking. I sometimes get tempted to knock out a couple paragraphs just to say I've posted -- I could probably tell a story about one of the kids every other day, but I've just decided I don't want to do the Funny Kid Story blog.

This is the same season I complain about every year because there's so much going on and fitting it all in is an issue. Somehow, though, I always find time to read. I just finished Brainiac, by Ken Jennings, the all-time biggest Jeopardy winner. I found the book utterly engaging, although that may have something to do with the fact that Jennings reveals himself as a family guy with a strong faith who works as a computer programmer and enjoys trivia. I can't say quite why that resonated with me so much.

Here's where it gets weird: another one of my favorite recent reads was Prisoner of Trebekistan, a memoir by ... another former Jeopardy champion. OK, it seems pretty logical -- when you have an interest in something, it can be fun to read about it. Except for one fact: I can't remember the last time I watched Jeopardy. I like the show well enough; I enjoy playing along at home; I've even entertained fantasies of being on the show -- but it's hardly a passion of mine.

In my defense, both books are great reads even for the non-fanatic. Both of them are wonderfully witty; Jennings in particular seems to have been blessed with the same sense of humor as me (I think you should read his book anyway). Brainiac also discusses the history of quiz shows and trivia itself -- I discovered that, like crossword puzzles, the modern enthusiasm for trivia dates to the 1920s. The other book, by Bob Harris, features some interesting ideas on improving memory.

Or maybe I'm just a geek.

I'm not sure I really need to convince anyone of that, but just in case you need further evidence, a story from my past (I was reminded of this recently during my time-travel experiments):

I was, it surely goes without saying, not the top-ranked physical specimen in my peer group growing up. So in my mid-teens, I decided it was time to make a change. I got a set of weights and set them up in the basement, and started a regular lifting program. I decided I'd probably do better with some music to pump me up -- so to speak. Every time I would use the same cassette to help get the pulse racing.

Something screaming, intense, high energy? Van Halen, maybe?

Nah -- This One's for You. Because as you know, nothing says macho like Barry Manilow.

Continuing Education

Lying in bed early yesterday in a semi-stupor -- suffering the after-effects of two nocturnal post-bad-dream visits with my daughter -- my senses were assaulted by the abrupt arrival of my son. It was, of course, 7 a.m.; as I have exhaustively (and exhaustedly) documented, he is nothing if not reliable. I suppose I keep mentioning it much the same as any other survivor of trauma is compelled to rehearse the details in order to come to terms with the shock to the psyche. Of course, he's 8 years old, and it shows no sign of abating: it's probably time to move on to the next stage of grief.

As he leaped into bed beside me and forcibly dragged my arm around him for a Squeezy Hug*, I was struck by a thought. As well as a kiss, as he flung himself back out of bed and launched himself into his day.

* Someone really ought to tell his old babysitter Tina that he still calls it a "squeezy hug", as she always did, even though he hasn't even seen her for five years.

The thought, as ill-prepared as I was to receive it, was: I wonder how my day would go if I attacked it with the same gusto he does? He almost literally hits the floor running every day... in contrast to certain of the rest of us. OK, all the rest of us -- who tend to welcome the morning much the same way as Custer welcomed the Indians (or maybe vice-versa).

Then, as if by nuclear fission (although regrettably without the concomitant surge of energy), one idea became two: What other lessons have we gleaned since then (i.e., is there a blog in this)? I greatly enjoyed writing the first edition... and frankly, I thought it was some of my better work... but I'm hoping that at least someone in the house has learned something new.

I could probably easily summon up a list of the lessons learned that we could do without, such as "the most important thing in the world is who gets to go first", or "sticks and stones may break my bones, but I don't have to go outside to find a name to call you," but allow me to take the high road instead and seek the life-affirming....

