tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5591189303367702342024-03-12T23:50:39.140-05:00Dad On the RunMusings Of a Full Time FatherDad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.comBlogger274125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-30650149196887608162021-12-17T08:28:00.006-06:002021-12-17T11:56:45.573-06:00The Last Little Boy Christmas<p>All week we have been hearing about the party in Link’s class today. At 9 years old and in fourth grade, he is so excited about the last day before Christmas break and telling us of the movies they will watch, the games they will play and the treats they will eat. We had to shop for stocking stuffers for twenty, snacks to share with everyone and “Dad, help me remember to take my card game!”</p><p><br /></p><p>Last night Link packed up his bag and told me how he is taking a blanket and a few of his favorite stuffed toys as recommended by the teacher. This morning he put on some clothes and told me with a hint of regret that he had forgotten his Christmas PJ’s at his Mom’s house. Seeing as how I moonlight as Santa, I happened to know he had a set of red Christmas pajamas in the gift stacks. I consulted with Mrs. Claus, and we agreed they should be gifted early. Link lit up like a downtown Christmas tree, smiling from ear to ear as he pulled the red shirt and fuzzy red plaid pants from the wrapping paper. He quickly put them on and gathered his blanket, a comically large stuffed fox, and his favorite pink river otter (he has 5 stuffed river otters, one of which is pink). </p><p><br /></p><p>As he donned a Santa hat, he asked me with curiosity, “Do you think anyone will make fun of me for wearing PJ’s to school?” I confirmed with him that the teacher had invited everyone to do so and we discussed why anyone might poke fun and how to possibly handle it. I let him know that in the unlikely event he were lucky enough to be the only one wearing red PJ pants, a festive shirt and a Santa hat that this would be an awesome show of Christmas spirit. He agreed that even if he were the only one, that would be OK with him. I asked how he would feel if someone did make fun of him and asked if he wanted to carry a change of clothes. He said he wouldn’t like it, but that he didn’t mind the possibility and didn’t need the extra clothes. In looking over his outfit and gear, I thought it more likely he could catch some snide remarks on his pink stuffed animal rather than the outfit so I asked him, without indicating an opinion on the matter, if that was the critter he wanted to take or if he wanted to choose one of his other brown otters. He pondered it and said, “No, I want this one, it’s my favorite. If someone makes fun of me, that’s OK.” I nearly cried on the spot with pride in him and out of concern that this would be the day another boy or group of them would mock and point at him for choosing the toy. It made me sad to know, whether it be today or in the coming months, that he is nearing the age where so many children seem to make it their job to mock each other and point out how someone else is different. He seems well prepared, and I talked with him about how others’ mean words are really like boomerangs intended for themselves. Those who throw the worst are often the recipients at home or in other groups. I encouraged him to let me know how it goes and even gave him a few retorts for any insults on his clothing or animal choice that would show his confidence and lack of concern for any potential naysayers. </p><p><br /></p><p>As we drove to school, I could only think of the email notice received by so many of us indicating the school system is aware of the general threats made against schools nationwide on this last day of the session before Christmas break and all I wanted to do was turn the car around and keep my little elf locked up in Santa’s workshop forever. This is the world we live in. I must hope my son has a great party and while there is some worry over the natural social challenges of school age children, the sad fact is I have hope and pray his school isn’t the target of some kid with easy access to a firearm. </p><p><br /></p><p>Next year, he will be 10. I have a sinking suspicion this could be our last "little boy Christmas," though we might be lucky enough to have another year or two of him being as excited about Christmas parties and unafraid to risk the ire of others for not being cool enough. Today I hugged the little elf, he gladly offered up a smile for his picture and skipped into the school in his pajamas with his pink otter in tow. Merry Christmas little man, you bring the spirit to us all and I hope it lives forever in your heart. May your day be full of candy canes, sugar plums, songs and games! All I want for Christmas is for you and your sisters to come home safe and to feel no shame or fear among your friends. </p>Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-56679381965639971432020-04-08T11:17:00.002-05:002020-04-08T11:17:43.802-05:00Parenting through a global pandemic. If your situation is anything like mine, you are suddenly thrust upon the at-home schooling world while still dealing with your “usual” responsibilities (if there is such a thing anymore). It’s all more than a little overwhelming and I find myself often lost in my own perception of the situation. MY stress, MY feelings, MY aggravation and it’s very easy to fall into the old song and dance of, “why is this happening to ME?” I could write a book on being above or below the line (and that victim mentality is definitely below the line), but in this case I want to take another approach. Let’s put ourselves in the place of these kids and try to remember what our perception of the world looked like when we were the little ones. Let's keep in mind what it must feel like for them to witness this moment in history. <br /><br />I know things weren’t always perfect when I was growing up. The world and my family had our share of problems, but during my younger years I was blissfully unaware and unconcerned about those issues for the most part. In the vast string of moments I now think of as “childhood,” I had a definite feeling that no matter what, everything was going to be OK. In my eyes, the world was controlled and held at bay by my parents. This is one of the wonders of being a kid and it is something we have all been doing our best to provide to our littles from the day they came into our lives. I was an adult when 9/11 came along, but that is the closest thing I can imagine to the psychological impact to this generation’s worldview right now. In one terrifying morning, I went from thinking the world was one way, to knowing it was another way altogether. <br /><br />Now we're the grownups and all these kids (when did we have so many? LOL) are looking to us. Recent events like school being cancelled and being unable to see their friends, having the ability to go and do things they want, and lack of the ability to just live in what was “normal life” is very hard on the kids. Couple that with the bits of news they see, the concern for relatives they can't see and for themselves (Will I get sick? Will my parents?) and this is a slow burning traumatic event. <br /><br />Whether they are verbalizing it or not, they are impacted. Whether they are showing us or not, they are concerned and worried. It is now painfully obvious to them that what happens in the world is not always controlled by their parents. This is a hard thing to reconcile for me and I’m trying my best to show some extra patience, to spend time (even when I don’t have it), to give an extra hug and to keep up every aspect of “normality” I can with the kids. I’m sorry they have to learn so soon how little we control, but