• It's good to create something and share it. Our daughter always has a craft project going: not something out of a box or something a parent or teacher shoves in front of her, but an idea springing full-fledged out of that extremely busy brain. This evening, she used construction paper, markers, toilet paper, glue, and tape to create... Well, I can't really do it justice. You tell me; as near as I can tell, it's supposed to be a kind of fringed apron you can put around your neck and it kind of waves in the breeze when you move. She made it, and will proudly give it to, her little friend Ethan. Seen in that light, one's quixotic quest to publish occasional blog articles seems almost rational.
• Each day should include fresh air and exercise if at all possible (sunshine optional; we live in the Northeast). When they get home, the first order of business is always the snack, but this is followed immediately by the exodus to the outdoors. Since it's winter, they're deprived of recourse to the plastic bowl and pile of dirt about which I rhapsodized in the earlier installment... but there's plenty of snow, and almost anything in the garage can be pressed into service in a pinch. Brooms have been popular lately, and yesterday I poked my head out to find a keyboard, mouse, and set of speakers perched on a snowbank.
• It's nice to look good, but it's more important to be comfortable (with apologies to Fernando). My wife waited for a long time for a little girl she could dress up, who would love girly things... and much of the time she's still waiting. It's true that our daughter can 'style' with the best of them, proudly, but at the same time if left to her own devices she'd opt for her beloved "sports pants" 5 days or more per week. She is an enormous fan of anything "silky", which mom leverages to get her into many lovely & feminine ensembles. But may the Lord have mercy on us all if there's anything scratchy in today's wardrobe. She's ultrasensitive to anything that doesn't hit just right, and the resulting fits when a garment falls short have all the dogs in the neighborhood barking.

I forgot another important point: "do your best to give dear old Dad something to write about"...

Office Space

I've heard it said that as time goes on, more and more of us will be working from home. Not sure how that'll work for people like elementary school teachers, or funeral directors (remember when they used to be called "undertakers"? That one may be gone, but at least "sanitary engineer" never really caught on). Maybe we're headed towards a time when the only ones not working at home are the members of the Service Economy... of course, we're told that before long that'll be just about everyone, anyway.

In case there are any among my faithful readers, assuming such there be, who find themselves moving inexorably in that direction, I thought I would share my wisdom; this is one of the few things with which I have more personal experience than almost anyone I know. So what follows comprises the absolute musts for the telecommuter, or if you prefer, the WAHer (or even W@H-er).

I'm not really talking about stuff like a screaming-fast computer or Internet connection... although life would certainly be much harder without them, at least for me. I was really musing about the less obvious building blocks of my average day -- as well as some things I really need, but probably won't get in my lifetime.

I think for me the most essential office supply is a comfortable pair of slippers. I am, after all, in the house, so it doesn't make much sense to wear actual shoes all day. However, since my office is carved out of the basement, features a carpet about the thickness of a grocery bag over the cement floor, and cannot truthfully be described as "heated", slippers are the only thing standing between me and that kind of numbness that starts at the feet and creeps all the way up to the brain they are paying me for.

By the same token, 1A would probably be the space heater, which I don't necessarily use daily (the basement has heat, there's just no duct in my office)... only when I find that my e-mails are all lower-case because I can't bend my fingers enough to hit the Shift key.

The next Must is definitely some bangin' tunes. I have a reputation, not really deserved even for all I do to maintain it, as a bit of a misanthrope -- you might have noted that one of the ways I put people off is by using words for which it's advisable for me to link to their definitions -- but even for me, a schedule of sitting in my office every day seeing & speaking to no one threatens to make me come over all Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Not that there's anything wrong with that (I wouldn't mind being the world's most popular movie star), but I don't even have a volleyball. Music, in addition to its ability to connect with me on a very elemental level, also makes me feel a little less deserted-island.

I guess if there's a "2A" for this one, the fact is that I really wouldn't survive either personally or professionally without access to instant messaging. This probably has something to do with the short attention span we've all developed communication-wise... but it's a life-saver to me to be able to ask (or answer) a question effortlessly, or just make a joke or talk about baseball. I may have more to say about IM World in a future post...

Third on the list is most assuredly "easy access to snacks". When I am working hard on something and not getting anywhere, I find that wandering up the stairs for a nibble helps me manage the frustration. When the space heater & slippers together are not sufficient to prevent icicles from forming, a cup of tea is a big help (I also find that drinking tea while I work makes me feel in some way more adult; I don't know why, there's just something inherently civilized to me about drinking tea. Too many British movies?). When I am working hard on something and finally break through, a bite to eat seems a fitting celebration.

Hmmm.... seems like England Dan & John Ford Coley were wrong after all... Snacks Are the Answer.

The addendum to this one is that I also need the intervening stairs, both as a buffer to keep me out of the snacks once in awhile, and for whatever exercise value they might provide. If my office & the kitchen were on the same level, I'd have trouble fitting through the door.

One item I definitely could not get along without is my phone headset. Since I am, again, completely isolated from all human contact -- see above -- I spend a significant part of my time on the phone. And since for many of my meetings, my primary participation is showing up, I spend a significant part of that time, ah, "multitasking". Meaning I need to talk hands-free; if I did the phone-in-crook-of-neck thing, I'd spend all my off-hours at the chiropractor. Come to think of it, I wouldn't be much better off holding the receiver in my hand for hours on end.