I will make sure to teach them what we do control… our reactions to any situation. I talk with myself every morning about this and remind myself it’s not about me, my feelings and anxieties can take the backseat while the kids are watching. As the grown ups in the room, we can take it, we can pretend to be OK even if we're not at that moment, we can hold our tongue and watch our tone. We can check that outburst of frustration at schoolwork or their need for more supervision. Of course, there is still discipline and structure, but there is a big, big helping of grace needed for these little ones who woke up to find that everything they knew changed in a heartbeat. Keep this in mind… they will graduate, they will grow older, they will remember this time and more than anything, they will remember how we made them feel in the middle of it. Those frequent moments of insubordination, bickering, or apparent lack of motivation are natural responses to major stress. Have patience, show better ways to respond and give more hugs. Be easy parenting partners. We can do this. <br /><br /><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="5jg3t" data-offset-key="3h6io-0-0" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: pre-wrap; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
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Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-19722661388915494102020-04-03T09:08:00.000-05:002020-04-03T14:12:15.646-05:00What's in a name?<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1LHfj90YIog/XodCDZfnkDI/AAAAAAAAJn0/L0wI3I1POa05V9ZWWbEiJ9rRLH383PuqACEwYBhgLKs4DAMBZVoASv_wSbCdMizs-uB3ZSuUssisZUXAv287sazWOrDczvEjNlgUPYtAz8ZS_9hrqaweSU2EBE5f7ptRb8CQQs3Wusqye4JRkomBsmUTGeTJkxvcU0seWt966BxktYPiY8sfp261WqpmBeISZdVOY9ijZ9TbNtQ9KSucm5h5_dwRdo0zD892B07jC2mNIOeF-KZ94ioQAy4NPcYz_fav4gSdG1rPJ30xqtDEHbuorItMGEcgHAd2K6tm7Yt_f8G_BKq4GT3dvOreLTumhbrRcw3LkUy_-avyxaVYEkAKidrbz-7hrAF3v3kvRLxKMeJUMEUPGaePQtva6g6VkeRKj-dPkifpdZ_0Kr8CVB9RwiY4Z7vYOn63h1F2xigELXqp-fHZBAnWazgzwD0Y95flskul4_ySuzjJaqVPxRnAdTC-DcvcZazIUAe6qb4yzNJyPgxzKmPzuLc4ejpqpRKFlgBAqdUZLWskDAcuN_ptvzLxaih8N0kaFHJ6N2qsQQYNJI3raqQyW7ygjG0dIhwNUDFVBLmpm9kU_HGN6XIFNvuokDqq82wFA5ue39EmOZwJm2NAE8aYCxrgGAA2FSglmmT3eZn8S5AK-HnH1MICLnfQF/s1600/2020-03-26%2BHammock%2BPark%2Bplayground%2Bfenced%2Bcovid%2B19%2Bclosed%2B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1021" data-original-width="1600" height="204" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1LHfj90YIog/XodCDZfnkDI/AAAAAAAAJn0/L0wI3I1POa05V9ZWWbEiJ9rRLH383PuqACEwYBhgLKs4DAMBZVoASv_wSbCdMizs-uB3ZSuUssisZUXAv287sazWOrDczvEjNlgUPYtAz8ZS_9hrqaweSU2EBE5f7ptRb8CQQs3Wusqye4JRkomBsmUTGeTJkxvcU0seWt966BxktYPiY8sfp261WqpmBeISZdVOY9ijZ9TbNtQ9KSucm5h5_dwRdo0zD892B07jC2mNIOeF-KZ94ioQAy4NPcYz_fav4gSdG1rPJ30xqtDEHbuorItMGEcgHAd2K6tm7Yt_f8G_BKq4GT3dvOreLTumhbrRcw3LkUy_-avyxaVYEkAKidrbz-7hrAF3v3kvRLxKMeJUMEUPGaePQtva6g6VkeRKj-dPkifpdZ_0Kr8CVB9RwiY4Z7vYOn63h1F2xigELXqp-fHZBAnWazgzwD0Y95flskul4_ySuzjJaqVPxRnAdTC-DcvcZazIUAe6qb4yzNJyPgxzKmPzuLc4ejpqpRKFlgBAqdUZLWskDAcuN_ptvzLxaih8N0kaFHJ6N2qsQQYNJI3raqQyW7ygjG0dIhwNUDFVBLmpm9kU_HGN6XIFNvuokDqq82wFA5ue39EmOZwJm2NAE8aYCxrgGAA2FSglmmT3eZn8S5AK-HnH1MICLnfQF/s320/2020-03-26%2BHammock%2BPark%2Bplayground%2Bfenced%2Bcovid%2B19%2Bclosed%2B.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "inherit" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I have to admit, my heart breaks a little to see pictures of
things the kids cannot do right now. There are plenty of smiles in our house
and, as usual, children seem to take anything in stride (as long as we do). We
are taking advantage of the time at home and enjoying the extra quality time,
but the strangeness of the situation is hard to come to terms with. We are glad
to have plenty to do in and around the house and the school work is a welcome
diversion before lunch, but every time we step outside I feel like we're just
enjoying some "yard time" in the "big house."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "inherit" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">These sacrifices are small given the reward of saving lives, but
I long for the day when kids can again run around a playground with friends or
perfect strangers. I miss watching them dart around the park not knowing,
caring or even asking for names. What's in a name anyway? Who needs one when
you know each other through twinkling eyes and laughter in the sunshine? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "inherit" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">I miss the smiles between children at the park as they push and
test boundaries of "fair play" and see which of their tricks can make
the others laugh. I look forward to the time when telling the kids to keep
their hands away from their mouth and face is just a form of correcting manners
and civility again rather than a massively important lesson in safety. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VA836mbs4pg/XodCHaWTVXI/AAAAAAAAJn4/2EzlVgsRRCEWl93yWF6_mXVstYprtPx2QCEwYBhgLKs4DAMBZVoASv_wSbCdMizs-uB3ZSuUssisZUXAv287sazWOrDczvEjNlgUPYtAz8ZS_9hrqaweSU2EBE5f7ptRb8CQQs3Wusqye4JRkomBsmUTGeTJkxvcU0seWt966BxktYPiY8sfp261WqpmBeISZdVOY9ijZ9TbNtQ9KSucm5h5_dwRdo0zD892B07jC2mNIOeF-KZ94ioQAy4NPcYz_fav4gSdG1rPJ30xqtDEHbuorItMGEcgHAd2K6tm7Yt_f8G_BKq4GT3dvOreLTumhbrRcw3LkUy_-avyxaVYEkAKidrbz-7hrAF3v3kvRLxKMeJUMEUPGaePQtva6g6VkeRKj-dPkifpdZ_0Kr8CVB9RwiY4Z7vYOn63h1F2xigELXqp-fHZBAnWazgzwD0Y95flskul4_ySuzjJaqVPxRnAdTC-DcvcZazIUAe6qb4yzNJyPgxzKmPzuLc4ejpqpRKFlgBAqdUZLWskDAcuN_ptvzLxaih8N0kaFHJ6N2qsQQYNJI3raqQyW7ygjG0dIhwNUDFVBLmpm9kU_HGN6XIFNvuokDqq82wFA5ue39EmOZwJm2NAE8aYCxrgGAA2FSglmmT3eZn8S5AK-HnH1MICLnfQF/s1600/2019-03-24-19%2BAsher%2Bon%2Bmonkey%2Bbars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1269" data-original-width="1600" height="253" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VA836mbs4pg/XodCHaWTVXI/AAAAAAAAJn4/2EzlVgsRRCEWl93yWF6_mXVstYprtPx2QCEwYBhgLKs4DAMBZVoASv_wSbCdMizs-uB3ZSuUssisZUXAv287sazWOrDczvEjNlgUPYtAz8ZS_9hrqaweSU2EBE5f7ptRb8CQQs3Wusqye4JRkomBsmUTGeTJkxvcU0seWt966BxktYPiY8sfp261WqpmBeISZdVOY9ijZ9TbNtQ9KSucm5h5_dwRdo0zD892B07jC2mNIOeF-KZ94ioQAy4NPcYz_fav4gSdG1rPJ30xqtDEHbuorItMGEcgHAd2K6tm7Yt_f8G_BKq4GT3dvOreLTumhbrRcw3LkUy_-avyxaVYEkAKidrbz-7hrAF3v3kvRLxKMeJUMEUPGaePQtva6g6VkeRKj-dPkifpdZ_0Kr8CVB9RwiY4Z7vYOn63h1F2xigELXqp-fHZBAnWazgzwD0Y95flskul4_ySuzjJaqVPxRnAdTC-DcvcZazIUAe6qb4yzNJyPgxzKmPzuLc4ejpqpRKFlgBAqdUZLWskDAcuN_ptvzLxaih8N0kaFHJ6N2qsQQYNJI3raqQyW7ygjG0dIhwNUDFVBLmpm9kU_HGN6XIFNvuokDqq82wFA5ue39EmOZwJm2NAE8aYCxrgGAA2FSglmmT3eZn8S5AK-HnH1MICLnfQF/s320/2019-03-24-19%2BAsher%2Bon%2Bmonkey%2Bbars.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "inherit" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Please don't mistake my nostalgia for despair, we have so much
to be grateful for and hope and happiness rule the day. I am thankful for our
pets, they keep the place lively. For our screened in porch and pool to pass
the days, for the size of our clan (four kids get on each other's nerves sometimes, but it's great to have siblings in shared isolation). I'm thankful for a job that allows
me to work at home and gives me the time to check on others. I'm grateful for
my wife's ability to support the local hospitals remotely. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "inherit" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">My heart goes out to those with more imminent financial concerns
and those suffering from illness or dealing with loved ones who are. I try to
remember those sheltering alone and to know for some that is very hard (so
check on them). I hope everyone is appreciative of what we do have and that we
look for the bright side of every day and every moment. It is always there.