Believe it or not, I find a reasonably professional wardrobe to be important as well. In my early WAH days, I tried the sweatpants & jeans route; I found that the more informally I dressed, the dumber I got. I suppose I should take this theory to its logical conclusion and wear a tux every day. Hey, it works for those snooty maitre d's -- they get paid big bucks for the skill of saying "Follow me, please" over and over.

There are other things I'd like to have -- a completely soundproof office would be nice. That may seem contradictory, given that I've been complaining about isolation... but on a Snow Day such as today, a little enforced silence would really hit the spot. Alternatively, it could be the playroom that was soundproofed; that would get the job done just as well.

Taken all around, though, it's a pretty good gig. However, this summer it may get better... when my present desktop goes out of warranty, I should be able to get a laptop. Arithmetic quiz: laptop + wireless Internet + summer + table & chairs on the back deck (with umbrella!) = ??? Wonder if I can expense sunblock?

Tuning Up the WABAC Machine

I'm as prone as the next guy to get lost in reverie about The Past (which, to be honest, wasn't all that much fun when it was the present)... but recently I've been taking a series of intentional brief journeys to days gone by.

Remember how I was searching for a low-cost, low-effort way to digitize my LP collection? Well, not long ago some friends not only found the secret -- but also lent it to me.

It's called the Xitel inPort Deluxe, and it's so simple it even works with my thrift-store-level equipment. I heard about this thing, and it reminded me of some kind of Ronco gadget that promises to cut hair or julienne a squash or something, but can't really perform like the infomercial demo. But you know what -- it delivers the goods. I spent about 15 minutes installing the software on my aged PC; since then, all I do is plug one end of the device into the stereo's headphone jack, and the other end into the PC's USB port; one minute after that, I'm recording onto my hard drive. One program records, one takes out the clicks, the third splits the music into tracks... I can have an entire LP done, with great sound quality even, in an hour (of which maybe 45 minutes is just recording time when I don't even have to do anything).

See if you can guess from my first few rips what year I've been revisiting -- and/or what year I became a pop music fan:

• Billy Joel, Songs in the Attic
• Styx, The Grand Illusion
• Kansas, Point of Know Return
• Gerry Rafferty, City to City
• Steve Miller Band, Greatest Hits 1974-1978

I may have tipped my hand with the last one, but just in case, here are the release dates for those 5 albums (in the same order): 1981, 1977, 1977, 1978, 1978. In any case, I'm sure you can tell just about when I came out of my parent-abetted Easy-Listening Coma and was swept away by the tag-team of Top-40 Radio and the Columbia House Record Club. Remember 12 albums for a penny (then just buy 2 a year for the rest of your life)? I'm pretty sure that 4 of the above are from the original batch, although Billy Joel was represented by The Stranger.

Each of them also had one or more huge hits on the charts at that time -- although I can't link to the Billboard charts to prove my point without subscribing to their online archive :-(. I became an enormous Billy Joel fan -- still am -- but my favorite band was, almost instantaneously, Styx. And revisiting them led me to conclude the following:

(1) A Styx album contains more cheese than the entire state of Wisconsin

(2) They're still my favorite band.

I've made no secret that I knew from an early age that I wasn't cool, so it's not surprising that I went for a band... ah, not critically acclaimed. The irony is that at the time I was sure they were cool. I mean, c'mon, check out this picture:

The album, which is almost literally the first rock & roll album I ever listened to, is frankly a virtual catalog of all the rock album cliches:

Only 7 full-length songs? Check. Plus another song that's just a 6-line reprise? Check. A pretentious spoken-word monologue in the middle of a song? Check. Another song that refers to both angels and aliens? Check. Yet another song that refers to Greek mythology? Check. Funky, abstract cover art? Check.

As a band, they're equally good at covering all the bases, with the theater geek and the hard-rocker side-by-side.

Mozzarella, ricotta, muenster, Monterey Jack or cheddar ... cheese can be delicious as well as good for you! I think I'll go slice off another hunk of Styx.

Service Charge

I've had an idea for a blog entry ping-ponging around my head for several weeks, and I'm trying to figure out just why I haven't written it yet. It could be that it's a pretty complex subject and would take a lot of effort to tackle. Or maybe it's because I don't really have enough connected, coherent thoughts to form a fully-realized post.

I sorta suspect, however, that the reason I haven't written it yet is because it will end up saying things that I don't really want to say about myself. That's despite the fact that I've been willing since the start to be honest, I think (even when I don't come out the hero)... but then again, what are the odds that someone with a blog would be comfortable talking about himself?