There can be no light without darkness. Take care of yourselves and, if you're
able, someone else too. Whether we know the names or not, we're all just
playground brothers and sisters with a twinkle in our eyes and a longing for
brighter days to return. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-66491536927567540632020-02-03T19:34:00.003-06:002020-02-03T19:34:39.821-06:00"I am a Giant"<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
J Bean was struggling with some homework. After working on it independently, I found her crying in despair over the assignment. It took some convincing, stern and loving, to remind her we don't give up. We don't shy away from challenges and that while I don't really care if she ever learns how to divide decimals, I certainly care a whole lot that she learns she is capable of anything and she can, in fact, do all things.</div>
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I gave her 15 minutes to collect herself then we regrouped and tackled the material. Now, when you're teaching your kids how to do math, it's best to sit and read as if you don't know a thing because it's probably not being the taught the same as when you learned. The computations might be the same, but the tricks and ways they ask you to think about it might not be. So I sat down, told her I was green at this approach too and we were going to learn it. At first she was frustrated and kept revisiting the recent failure... finally got her to let that go and focus on what we were learning. And I did learn it, I stopped and told her to be patient as I learned what she already knew so we could go past it together into your part she was struggling with. I explained the movement of the decimal and defined the quotient (the answer), the divisor (the one doing the dividing) and the dividend (the one being divided) and that helped to unlock the hieroglyphics for her. I illustrated that decimals were no harder than regular division. When I showed her how to move the decimal, the comprehension hit her eye with a flash. I don't think I've ever been so proud of her (and myself), the visible click in her eye changed her posture, her facial expression, her confidence and everything all at once. This must be the feeling lifelong teachers fall in love with, what a reward! Then I set her down with a problem to do on her own. Reassured her we weren't going to work on this all night, but told her I wanted to end on a success. She did the problem and did it right. We're actually behind on the lesson and she has some catching up to do tomorrow, but she got it. She can do it. She was all smiles and said, "Thank you for teaching me, Daddy." So after I scraped my melted heart up off the floor and before I sent her off to bed, I told her to stand on a chair in front of me. She giggled at the thought and asked why... "Just do it," I replied.</div>
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"Look at me, in my eyes. I wanted you up here because you are a giant, and I want you to see you how I see you."</div>
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She giggled nervously, eyes darting around. I had made sure the new arrangement had her looking down on me.</div>
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"None of your brothers and sisters are around, it's just you and me, so don't be embarassed. I just wanted you to know that you are capable of all things and that you are a giant. I mean that."</div>
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I told her, "Things are not always going to be easy. You're a smart kid and you're going to be challenged constantly, but I want you to know you are capable of anything, that's not just something I say. It's 100% true. I'm so proud of you for picking yourself up earlier, because that's hard (and I've been there)... look in my eyes, you think there is never a day when I don't think I can do what I need to do that day? There's plenty of them, kiddo, but I learned a long time ago what you just learned tonight. You collect yourself, you refocus, you come at it another way, you find help, you learn from somone because there is nothing you can't do, only things you can't do YET."</div>
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"Do you understand?"</div>
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"I think so, Daddy."</div>
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"Then tell me."</div>
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"Tell you what?"</div>
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"Tell me you're a giant."</div>
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"I'm a GIANT!"</div>
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"Yes, you are. So when you hear that little voice that was talking to you earlier, the one that had you crying in your robe and giving up.... I want you to smack that voice in the face <I slapped my hands together>... you tell that voice NO... I CAN DO ALL THINGS!"</div>
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"Do you believe me?"</div>
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"Yeah."</div>
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"Will you do that for me next time? You come find me, you come find someone and we'll work through it together. Nothing is impossible and I'll always be there for you. I don't care about that assignment, but I do care about you knowing how to pick yourself up and carry on because there are going to be some tough days. Now give me a hug, because I'm very proud of you."</div>
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As I tucked her in a few minutes later, she said, "Daddy, you're wise." LOL, for some reason, that made me laugh and I told her that I wasn't always wise and that I learned the same way and that sometimes I forget, but that we both need to try our best not to. Curling up and crying is fine for a time, sometimes we need that, but then we get up and we try again. Same for us parents, right? I don't always show up like I intend to, but I keep trying and that's enough. Once in awhile, like tonight, I get it right.</div>
Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-14854608324880626912019-03-15T17:34:00.004-05:002019-03-15T17:34:53.047-05:00Mindset... it always starts with you. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today as we took a look around a new park Link was in a particularly foul mood. I think he stayed up too late last night. In his mind, everything was against him. He didn't like the park (his sister thought it was the best park she had "ever been too"), he was tired, he was sweaty, the bugs were biting... if it could go wrong for him it did and even things that were not wrong were aggravating him.<br /><br />I found myself telling him straighten up, turn your attitude around, decide to have a good time and you will immediately start having one. After passing on this advice a few times, I found myself getting aggravated because he was ungrateful and whiny. I was starting to snap with my responses. Suddenly it hit me... I was not following my own advice. Here I am telling him to start acting like he's having a good time and turn his attitude around in order to turn a bad day into a good one, but I was doing the exact opposite. I'm trying to teach him that external input is a small part of the equation. Events happen, good and bad... some we can control, most we cannot. What we do have total control over is our reaction. I took my own advice and examined my reactions. As we walked over the boardwalk we saw a creek and I excitedly told the kids to watch my leaf. I cast it off and they all watched with intensity as my leaf swung around the bend, almost caught on a limb and tumbled along the shallow sandy bottom out of sight.<br />
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One of Link's sisters said, "Let's race!" I agreed and encouraged Link to grab a red leaf nearby. Everyone had a leaf in the water and several were stuck. I told them all to try again, there is no limit to the race leaves you can use! Soon all were smiling and tossing in leaves as I announced the leaf race as if it were the Kentucky Derby. Link's smile soon spread to his mindset and the rest of the walk was pleasant. We all spoke in the car about mindset and how we worked together to change Link's. I told him I was proud of how he was able to turn his day around and rewarded them with some sprinkler time once we got home.<br /><br />It always starts with ourselves. The only thing we can control. The sooner we learn that we cannot control others, even our children's emotions and feelings then the sooner we can look inward to find the way to help them by helping ourselves.<br /><br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uzySDRwD8AE/XIwlC59B1yI/AAAAAAAAJGk/82oIucnbN1ovSIe28jXBEt5IKzwdmEQxACLcBGAs/s1600/2019-03-15%2BAsher%2Bin%2Bgood%2Bmood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1171" data-original-width="1600" height="233" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uzySDRwD8AE/XIwlC59B1yI/AAAAAAAAJGk/82oIucnbN1ovSIe28jXBEt5IKzwdmEQxACLcBGAs/s320/2019-03-15%2BAsher%2Bin%2Bgood%2Bmood.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8kJaJOwgJEc/XIwlCRMU4TI/AAAAAAAAJGg/5rlYdsi9sk4e3AQENL2erQx--54dmgp6gCLcBGAs/s1600/2019-03-15%2BAsher%2Bin%2Bbad%2Bmood%2Bsitting%2Bon%2Bdeck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1229" data-original-width="1600" height="152" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8kJaJOwgJEc/XIwlCRMU4TI/AAAAAAAAJGg/5rlYdsi9sk4e3AQENL2erQx--54dmgp6gCLcBGAs/s200/2019-03-15%2BAsher%2Bin%2Bbad%2Bmood%2Bsitting%2Bon%2Bdeck.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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<br />Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-6540728605329905252019-03-03T09:35:00.003-06:002019-03-03T09:41:41.009-06:00Get Out Of Your Lane<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ULqyfNgJyM4/XHvySDL4RiI/AAAAAAAAJDI/-2soD8P8wxMmuVAjE-G-ppoEvpjhgbjKgCEwYBhgL/s1600/2019-02-19%2BDad%2BBlogger%2BEric%2BRoundtable.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="599" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ULqyfNgJyM4/XHvySDL4RiI/AAAAAAAAJDI/-2soD8P8wxMmuVAjE-G-ppoEvpjhgbjKgCEwYBhgL/s320/2019-02-19%2BDad%2BBlogger%2BEric%2BRoundtable.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0qBdPuIfuDA/XHvySfBv_zI/AAAAAAAAJDM/eeRs_MxRtBIvDnXTH8G__PpUXO6gPJmVwCEwYBhgL/s1600/2019-02-19%2BSan%2BAntonio%2BDad%2BBloggers%2BEric%2BBoyette%2Binterview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1394" data-original-width="1600" height="276" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0qBdPuIfuDA/XHvySfBv_zI/AAAAAAAAJDM/eeRs_MxRtBIvDnXTH8G__PpUXO6gPJmVwCEwYBhgL/s320/2019-02-19%2BSan%2BAntonio%2BDad%2BBloggers%2BEric%2BBoyette%2Binterview.jpg" width="320" /></a>It has been over 4 years since I last attended the Dad 2.0 summit. The last time I was there, I was in the throes of a separation and was heading back to the workforce after 5 years as a stay home dad. It was one of the most difficult times of my life as I had to say goodbye to a marriage and to my days full of my children and turn again to the corporate world.<br />
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I also had reached nearly 300lbs and was suffering from many weight related health issues. For a few years I flopped around in this limbo. I had bad habits, I had my children half the time and the other half I lived like I was a frat boy bachelor. My health spiraled further.<br />
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I was lucky enough to meet a woman who saw past my shortcomings and saw the version of myself that I had once sought. She loved me for the bits of that guy that still shined through. We started dating and were married about a year later. We blended our households and became the modern day Brady Bunch. We bought a house and started getting used to asking for a table for a half-dozen when we were out to eat. Unfortunately, my health did not improve much. I was happy and lost a bit of weight, but was still dealing with serious hypertension, high cholesterol and my blood sugar was on the rise into pre-diabetic levels.<br />