Of course, I'm always a bit self-reflective. I am by nature, and the blog emphasizes it. So I have to admit that, depending on the day, recent events, how much sleep I've gotten, and the phase of the moon, I sometimes catch myself feeling a bit put-upon.

The nature of marriage requires a certain amount of self-sacrifice, obviously, and the way we've allotted our responsibilities probably puts a little more "domestic burden" on me than the average husband (although: beware of comparing yourself to those around you!). Some of that is built-in to being a pastor's spouse; I'll always have "extra" evening duties, and weekends are not as carefree as they might be in other households. Just recently I hit a stretch of Solo Bedtime Duties, and it seemed they all devolved into a whirlwind of tears, tantrums, hollering... and the kids didn't behave too well either.

You know I'm always going to make that joke. But the point I was making (before I spoiled it) was that even that one hour daily made me feel miserable & exhausted.

Plus there's the "public" or "church" part of the spouse gig. I like being part of the church, and doing my part, but I'm also a convenient target for tasks others don't want or last-minute stuff... if only because of my physical proximity. I'm always there anyway! And when I'm not, I'm just across the road!

If you're still reading after all that, the point of this is not to be Whiny McWhinerson. What I'm getting at is this:

For me, there's always this constant inner wrestling match over the Stuff I Do. Do I push back and say, "No, this is too much"? Do I push through and do everything... then indulge myself in grumbling and hey-look-at-me, why aren't you appreciating me more?

Or do I see it as an opportunity for servanthood?

And I'm not just setting up an easy target here. The self-aggrandizing conclusion is, "Of course, it's an honor & privilege to serve", blah blah blah -- but the truth is my answer changes day to day. In fact, there are lots of days I'm convinced the right (even Christian) thing to do is to say, "for everyone's sake, things should be different."

But seemingly as soon as I get comfy with that, I start being nagged by Philippians chapter 2:

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus: Who,
being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death— even death on a cross!

And you know, I probably shouldn't quote Scripture (especially the Apostle Paul) in a blog... unless I want to illustrate what it really means to get to the point in a hurry.

Keeping in Touch

I tend to write a lot of these entries when we're at camp. I think that's because camp always gives me the sensation of being off the grid. Granted, we're not pitching a tent by a campfire -- in fact, when my father-in-law saw the place, he was affronted. "That's not a camp, it's a house," he said. I think he thought we were putting on airs. Trust me, it's a comfortable place, but not exactly HGTV's Dream Home.

We've got electricity and heat and running water and beds.... we even have a TV, even though we only get about 1 1/2 channels. I suppose what makes it feel so isolated, even rustic, is the absence of the constantly-ringing phone.

We had no way to be contacted at all until we broke down and got a cell phone; however, that number is pretty closely guarded. If I had my way, I'd only give it out written on rice paper, so anyone who had to call us could immediately swallow the evidence.

I just realized that might not matter, since a caller using his own cell phone would have the number stored... but I like the image in the last paragraph, so I left it in.

All that made me think (once again) about the state of communications in the present age. I'm well aware that (a) I obsess about this a little, and (b) when I get going on this subject, I sound like a survivor of the Spanish-American War or something. I'm not that old; every house I've ever lived in has had indoor plumbing -- although that was by no means a foregone conclusion for a preacher's kid growing up in the '60s.

I am, however, old enough to remember the days when you called someone on the telephone (which was a black plastic instrument with a heavy metal dial you had to spin just right to dial the correct number), and if they weren't home, it rang and rang till you hung up and tried again later. As I recall, that was a bit frustrating, but somehow we coped.

The next step was the answering machine. Now you didn't have to remember to call back. When the other person arrived home (or remembered to check the machine, anyway), they'd get your message and call you back. Or not, of course.

Then came the pager, which at least allowed you to let someone know immediately that you wanted to speak to them. Some of the folks at my wife's first church occasionally got frustrated that she wasn't home when They Needed Her, so they suggested she get a pager. You will not be surprised to learn that the thought of 24x7x365 availability did not fill her with joy, and she gracefully declined.

Now of course it's the cell phone era, so much so that even I, not a huge booster, am astonished when someone doesn't have one. Or for that matter, access to e-mail. I try desperately not to be a snob, but encountering someone who's not online -- or, saints preserve us, doesn't even own a computer -- makes me feel almost sorry for them.

I have a sense that I'm one behind, and that the BlackBerry is taking this to yet another level... but as you may know, by the time this house joins that revolution, it'll be something else.

So I don't know if any of us is that important, but somehow it feels like we're forced to be so much more available these days. This might sound like a Jane Austen novel or something, but back when my wife and I were engaged, we were separated the whole summer before the wedding; we kept in touch by ... writing letters. On paper, with a pen, stick a stamp on an envelope (some of you remember). You take it to the mailbox, you start the clock. Let's see: 2 days to get there, another couple for her to write a reply, 2 days' return trip, add one more for glitches -- I should hear back in a week. From the woman I love and can't wait to marry!

Contrast that to an incident this fall. I had to get a message to a friend, so I called her home, but I must have had the number garbled because it said it was disconnected. So I called her cell & left voice mail; but then I started to think, what if she doesn't check her cell? So I sent her an e-mail, too. Punchline? She called back 3 hours later... apologetic for keeping me waiting.

If you have anything to add, feel free to send it to my work e-mail, or our home e-mail, or my Yahoo account; call us at home (leave a message at the tone & we'll get back to you as soon as we can), or on our cell; or post it to my blog.....

Learning to Lego

In the days B.C. (Before Children), I always hated buying gifts for kids of my acquaintance. If you’re not around them every day, it’s hard to conceptualize what kids of a certain age like, or are like, much less a specific individual child.

I had all manner of toys when I was a kid, but I really only played with three of them:

• My baseball glove & ball (best part of being a preacher’s kid – living next to the church whose immense brick wall provided the backstop for endless hours of throwing and fielding);
• My baseball cards;
• And my Matchbox/Hot Wheels cars and track.

So when in doubt for a gift, I always went with the cars.

I took that one step further with my own kids – not only did I give them cars to play with, I gave them my own cars… my entire childhood collection, in not mint but pretty good condition. And my track, into the bargain.

They have their “own” cars, which live at home, and they get to visit “my” cars, which live at camp. The pain I feel watching those cars smashed together (a new experience for them, since even as an 8-year-old I was a bit of a fussbudget), or lose little parts I’ve preserved for 30-plus years, is more or less balanced by the joy of sharing not only an interest but also literally a toy.
I also like to get them baseball cards, incidentally… which they enjoy in a fairly mindless, “Hey look, I can collect something with a picture on it” kind of way. And I have carefully preserved that childhood collection as well… but ain’t no way they’re ever getting their paws on those.

It’s funny, because I always thought they’d enjoy MegaBloks as well, even though my own record with building toys was, shall we say, spotty. I had TinkerToys – that was so long ago that they were carved out of whalebone, I believe – and Lincoln Logs, but I never really succeeded in building anything that looked like a structure. When you combine “not overly mechanically inclined” with “no imagination”, you get, “I’m sorry… what is that supposed to be?”

Nonetheless I brought forth the MegaBloks, and the Duplos, figuring that somehow despite the lack of role-modeling (and please don’t say, “Daddy, can you build something?” Because I can’t), Hours of Family Fun would ensue. Sad to say, aside from my son building the occasional tower (so he could smash it), not so much.

And then one day a well-meaning soul gave each of my kids a little Lego kit that could be assembled into a car. Our 5-year-old was fascinated; but as it turns out, this sort of activity has the same effect on an 8-year-old as crack does on a somewhat different slice of the populace. Then for his birthday, he got one of the giant Lego kits – featuring, and I can only wish I were making this up, not only Batman and several bad guys, but an ambulance and an honest-to-goodness insane asylum.

What’s worse, I am completely closed off from employing my trademark “exaggeration for comic effect” and writing that the set contains more than 800 pieces, many no larger than your fingernail… because that is, in fact, the case. As I understand it, adult Lego enthusiasts – there’s probably a cute made-up noun like Legoists to describe these, um, hobbyists – usually have elaborate filing systems to keep track of all the many different colors & shapes in use. I imagine they also have powerful lights and even magnifiers available; one of the curses of the later-in-life parent is the demands presented by tiny, intricate toys and other kid items (see my recent screed on hair accessories) at that point in life when age-related myopia has begun its grim, inexorable march.

And this is exacerbated by the fact that toy-assembly directions, like virtually all assembly directions of this millennium, are completely devoid of any verbiage. It’s all diagrams, which in the case of Lego schemata consist mostly of trying to figure out whether we need the dark gray piece with the 2 little knobby things (what are those called?) or the light gray, not-as-thick piece with the 2 little knobby things, and which row & column position of the previously-assembled layer it should be carefully affixed to – don’t press too hard or we’re back to a little pile of dark grays and light grays and….