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After a year in our new home the doctor gave me some stern warnings and I decided that I needed to address my health. I reached out to a friend, started a nutritional program and lost 152 lbs combined (I lost 80 and my wife lost 72). It was during that time that I decided it was time to get out of my lane to change my body, my mind and my situation. I missed my time at home and made it my goal to find a way to support my family from home. Since the weight loss had changed my life so much, I looked into and became a health coach, soon I walked away from my previous career and have since helped over 60 people find healthier versions of themselves.<br />
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Then just last month, I attended the Dad 2.0 summit again, this time as a presenter and I had the amazing opportunity to speak with other parents about how they too could get out of their lane and make changes in their relationships, their jobs or any area of their lives with a clear goal, a plan and action. As usually, the summit was rejuvenating for me. To have the opportunity to rub shoulders with some of the best fathers on the planet (no kidding) and to rekindle friendships from those I only see online was amazing. This year was also a new experience, in that it was the first time I took my wife. It was fun to see her meet some of the characters from my online world in real life and for them to meet her and get to know her grace and kindness. We had an amazing vacation in San Antonio while attending the conference and she was able to see some of the movers and shakers I am always talking about.<br />
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It's nearly unbelievable to fathom how much a life can change, a person can change, in 4 short years. I just wanted to tell you all that your current reality does not have to dictate your future. It is never too late to make a change and to create the life you have dreamt of. Find your "why," set a goal, make a plan and do the work... that is how you change a dream to a reality.<br /><br />
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I have so much to be thankful for and work everyday to pay it forward. If you have personal goals you seek to meet, go after it and do it hard. If I can help you in anyway, just reach out.<br /><br />
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My wife and I when we met (above left) and now (above right and below).</div>
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Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-65554473985816047132018-12-22T14:56:00.003-06:002018-12-23T10:59:32.431-06:00Father Time<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="ej84k" data-offset-key="425b3-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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A small white house nestled in the curve of a paved lane overhung by Live Oaks and Dogwood trees is the home of Mr. Odell. He is well over 90 years this year and I’m about 10 years old. My Mom takes us over to his house once in awhile and he attends our church in Ellenwood, Georgia. My Dad is new in his career as an airline pilot, so he’s gone for days at a time and Momma works to keep the cabin-fever away by taking us here and there for visits and activities.</div>
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Mr. Odell’s house is small, tidy, and quaint. Behind his house are grapevines and gourds as well as a small vegetable garden. He has birdfeeders made of gourds, planters made of gourds, gourd windchimes, birdhouses and bowls all from gourds. The old man loves to have us over and shows my sister and I his latest puzzle each time when we arrive. He works on thousand piece or bigger puzzles all the time. Placing each piece on a specially built table and then gluing the masterpiece to a wood or cardboard backing for display, though most seem to sit in endless stacks of a dank poorly lit room in the back of the house. I wonder at how he stares at the puzzles and a single piece for what seems like an eternity at times. The kitchen is small and bright and coffee is always brewing and there is a small porch out front.</div>
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Mr. Odell is a tall, wiry man with big hands and a white beard. He has a comically large and quick smile and a twinkle in his eye reminiscent of Saint Nic though he has none of the jelly bowl on his small frame. He has family, but none live nearby, and his wife passed decades ago. He occasionally pulls a smooth plank of metal out of his pocket and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger.</div>
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“What is that Mr. Odell?” I ask.</div>
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“Oh, this is a silver dollar I started carrying in 1910.”</div>
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I look wildly at him, this is 1987 and I’ve been around for 10 years. This relic of a man has been carrying this silver dollar since the turn of the century? It doesn’t look like a silver dollar. It’s the size of a quarter and completely smooth save one notch missing from one side. Mr. Odell explains that he carried the silver dollar on a chain for the first 30 years or so, but the chain eventually wore through the coin and he has since kept it loose. The coin resides in the small watch pocket on his denim overalls along with his pocket watch which was probably just as antiquated. I was envious as I could be and carried around my own silver dollar for a few weeks before losing interest and probably the coin. Mr. Odell also showed me a halfmoon sliver of metal from his front pocket, which he explained was his wedding ring that had also worn itself down to a shiny half-moon on his finger decades ago. He returns the items to his pockets as soon as I had a glimpse and a feel of them. We sit on the front stoop and watch black birds swoop across the horizon like a modern piece of pointillism come to life. He says nothing and sips on his lemonade.</div>
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Momma and Jessica are wandering around the grape orchard in the back and my little sister squeals with delight at the sight of a butterfly. Momma shows her how to pluck a honeysuckle and lick the nectar from the stigma of the flower after pinching off the calyx and pulling the tiny plunger through the flower. Squirrels quarrel noisily in a tree nearby. Mr. Odell slowly gazes toward the street again and puts a foot on a stump that is sawed off at table height. A car scoots by too fast and he mentions that cars are not too loud these days. “You gotta pay attention so as not get run over,” he says to me.</div>
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The idea was novel, so I asked what cars were like before. He laughed and stood, stretching his long bony skeleton like Don Quixote just came to life and stepped out of a Baroque painting. He hitched up his overalls, tucking his bony hands into the front flap. This pose signified the beginning of a story, so I waited with much anticipation. Mr. Odell began in his crackly centenarian’s voice, which still carried the weight of its former strength. “Well, one day when I was about your age, I sat here with old men from the area and they would tell yarns while spitting chaw or taking a nip from a flask when the women-folk were in the house. One man was prone to making bets… and let me tell you Eric… never take a bet. A man won’t offer it if he thinks he can lose; and never make a bet because one day you’ll be wrong, and you will lose big. Anyway, this fella told my Daddy that he bet a silver dollar he could move his hand before my Daddy could drop his hatchet on his finger there at that very stump. My Daddy took the bet and we all readied the area in anticipation since Old Paul wasn’t prone to losing a bet and my Daddy wasn’t prone to taking one. The table was set, and Paul had his hand on the stump…”</div>
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(“Pardon the pun”, Mr. Odell said and chuckled to himself, though I had no idea why at the time)</div>
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After wiping the smile off his face and letting the laugh die in his belly, Mr. Odell continued, “Well, ol Paul had his hand in a fist on the wood block with his pinky sticking out and my Daddy had his small prunin’ hatchet at the ready. After much deliberation about how this would start, it was decided that one man would count to three and my Daddy could drop the hatchet at any point after. Daddy even laid a couple of cumquats on the table to show Paul how he would do it. Two quick chops turned the fruits into four pieces as easy as a hot poker through butter. Now they were ready, and Mr. Johnson started counting. One… Two… Three… but as he said three, we all heard a commotion on the road. It was a motor vehicle and I, for one, and prolly most of them had never seen such a contraption. It was putting along with smoke belching out and an awful noise. ‘Look!’ I said. Just then we heard a hatchet dig into the stump. Daddy and Paul looked down wild-eyed and Paul put a handkerchief over the tip of his finger. The nub set on the block next to the cumquats and looked right at home, truth be told. They took Paul inside and Momma and them cleaned and cauterized his finger. It wasn’t so bad, he didn’t even lose a knuckle, but that’s how I got this here silver dollar.”</div>
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I watched him roll the smooth metal disc across his knuckles like it was floating on air before flipping it up and asking me “Heads or Tails?!” before placing it deftly back into it’s home. Heads or tails was another joke, since the smooth plank had no discernible features.</div>
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“Yeah, Ol’ Paul was alright, but he weren’t no fan of the horseless carriage after that.” Mr. Odell slapped his knee, and guffawed as he plucked a pomegranate from the tree, cut it in quarters with an old Case knife and tossed me a section. I have no idea if the story was true and don’t much care. When you’re older than everyone else, I guess you can tell whatever kind of story you want, who’s to say otherwise?</div>
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Momma and Jessica came back to the house and Momma asked what was so funny. “Oh nothing, just telling this little fella about the first car I ever saw,” he said and shot a wink in my direction.</div>
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We would bring him a covered dish once every week or two and enjoyed the yard and putting some puzzles together over the next year and eventually we moved away. It was before social media and I doubt Mr. Odell woulda been the Instagram type anyway, but I think of him from time to time. A kind man, with a kind heart and a great story to tell for any occasion. I know there is no possibility he still roams this Earth, but I will always envision him on that stoop watching the cars roll by while the dogwood blooms fall in the yard.</div>
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Goodbye Father Time, the idea of a coin in your pocket for nearly a hundred years was probably the first concept of time and aging I ever had and helped me to imagine that my life’s choices could affect me for far longer than I could imagine. Time can sand a ring into a sliver and wrinkle an old man into a gnarly tree, but it couldn’t extinguish the twinkle in his eyes until they closed for the last time.</div>
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Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-4827234049205055342018-11-11T21:43:00.000-06:002018-11-12T04:27:03.154-06:00Stories... <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit in a room with hundreds of people and watch a peer and
a friend speak softly into her microphone. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few minutes ago, I was stirring a coffee and
mingling with others in the lobby. But now I am fully present in the room and her
voice wavers only slightly as her lips move and her heart speaks to us all. She
tells us of a coach and mentor who came to her aid as her child battled for his
life. She speaks of recovery for the child and realizations of her own. She
speaks of physical, financial and mental weight and how this friend and leader
introduced her to our program and helped her shed them all. She reminds us of the
importance of our job and the impacts we can make before inviting us all to
share what we know to help others with those burdens. She bites her bottom lip
as many in the crowd blink away tears or hide them with genuine applause and
appreciation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was just one of many stories we heard over the weekend.
I saw people I didn’t know and heard about families who were strangers to me,
but somewhere along the way lines began pulling at my heart reminding me how we’re
all connected and as the speaker said, “we’re more similar than we are
different.” This wasn’t the first time tears welled in my eyes during the convention
in response to a story of seemingly insurmountable odds met with overwhelming
transformation (in health, in thinking and perspectives, and in time and
financial freedom). Somewhere during the weekend, I redefined my “job” as a “mission”
and my business plans became the blueprint of an empire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw with perfect clarity that I am not a salesperson, but
a guide. A coach to help others lay down weights they have no need to carry. I realized
I needn’t worry about whether I should make a pitch, but to simply lead with my
heart while listening with my ears to see how this program could help change a
life. There is only one way to get to know a life and there are no shortcuts: it
takes time and it takes questions, it takes a keen ear and an open heart. Once
you know a life, you don’t have a pitch to make at all because now you simply
recognize an opportunity. The only challenge is in knowing how to deliver it in
the best possible way for the recipient to actually hear and consider it. To
help them hear in a way that allows them to uncover their own motivation (or “why”)
and leads them to dream. Dreaming is a talent so many of us lose early in life,
so to be able to awaken that within someone and then to hand them a map on how
to achieve those dreams is truly an amazing gift. My coach shared a gift with me,
there’s not a bone in my body that feels like I was “sold.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this weekend’s event we did some good for others and
plenty for ourselves. As I sit here watching the faces of strangers in the
room, those faces become those of friends and family. The stories show what we
have in common and they are the thread that hold us all together like so many braided
blankets on a cold night. We’re lashed together by the common purpose of seeking
to become the best coaches and friends we can be. I see determination in the
eyes of my peers. I see wonder, love and a giving spirit in every smile. This
is how we change the world, with strength and support for each other, with empathy
and encouragement for everyone we meet. <br />
<br />
The trip is over now and I’m thankful to be home with my family. Excitement and
inspiration will undoubtedly fade over the coming weeks, but I notice many
posts from fellow attendees showing happy reunions with families greeting them.
It’s another set of stories, though I don’t cry this time, I just smile to
myself. I love these stories. They play out every day in the conversations we
have. How will the next chapter in your story begin? You won’t know until you
start writing it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-30772341592573392982018-09-09T16:30:00.002-05:002018-09-09T18:04:47.885-05:00Go Toward The LightI've managed to lose 54 pounds in the last 4 months. No, I'm not done.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Yenb_zb3Fb0/W5WQ3Icc_iI/AAAAAAAAIxY/GL-BIYtZ6qkdYHy4pL3HbRQCLzP8EaceACLcBGAs/s1600/Beforeandafter4monthslawnmowing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1354" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Yenb_zb3Fb0/W5WQ3Icc_iI/AAAAAAAAIxY/GL-BIYtZ6qkdYHy4pL3HbRQCLzP8EaceACLcBGAs/s320/Beforeandafter4monthslawnmowing.jpg" width="270" /></a></div>
<br />
Somewhere along the way to my current forty something, I began hearing my doctor say things that I didn't want to hear.<br />
<br />
"You're overweight, you're pre-diabetic, your blood pressure is high, your cholesterol is high. You are heading toward heart problems if you don't change your lifestyle."<br />
<br />
I didn't like that, so I let it one ear and out the other. I was content to keep eating everything I wanted with no activity to speak of and a sedentary job. A friend reached out to me to ask if I would be interested in hearing a program he was on that had led him to lose over 60lbs (at the time... he's well on his way to 100 now). I brushed him off a few times and then, decided to hear him out. He explained the program to me and showed me how it would work and what it would cost (not much compared to what I was already spending on lunches, after work drinks and snacks).<br />
<br />
I decided to give it a try and now here I am wondering how I have made it so far. My responsibilities didn't change, but my mindset did. It's hard not to believe in something when you see it working everyday. I just went back to the doc this past week and I'm now off my blood sugar medication (a shot I was giving myself in the stomach every day). I'm off cholesterol medications and I'm down to 2 of the original 3 blood pressure medications. My pulse is slower, my waist is smaller and I'm feeling great!<br />
<br />
I really feel like I'm adding years to my life as I take inches from my belt. I'm not a guy with the most will-power, but the program has worked and there is no denying what a little discipline will do for you once you put your mind to it and find a program that works for your needs. I'm not working out, though I do try to be more active. I still get to eat some of my favorite things, but I'm monitoring my intake much closer now. Thank you to all who are supporting me and I encourage you to find a way to get healthier as well. Our children see us as super heroes and I'd like each and every one of you to keep that illusion for them as long as possible through better health and habits. If you need a hand in finding your way, please let me know because I would love to help you!Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-88450161628297650002018-04-08T09:43:00.002-05:002018-04-08T09:55:12.726-05:00On Changes... (two and a half years later)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has been some time since I updated these pages, but I’m
happy to report both J Bean and Link are growing like weeds and doing well. VV
has a place nearby and we’ve been doing OK with the co-parenting gig, though we
struggle with the occasional flash fire. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The person I alluded to in my last post as someone who
thinks I am a better person than I am is now my wife. We’ll call her Serene
here and she came to my world with two kids of her own, Bea and Nikki (also
aliases). Serene and I bought a house and my career is back in full sing. As we
have blended our homes into one giant Brady Bunch, we have dealt with hurdles
in house rules, exes, schedules and the usual fun of living with someone new. Now
our house consists of Serene, Dad on the Run, J Bean (9), Bea (14), Link (6),
Nikki (10) and a puppy named Shade. I always dreamed of a big family and now
when I ask for a table at a restaurant, the count is a half dozen! The puppy is
an Australian Shepherd and we decided to get him because with only 4 kids, we
found we were getting too much sleep and really didn’t have enough messes to
deal with. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Serene and I met online and had a whirlwind romance, she is
the most supportive and loving person I have ever met. She’s a wonderful
mother, a beautiful person inside and out and I don’t know where I would be
without her. Serene works on the IT side of a healthcare company, hails from
Kentucky (which mixes well with my Georgia roots), and just happens to be one
hot Mommy. In getting to know Serene, she took it upon herself to read my
entire blog, which had the effect of allowing her to get to know me in
ludicrous speed. After that, she was still interested, so what could I do but ask
her to be my wife? Now, if I could just convince Serene to write a biography,
then I could do the same. Much of her past seems a mystery to me, and she never
thinks her story is as interesting as it is. I look forward to years of prying
open that shell to find the pearls within. In the meantime, our magnetic
attraction and complementary personalities keep life interesting. To say I’m in
love would be an understatement and to write how happy I am would certainly
fall short of reality. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel a little rusty in my story painting, so it may take
me awhile to get the brushstrokes down again. I'll give you one guess on who has been begging me to start writing again for the past few years. Thank you all for your support
over the past years, I look forward to sharing more in this new chapter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ecV8trsuxYI/Wsos5FeAkuI/AAAAAAAAIrE/buXD6VOGG88LcNeNbzQQok3E23vsciMwACLcBGAs/s1600/20171223_161735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ecV8trsuxYI/Wsos5FeAkuI/AAAAAAAAIrE/buXD6VOGG88LcNeNbzQQok3E23vsciMwACLcBGAs/s400/20171223_161735.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From left to right, Bea, Nikki, Shade, J Bean and Link</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fntbWeQHFNg/Wsos4i_QEnI/AAAAAAAAIq8/_1JUizpLCKYw8cA_Jm7ULdbMWy6O9MdzACLcBGAs/s1600/20180408_104718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1054" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fntbWeQHFNg/Wsos4i_QEnI/AAAAAAAAIq8/_1JUizpLCKYw8cA_Jm7ULdbMWy6O9MdzACLcBGAs/s400/20180408_104718.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">DOTR and Serene</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zKu1jOTf81o/Wsos5MyJ_kI/AAAAAAAAIrA/9N2CQxxwFgYLP5tk11MIsQVc2NomLbOYQCLcBGAs/s1600/20180408_104905.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zKu1jOTf81o/Wsos5MyJ_kI/AAAAAAAAIrA/9N2CQxxwFgYLP5tk11MIsQVc2NomLbOYQCLcBGAs/s400/20180408_104905.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nikki and J Bean</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-4600655871800646412015-10-15T19:31:00.000-05:002015-12-23T20:19:21.738-06:00On Changes...<div class="MsoNormal">
Sitting on my new balcony, overlooking the large swimming
pool, a gurgling fountain and surrounded by tropical fauna I collect my thoughts
and begin to write. I absentmindedly
reach to my pocket for a cigarette where there are none. Overhead the cloudy,
Florida night is punctuated by stars and interrupted by tall pines shifting
sleepily in the warm breeze. I hear the barely noticeable white noise of my
children’s monitor, motorcycles cruising along the highway, the chatter and
splashes of swimmers and a few muted conversations of my new neighbors. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There have been quite a few changes in my life over the past
several months and I reflect quietly on them while taking in a deep breath of
the breeze tinted with chlorine and the memory of the sea. The monitor buzzes
steadily indicating my children, my loves, have given in on their battle with
sleep though they will live to fight another day. Laundry is done, well as done
as it ever it is in my home, with 3 loads neatly folded and hung and one in the
chamber, ready for a quick toss if needed. I fed the children, cleaned up after,
helped with homework and even had time for a quick vacuum of the living room
interstate. The surface streets can wait for the weekend. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few dishes in the sink, a stray ant or 5 scrambling for
food on the counter that isn’t as clean as the former at-home Dad within me
would like, but all in all the “new normal” isn’t that bad. Two homes, two sets
of beds, two jobs and two holiday calendars mark the odd multiplication that results
from a family’s division. VV and I are co-parents of a different sort now and I
have been back at work for nearly a year. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No apologies are needed, condolences are not appropriate.