But fear not, if we can find all the pieces called for (not under the bed or up the vacuum or… maybe left out of the box to begin with?); and if I can keep my dark gray 2s and my black 4s straight; and if I don’t poke an eye out trying to get the pieces close enough so I can see to assemble them; and if we can set aside an hour or so a day to work on this project; and if he doesn’t keep getting frustrated with the detailed & even tedious work and throwing them… my hope is that sometime before the school year is over we’ll have a fully-assembled Asylum! Won’t the grandparents be proud?

Already Used Up All My "Season" Puns

When I started this blog away back In (a previous) Bleak Midwinter, naturally one of the first posts I ever wrote was about Christmas: specifically, how I had “flunked” it. I felt like I captured it well enough that last year’s Christmas post essentially boiled down to “ibid.”

I don’t know that my Christmas was much more “successful” in the ways I described there… but I got to thinking about the elements of the season that I crave, a must-have list of broader scope than another of my early entries on Christmas music. This is quite aside from the spiritual aspects of Christmas – I feel like my appreciation and sense of wonder about all the miracles of the Nativity story probably grows yearly – but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with looking forward to and enjoying the more superficial aspects of the holiday, either. Such as:

• The music. I begin rotating through my collection as soon as Advent starts – but not before. I admit this may be due in part to the same personality quirk that has me turn down lunch at 11:58, but it just doesn’t feel right to hear the music of the season till the countdown begins in earnest (this is the same way I feel about Christmas shopping, in distinct opposition to, and much to the frustration of, the spouse. Her goal this year – only narrowly missed – was to have everything wrapped by Dec. 1). Between my collection and the local Christian radio station’s outstanding and eclectic playlist, I get a pleasing mix of secular and spiritual, traditional and reinterpreted and altogether new.
• A real tree. I wrote recently about my annual arboreal struggles, but even with all that, I’d no more give up and get an artificial tree than I’d swap our dinner for the plastic food from my daughter’s Little Tikes kitchen.
• The Christmas letter. I’ve been writing a yearly newsletter, in the tradition of my mom, for probably 15 years now. I’ve toned down a lot of my more ostentatious writing tricks, now that I have a weekly (or weakly) outlet for that, but I can’t seem to help writing basically the same letter every year: hey look it’s snowing/cold/music’s starting, must be time to write; here’s what we did as a family; here’s what each of us is doing these days; here’s what the season’s really about (often using and sometimes abusing some kind of metaphor); we’d love to hear from you. I’m very fortunate that I don’t have all of them side-by-side for comparison purposes.
• Snow. Even as a kid, I wasn’t big on playing in it; I was often playing solo, and I lacked the imagination to create my own wintry fun. I’ve spent some Christmases in the South… but they felt somehow like popcorn without butter or salt. Granted, I’d just as soon it fell on the 23rd and melted on the 26th, but I won’t ever be dreaming of a brown or even green Christmas.
• Clandestine gift operations. It’s harder to pull off now, with kids to plan shopping outings around, but my ideal season would keep her guessing up till Christmas morning: Did he buy anything? Is it wrapped? What could it possibly be? (This may reflect another of my issues – see the part about the fish sticks) The most humiliating Christmas of my life was when I came up empty a couple weeks before the day; I think it was when my son was an infant, so perhaps I can plead sleep-deprivation-related insanity. Basically I had to have her lead me around the mall pointing to stuff, then leave the stores so I could buy things and “surprise” her. Do you think it’s overcompensating that I don’t even ask her what she wants now?
• Surprises in return. Even as a kid I was never a peeker or a shaker. I crave being totally surprised on Christmas morning (shocked is even better). I’d almost rather get an unanticipated mediocre gift than a perfect gift I knew was coming. The surprise, for me, is part of the gift.
• Meticulous wrapping. This is also a significant part of the (outgoing) gift. I never have the store wrap for me, and I seek whenever possible to avoid gift bags. Gift bags to me can be shorthand for, “I got this at the last minute and I couldn’t be bothered to wrap it.” In fact, I’m also semi-legendary for wrapping “obvious” shapes in cleverly camouflaged ways (one of my most flamboyant creations: a record album and 2 pieces of sheet music; I built a cardboard pyramid with the sheet music and some cardboard, using the album as the base). My sister taught me to wrap when I was 9 or 10, and I take great pride in it. This can also be a source of conflict, as my wife would like it very much if I’d just Get On With It Already, but I consider myself the Charles Emerson Winchester of gift-wrapping (“I do one thing at a time, I do it very well, and then I move on.”).
• Careful Christmas-morning planning. I always predetermine the order in which I’ll present the gifts. The simple and less-impressive stuff goes first, the big important ones go last; I also try to intersperse the clothing and non-clothing items. The concept is to keep the momentum building, although not always in strictly linear fashion – if there are 10 gifts that can be “ranked” 1-10, the typical order might be 1-2-4-3-6-5-8-7-9-10.
• Tradition. I was trying to think of good examples for this, but I realized all the other entries really represent my traditions, the yearly building blocks of a season that’s merry and bright. Yes, I’d love to have a set of traditions that look more like Martha Stewart and less like Rain Man, but if there’s one thing we learn – or else – from middle age it’s that you’d better get used to being who you are. And this is who I are.