Two adults decided the best thing for our children was a home that didn’t
include both of us. Reasons as old as time and as new as the pain of a paper-cut
are to blame, but they won’t be rehashed in these here pages. Sure, there were
periods of weeping and grieving. Heartbreak is never easy, no matter whose
fault or how slow the burn leading up to it. Coming to terms with days where I
don’t see the little ones, when I don’t get a hug and a kiss from either was
not easy (for either of us, I’m sure). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I held my head high and stayed strong for Link and J Bean (at
least when they were around) and I slowly came to terms with a new life. A life I am feeling comfortable in, full of
experiences and people I would not have known in my former station. Despite
this, congratulations aren’t in order either. Life marches on and I am who I am
because of what I have been through. There is no need for regret, for hatred or
jealousy. I try to accept my shortcomings and those of others and let the pages
turn. I’ve never been much for drafting an outline first, I tend to let the
words and the shifting sands of time carry me where they will. <br>
<br>
I’m forever grateful for the years I had the chance to spend as an at-home dad.
I am better for the experience, more grounded in the lives of my children than
I might have been otherwise. I benefited from the friends I made in circles I
would not have traveled had my life taken another path. I’m thankful for the
support and the interest of so many readers, friends and confidants. I hope to
continue to contribute within these pages from time to time, but for right now
I just want to stare at the sky, dream of the promise of tomorrow and talk to
someone who thinks I am a better person than I am. Much love to all you
parenting partners, keep fighting that good fight and if you find your world
turned upside down? Well, I suggest you call over the little ones and stand on
your head with them to see if it’s the world that has changed or if it was just
you. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div>
Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-76500441551459717862015-01-31T15:37:00.000-06:002015-06-30T19:25:53.181-05:00Rebels With a Cause...Because I said so...<br>
<br>
Did I really just say that?<br>
<div>
<br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ng3Z9Nbrsno/VM1OIxtWmDI/AAAAAAAAHao/mdyv5yZrU9Y/s1600/Question.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ng3Z9Nbrsno/VM1OIxtWmDI/AAAAAAAAHao/mdyv5yZrU9Y/s1600/Question.jpg" height="152" width="400"></a></div>
<br>
Are my demands for compliance without question really the goal of parenthood? Am I raising another brick in the wall; another round peg for every round hole? Does trying to do so more often than not result in a rebel without a cause?<br>
<br>
More importantly, are the actions I take... the "ought to's" of parenting effective? What measure do I use? At what point do I measure that outcome? Is a 2 year old who says please and thank you the goal? Or am I shooting for a 26 year old who can feed and clothe himself while not ending up in prison?<br>
<br>
Maybe I'm trying to raise a better parent than I am.<br>
<br>
Perhaps, it's not so important they listen to me (or anyone) without question and it's more crucial they be independent and comfortable going against the flow.<br>
<br>
I've seen the the white water rapids of a group of teenagers pulling everyone along toward a waterfall and hidden dangers. I've rolled down that river myself. Learning to take a few strokes against the current of social rules and peer pressure is probably a valuable skill for a child learn... so how do we teach it?<br>
<br>
It is difficult to remember the world view we present our children is not just in the words and lessons we teach with purpose, but in the guidance we offer through our actions (often inadvertantly). Will my desire to be unquestioned expand their horizons and their potential, or limit their ideas and confine their goals? Am I willing to answer that question?<br>
<br>
What about the other people they come across? When a person tells my daughter this activity is for boys or tells my son those toys are for girls I want them to question the assertion. When someone offers a ride to an underage keg party and it seems everyone is going, I want them to decide for themselves if that is a good choice, because I won't be there.<br>
<br>
I am the parent and I hold some authority, there is no avoiding the arrangement, but I don't have to squech their desires to know the "why's" and the "how comes." I don't have to silence their objections. It's not my goal to raise subserviant children, I want them to grow up to be capable, introspective and independent adults.<br>
<br>
Being "like everyone else" may be easier in some ways for children and doing what they're told everytime certainly would make parenting a more pleasant endeavor. On the other hand, we should not forget to rejoice in the rebels and the rabble-rousers. I don't want to raise a rebel without a cause, but I do hope to raise discerning, skeptical children who see much cause in this world to rebel against.<br>
<br>
Here's to you Link and J Bean, may you break all the rules (well, some of the rules) and challenge the status quo, may you not always take the easy way out, may you sometimes make other's uncomfortable with your individuality and may we always remember that you are the rebels with a cause we raised.<br>
<br>
I want to keep you from harm, so my rules and your ideas of freedom will often clash, but I want you to know that somewhere behind my inevitable scolding and angry face is a jagged bit of pride stuck in my throat.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hEow02fG3F0?list=RDhEow02fG3F0" width="560"></iframe></div>
Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-55519701906660990482014-09-15T07:56:00.002-05:002014-09-15T08:52:10.895-05:00Man Under the Moon<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look, Daddy! Moo!,” Link says excitedly pointing at the
half-moon directly overhead as we walk into his daycare center. All I
can think of is loving him to the moo and back and squashing the inner voice telling me to take
him back to the car, speed home and spend the day hugging him and showering him
with kisses. <br>
<br>
I’ve been chatting him up about the great first day of “school” and how he’s a
big boy and gets to go learn just like his older sister since we dropped her
off 10 minutes ago and he seems excited. After 5 and a half years as an at-home father it is time for
me to start a new chapter. Last week I
had the first job interview and soon I expect to be getting back into my career
in investigations.<br>
<br>
As I punch in his student number (how can a 2 year old have a number?) on the panel outside, the door clicks and we walk in to the impossibly clean facility. Don’t children
attend here? I’m confused. After some small talk and administrative details
with the director I walk down the hall toward Link’s classroom. I hear his sneakers
pattering along the hardwood floors and see his soles blinking like tiny
emergency vehicles (which reminds me of him yelling “Beedo, Beedoo, BEEEDOOOO!”
on the way to school when a fire truck passed us). I fear the lack of that
pattering when I get home, I smile at the teacher. Does it look sincere? I
doubt it. <br>
<br>
After she has a little chat with Link about Lightning McQueen on his shirt, to
which I know he’ll say, “Ka-Chow!” before he even does, the teacher shows me to
Link’s cubby. <br>
<br>
“Well, here are his things. He has a little eczema break out
right now, but I forgot his lotion {more guilt, too heavy} so please don’t use anything
else unless you have Cetaphil or Aquaphor even though it looks red.” I manage to squeak out before
giving him a quick hug and telling him bye. I leave quickly because I know it
is best that way and he doesn’t cry, but I put on my sunglasses before I’m out
the door. <br>
<br>
In the car, I breathe.<br>
<br>
At home it is too quiet, so I write.<br>
<br>
Tomorrow, he’ll be with me and we’ll pack every minute of fun in our two
weekdays per week off school until I get back to work. I’ll cry, we’ll laugh
and life marches on under the moon. <o:p></o:p></div>
Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-84992426237312904452014-06-24T21:26:00.000-05:002014-06-24T22:47:02.928-05:00Breath <div dir="ltr">
The sun is in my eyes, glaring and sparkling off the pool. A shower of water rains on my face, created by the child <strike>drowning</strike> swimming in front of me. The tinge of chlorine tightens my squint. <br />
<br />
I'm holding out a hand to my daughter who is trying to reach the edge of the pool </div>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RHDL_pqNtlY/U6oxyJbXFQI/AAAAAAAAF7s/zPKm9yY2W8A/s1600/Breathe.jpg" height="230" width="320" /></a>before her limited swimming skills fail to bring her mouth above the water for another hurried breath. She expends much needed energy to say, "No! <BREATH> I've got it!" Meanwhile, her feet and hands push and pull desperately against the water.<br />
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Almost. There. </div>
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I wait closely, tracking her progress. I don't want to offer help too soon (or too late) so I agonize over the slow drip of time between gasps. Goggles provide vision above and below. Underneath the water is cool, her hair dances slowly and rhythmically about her determined face. The sun is dampened and sound takes on new qualities as reality creeps to the edge of recognition. It really is another world under here. I am terrified. Looking for any sign of doubt or fear behind her own goggles and dreaming of the breath and the sweet chaos at the surface.<br />
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Is this the way I'll feel when she is learning to drive? The first time her heart is broken? Will I be there with my hand outstretched? Will anyone?</div>
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Of course she wants to be independent. She is of us, of me. Is it instinct, this characteristic of avoiding the request for help? Clearly, people everywhere need help of one kind or another yet hesitate to ask for it even when we need it most. I know I do. Did I teach her this? Is it some misguided shame in needing others causes us to act this way? Pride which misguidedly stays our hand from reaching out to others? Is it fear which causes the hesitation? Will the hand be there when I reach for it? Will it pull back too soon, leaving us no better off than when we started?<br />
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Children need to learn the value of independence, but in the end my daughter, J Bean, knows I'm there and if/when she reaches out a hand to me I'll pull her up as quickly as I can. Must be a great feeling. One we should all experience. As time passes, I hope to show her the power in the hands of the world. How her mother's and mine are not the only ones ready to lift her. Eventually she'll know ours are not infinite and she'll need that reassurance. I'll need that reassurance.<br />
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Her face breaks the surface just as her outstretched hands finally grasp the edge. <br />
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<Breath><br />
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Relief floods my mind as oxygen fills her lungs and I pull back my hand. The edge is constant. I am here. Others nearby are ready to help.<br />
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I trust in the knowledge another intrinsically human characteristic is the desire to help others. People step up and offer help even when we won't ask for it ourselves. We like to help, we want to, I really believe that we need to. It seems we should be happy in giving and receiving. Help when we can, reach for a hand when we need it and know it will be there, because it will. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ENNV6-qatMY/U6ouvS7DXFI/AAAAAAAAF7Y/PkweDjPPuZo/s1600/Oren.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ENNV6-qatMY/U6ouvS7DXFI/AAAAAAAAF7Y/PkweDjPPuZo/s1600/Oren.jpg" height="320" width="305" /></a>A fellow dad blogger, Oren Miller of <a href="http://www.bloggerfather.com/">A Father and A Blogger</a>, reached out a hand <a href="http://www.bloggerfather.com/2014/06/cancer.html">here</a>. He didn't realize he had actually, because all he really did was let his community know his situation and his thoughts on it. Heartbreakingly, that situation is dire. The response to Oren's stage 4 lung cancer, much to his surprise, came in the form of hundreds of outstretched hands. One stood out to me, it was the hand of Brent Almond (<a href="http://designerdaddy.com/">Designer Daddy</a>) who created a <a href="https://www.giveforward.com/fundraiser/ytv4/give-back-to-oren?utm_source=ambassador&utm_medium=blog&utm_campaign=oren">Give Forward page for Oren</a> so that we might send Oren and his family on a much needed and deserved vacation. Brents' action was important as it flew in the face of the bystander effect. We all wanted to do something for Oren, but we didn't know where to start. That fund surpassed our imaginations and is now, I am proud to say, a true gift to help them through the rough road ahead. I hope you'll check out the <a href="https://www.giveforward.com/fundraiser/ytv4/give-back-to-oren?utm_source=ambassador&utm_medium=blog&utm_campaign=oren">Give Forward page</a> and consider extending a hand of your own to help this loving family through the challenge of their life. </div>
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Oren, we are with you. Take a hand.<br />
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<BREATH></div>
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Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-52026075495000382212014-06-04T15:05:00.000-05:002014-06-04T15:05:39.478-05:005 Ways Being an At-Home Dad is Supposedly Ruining My Kids<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pV5Yw2-xEAo/U497dqXtbVI/AAAAAAAAF1c/v2e0Au_YdDE/s1600/Kids+and+I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pV5Yw2-xEAo/U497dqXtbVI/AAAAAAAAF1c/v2e0Au_YdDE/s1600/Kids+and+I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pV5Yw2-xEAo/U497dqXtbVI/AAAAAAAAF1c/v2e0Au_YdDE/s1600/Kids+and+I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pV5Yw2-xEAo/U497dqXtbVI/AAAAAAAAF1c/v2e0Au_YdDE/s1600/Kids+and+I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pV5Yw2-xEAo/U497dqXtbVI/AAAAAAAAF1c/v2e0Au_YdDE/s1600/Kids+and+I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pV5Yw2-xEAo/U497dqXtbVI/AAAAAAAAF1c/v2e0Au_YdDE/s1600/Kids+and+I.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a><i>This piece was originally published at <a href="http://askyourdadblog.com/">AskYourDadBlog.com</a> and was part 2, and somewhat of a response, to his <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2014/05/5-ways-daycare-is-supposedly-ruining-my.html">original piece</a> you might want to read first <a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2014/05/5-ways-daycare-is-supposedly-ruining-my.html">here</a>. The main thing to understand is that we're all doing it wrong... and that's OK. </i></div>
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I “retired” from work when my daughter was born over 5 and a half years ago and now have my son (age 2) in the mix as well. Every once in a while I stumble across an article or a conversation where folks are talking about how horrible it is that some kids are stuck home with a father and what damage I must be doing to my children, my family, my marriage and my earning potential. There is a lot of guilt out there to roll around in. If Vv and I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">really </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">prioritized our kids we </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">should </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">be able to figure something out so she can stay home and I go to work, you know, the way nature intended. It’s really the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">best </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">gift we could give to our kids and if we love them we should </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">really </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">consider it. They are only going to be kids once, and if we didn't plan on raising our kids the traditional way, why did we have them in the first place?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Seriously, these are things I have heard… or read. The Internet is full of people who think they know things.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The irony in that last sentence aside, here’s the thing: My wife was consulting and traveling 4 days a week while I worked full-time as VP of Operations with an investigative firm before J Bean, my daughter, was born and that didn’t seem like a great way of carrying on with children. In the end, an at-home dad arrangement made the most sense for us so we could all be together the most and still maintain the best income. Despite the obvious fact that non-conforming gender roles could ruin our children, we still selfishly decided to give it a go. Sorry Internet. Sorry kids. I guess we fail.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here are 5 ways the SAHD (stay-at home dad) arrangement is supposedly ruining our children...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1. The house is a wreck. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Story after story indicates that fathers, even when we stay home, do less than our share of chores. To hear the media tell it, stay home fathers must let kids run around in diapers (the same one all day) or buck naked amidst the pigsty we call home. Oddly, from the inside looking out, I feel that I keep a similar home to most of the at-home mothers I know. Meaning, the house is a complete disaster until 5 minutes before announced visitors arrive and I give a final push before mom gets home when the tyrants allow for it. Both feats are only achieved when I plop the kids in front of the TV with a snack while I wipe and vacuum like the Tasmanian devil on crack. It seems I’m always cleaning up, but the work of doing so with two children is like that of a windshield wiper in a monsoon… as soon as I do it, another mess appears. Clean the kitchen, cook a meal and watch the salad shooters I call offspring spray down the breakfast nook with a fresh layer of oatmeal and strawberries. Fun fact: Oatmeal can easily double as an industrial adhesive.