I hope that you had an enjoyable and blessed holiday season; that its meaning came to you in new and fresh ways; and that you’ve been quicker than I in learning to see the beauty of Christmas as it is in your household, instead of expecting an Andy Williams special.

Season's Bleatings

Since the major media outlets seem to have missed it, forgive me for pausing to wish myself a happy blogiversary... Tuesday marked 2 years of filling up this space every week or so. Unfortunately I was unable to celebrate in print, because I was busy living a blog.

Regardless of the obvious charms of this Most Wonderful Time of the Year (not limited to the Andy Williams rendition),there are aspects of this season that are somewhat less generously suffused with Joy to the World. For you this may include the weather, or the shopping, or the ubiquitous song about a grandparent in trouble that dare not speak its name (did you know that the "Elmo" of "Elmo & Patsy" is actually Dr. Elmo? Eleven months of the year, a mild-mannered dentist; the other, he's like Springsteen or something. Although a more apt comparison might be Rick Dees, or even moreso Bobby "Boris" Pickett).

For me, however, the bane of my seasonal existence -- in a close call over that song, and it's too late & it's already stuck in my head and oh, please, Lord, won't you put me out of my misery? -- is Tree Day.

Putting up the Christmas tree is one of those Currier & Ives / Norman Rockwell-type images, and I always thought of it as just one of those things a man's supposed to be able to do -- like changing a tire, fixing stuff around the house, or carving a turkey. Over the years, however, the tree and I have faced off in a series of epic battles.

Once it's found, bought & gotten home, the real fun begins. Now the Experts say you're supposed to cut a little off the bottom; this helps it "drink" better, stay fresher, and not drop all its needles in a big heap on your rug until next week. This frankly poses a dilemma for me. First, it's my wife that has the cool tools, and she leaves them at camp. I, on the other hand, have a saw with a plastic handle and interchangeable blades that my I think my dad bought for me at W.T Grant in about 1975. In a sense, it's the perfect implement for the occasion, since I shouldn't be allowed to have sharp objects when I'm in this kind of mood.

To be honest, better tools wouldn't clinch it for me. Let's just say that back in Junior High, I did better in Bachelor Living (managing to be both a euphemism for and a stereotype of Home Ec) than I did in Shop. Of course, I really had no chance going in -- a shop full of heavy/sharp objects, populated to a large degree with the ... less academically aggressive students ... is not a safe place for a skinny and unpopular "new kid" with glasses, suspected (with some justification) of being a geek.

I'm always wary of whether the tree will balance & stay vertical, so I also use the trunk-trim as a way to level out the bottom as well. This is more effective when I don't cut the wrong direction, as I did a couple years ago. I ended up basically wedging that cut back under the trunk like a doorstop.

That's also why I gave up on the old-fashioned metal tripod stand and got one of those enormous bucket-like plastic ones. The advantage to that is that if worse comes to worst, I can just throw away the tree and decorate the stand, since it's pretty tall all by itself. It's so deep that I had to put a wood block in the bottom to prop up the tree. It took me like a half-hour to scrape such a block out of a scrap 2x4 piece (beavers would've been quicker)... only to find at last that the "well" of the stand is wider at the top than at the bottom, so I had to hack off yet another piece.

Finally, I got the tree essentially upright (I told my wife the reason it looked like it was leaning was that "the trunk isn't straight") and brought it in the house. I was so enervated from the tussle that it's taken me the 2 days since to even get lights on it -- which also ranks well below my top-10 fave holiday chores.

For some reason, I've found myself listing at about 5 degrees from vertical since I started working on the tree. Finally I gave up and admitted to myself that the tree was somewhat less than vertical (Step One: We admitted that we were powerless over shrubbery). It was way too late to try to reset it in the stand, so I did the next best thing.

I took the piece I sliced off the end of my original block and stuck it under the edge of the stand, tipping the stand up & making the tree look reasonably plumb. If you come to visit us over the next few weeks, I hope you enjoy our festive decor -- but please close the front door very gently.

What's in a Name

One day, a little over 8 years ago, I found myself on an airplane, desperately trying to come up with a name. I don't mean "a name I couldn't remember", but a name that had never been named before. We were on a flight to Pennsylvania, rushing to try to get there before our son would be born... and rushing to come up with a name before he was born. I think a lot of first-time parents are unprepared, but at least most of them get more than the 3 weeks' notice or so that we got!

Names are tough; we wanted to find a name we liked, and one with some meaning, but one that was also impervious to stupid nicknames. Or too many nicknames -- consider the decision faced by a Robert, who might also be Bob or Robbie or Rob or Bobby (or Robert). Of course, it can be difficult to go to the other extreme... "Mark" is a tough one to come up with a nickname for.

I always impress on my kids the importance of names, especially calling someone by the name they prefer to use as a sign of respect and value. So of course, we have frequent scraps at our house because our daughter likes to shorten her brother's name; he likes to add something to the end of hers.

The Christmas season -- or more properly, the Advent season -- is also a season of names. One of the familiar Advent Scripture passages, one of the ones that's as much a part of the music of the season as "Joy to the World", is the one from Isaiah that prophesies the many names of the coming Messiah: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Prince of Peace.... This past Sunday, we sang, "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel".

There's something about that name for Jesus that really gets to me intensely. I have a great collection of Christmas music, and when I hear the "Immanuel" songs, it sometimes chokes me up a little (no tears, of course; I'm way too manly & cool for that). But the very concept that God was so invested in our lives that He came here to be with us... I just find that so profound and moving.

Maybe the best example of that is Our God Is With Us by Steven Curtis Chapman (or see the lyrics here). When he gets to the bridge, and breaks out with "Rejoice, rejoice"... well, I have to confess I'm running up against the limits of my writing skill. That song takes me way beyond myself to a place of worship, joy, and awe at the enormity of what God's done for us.

I should also add that if necessary, you should sell all of your other Christmas music and buy his The Music of Christmas. It's an astonishing meld of the traditional and the contemporary. One of the best things about Advent for me is that I give myself permission to start listening to Christmas music, and that album's always Number 1 (with a shining star) for me.

Throughout this season, keep your ears open for the different names used to identify and describe the Baby who's coming. Make it a goal to discover and meditate on the one that speaks to you the most deeply.

Hold the Boxes

One of the milestone events of my adolescence was the day cable TV came to the North Country. Suddenly a vast universe of TV viewing unfolded before me -- 11 channels, if I recall correctly. Chief among those was Channel 9 from New York (at the time known as WOR), the television home of my beloved New York Mets... the passport to many hours of watching the heroics of such stalwarts as Ron Hodges, Jerry Morales, Tom Hausman, and Mark Bomback.

Later in the evening after the game was over (and everyone else was in bed) Channel 9 presented the Benny Hill Show -- which at the time was considered pretty racy fare, but nowadays would be left in the dust by your average 8 pm sitcom. It was silly & fast-paced, plenty of sight gags, plenty of cute girls mostly standing around (or being chased by Benny), and the teenage me enjoyed it immensely... OK, I suspect the grown-up me would at least get a few chuckles.

I still remember one sketch where Benny played a TV director and the girl playing the actress in the scene -- they never had names -- read her line, as follows: "What's that in the road? A head?" Then Benny as director stepped in and said, "No, no! It's supposed to be, 'What's that in the road ahead?' "

The point, of course, is that inflection, phrasing, emphasis can make all the difference in the world. I found this out to my chagrin from my post of a couple weeks ago. I was attempting to make a point about how, since my wife is a minister, we always have the potential to be moving -- but I feel better-equipped to handle that, if and when it happens. Unfortunately, the way I phrased it made it sound like we were almost certainly moving (already packing boxes, even); I should've known something was up when two people commented on that single sentence!

So in the interests of clarity, I edited that post to make the sentence reflect reality a little better:

There's no way from here we can know when the actual emergency will be, not just a test; but we understand that’s part of the life we’ve chosen (or for which God has chosen us), and we are learning to trust that he’ll give us what we need to make it happen whenever the time comes.

I'm also posting this entry because it's rare enough for someone to read one of my entries once, much less re-reading to catch edits. And also to let you know that if you're saving up cardboard boxes for us, you can take them to your local recycling station.