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I do have to admit, my wife would probably keep a cleaner house than I do were she home with the children. However, I have my doubts she would also keep up the lawn, the cat litter, the garbage, the pool and the vehicle. In the end, I like to think that a father’s house may be different, but not necessarily worse than a mother’s. After all, I’m raising children, not trying to make the cover of Southern Living. What I lack in gleaming countertops, I make up for with awesome science projects, home-made dollhouses and hand to hand combat training. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2. They are always sick (perhaps this is a function of #1?)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is rarely a time that my kids’ noses aren't running, and at least once a year one of them will begin projectile vomiting which isn’t nearly as fun as paintball, but makes just as big of a mess. Having sick kids means that Vv and I are also often sick. I don’t get it. This is supposed to be a special torture relegated to those selfish working-parents like John and Stevie of Ask Your Dad Blog. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On one hand, maybe I should keep the kids and the house tidier; on the other hand, a quick leading-question Google search to affirm that my way of parenting is the best brought back </span><a href="http://pss.sagepub.com/content/24/9/1860" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">this</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><a href="http://www.nature.com/news/early-exposure-to-germs-has-lasting-benefits-1.10294#/b1" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">this</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Basically, my “research” shows that if you keep the house cluttered your kids will be more creative and if you let them play in the mud, they’ll be healthier and better able to fend off the super-human Nazi’s (aka: </span><a href="http://www.askyourdadblog.com/2014/05/5-ways-daycare-is-supposedly-ruining-my.html" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: blue; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">children of working parents</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">) when they get to actual school. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">3. An at-home dad will foster gender confusion </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite my best attempts at keeping the house dirty for the aforementioned benefits, I occasionally do laundry, dance with a vacuum or scrub enough dishes to unburythe Playstation. During those rare moments, my children are learning a skewed vision of gender roles, and who knows what type of damage this could be causing! My daughter may decide that she wants to be like her Mom and travel the globe as a successful business person or perhaps she’ll choose a more domestic role, I just hope she decides based on what is best for herself and/or her family rather than what society deems appropiate. My son may become a nurse, or a politician (please, please don’t let him be a politician), or an at-home dad and that’s OK with me. He might decide that making money isn’t his primary “manly” duty! The point is that at-home dads are confusing the Hell out of matters. There are jobs for women and there are jobs for men, period. A fact I’m reminded of everyday through articles on the interwebs and the awkward facial expressions of some when they learn of my chosen occupation. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Truth is the whole situation of being an SAHD makes me hyper-aware of gender boxing and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve held up the drive-thru under the golden arches as I informed the employee through a scratchy intercom that there is no such thing as a “girl toy” or a “boy toy.” Well, actually I’ve heard “boy toy” used legitimately before, but it’s not something you order off the value menu. This discussion is usually followed by me ordering a pink spider-man toy for my daughter at her request, and something with wheels for my son but that’s not the point! Or maybe it is. In theory, I’m raising androgynous children and in the process I’m ruining their lives. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold; line-height: 1; white-space: pre-wrap;">4. My Our decision will bring financial ruin.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“…dads who left work for even a short period of time to cater to domestic matters earned lower evaluations and more negative performance ratings at work than women who opted out.” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Source: This ridiculous article that came up when I Googled, </span><a href="http://time.com/89992/dont-let-your-husband-be-a-stay-at-home-dad/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #888888; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What is going to piss me off today?”</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">) </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some might think that making it to executive level in your career, taking several years off to raise your children and turning down job offers year after year is not a terrible predicament to be in professionally and that there are benefits to having a parent at home. Others would point out that is nonsensical crazy talk. I could have stayed in the workforce and challenged Warren Buffett for his spot on the Forbes 400 list of the wealthiest people in America. Instead, I’m blowing out flip-flops at the beach with my kids and making cheeseburgers in paradise like Jimmy Buffett. Meanwhile, their educational futures are at stake, not to mention a convertible at age 16! My guilt is mounting… or it would be if our arrangement had not allowed my wife to focus and excel in her own career surpassing with one job what we used to make with two. Note to my children: There still won’t be a convertible. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">5. Children of an at-home dad will never make friends. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kids who stay home with dad won’t know how to talk to, much less play with, other children without asking them creepy things about gender stereotypes or the best order to watch Star Wars. (“Episode one first? I can’t even look at you.”) At-home dads will raise socially awkward children who may very well give up on the whole “school” thing by age 6 and move to deep into the Everglades where they will survive on a diet of crawfish, hand-caught water moccasins, and Beanee Weenees. Those little hermits might go a step further and run around in loin cloths while taking aim at nearby rocket launches with slingshots while cursing the bright orb in the sky. Then again, they might grow up to be some of the most creative and interesting people we could meet. Maybe the truth is that it’s difficult predict the future of a child based on who changes their diapers and repeatedly picks up behind them and whether or not that person has an XY chromosome. With that said, If they do drop off the grid in a fit of anti-social rejection, I hope they get an airboat. I like airboats. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So yeah, we’re HORRIBLE. I’m a dumb-witted half-man raising children who won’t have any idea how to carry themselves with other children and I spend days languishing in toddler-land when I could be making millions to put them through college. Our house would be better off with a cleaning woman (or man), a lawn service and perhaps an au pair. Luckily, we’re not raising houses so I think we’ll just continue our misguided efforts to raise kids in a way that works for our family even if it ruins them in the process. Don’t all kids deserve our very best swing at having no idea how to make them the best person they can be while not driving us crazy in the process? Perhaps Vv and I aren’t really that different from John and Stevie after all. Keep doing what you’re doing Parenting Partners! </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Note: This was not meant to disparage working parents, at-home moms, grandparents, uncles, shoe salesmen or Jimmy Buffett. I think you are all awesome. I think my wife and I are awesome too. Everyone is awesome! I am going to say awesome again. Awesome. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br class="kix-line-break" /></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And one LAST note: </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/DadOnTheRun" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #888888; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Follow me on Facebook</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I am 50% more snarky there, and 35% less funny.
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Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-4273763956958802752014-04-24T12:16:00.000-05:002014-04-24T13:02:01.651-05:00Sweet Home Chicago<span style="line-height: 23px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m walking along the sidewalk, hand in hand with two children, as the morning sun filters through the freshly budded trees and a gentle breeze finally welcomes the warm weather to the Windy City. A recycling truck rumbles in the alley and a cable worker is in his box perched above us all. He notices the toddler looking up at him and waves with a smile. Ahead a woman walks a dog, I don’t know his name or hers for that matter, but we’ve shared words on several occasions and the children eagerly collect kisses from and offer pets to the friendly pup. An elderly woman sells churros and fresh mango on a stick from a vending cart nearby. She doesn’t speak English any better than I speak Spanish. We’ve managed to communicate with hand gestures, the five words we know in each others' native tongue, and genuine smiles over juicy fruit bites for two summers. The constant buzzing of traffic is challenged for its unconcerned audience by the newly returned birds. Above squirrels are busily preparing for the next winter as they conduct a trapeze act above the dumpsters and sprouting </span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">perennials</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 23px;">. A passing vehicle honks the horn and I see a familiar face behind the wheel as Link proclaims loudly, “dar! dar! boo dar” (car, car, blue car). </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 23px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 23px;">I realize on our stroll this place reminds me of Sesame Street. That wonderful place of imagination which might as well have been another planet to my eyes watching from rural south Georgia in my childhood. What a wonderful community we stumbled into a few years ago. Perhaps I’m just waxing nostalgic due to our upcoming move… and perhaps that is inevitable. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 23px;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 23px;">“Who leaves the city in the Spring?” I think to myself, contemplating and maybe even second-guessing our forthcoming departure. Our move day is close. So close, in fact, I probably shouldn’t be writing. There is so much to be done and so little time to do it, but I need the catharsis of this. The goodbye I may not get the chance to say one on one to so many parts and people of this city must be said one way or another.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 23px;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">As J Bean and Link stoop to examine a cluster of dandelions bordering our park (yes, our park), I recall a conversation with Vv several years ago. The conversation led to the conclusion that, with the life she was carrying inside, some big changes would occur. We decided together I would retire from my career in private investigations and become the full-time at-home dad to our daughter while she pursued her lucrative career. He career involved travel but was still, by far, best suited to support our family as the sole income source. The only other option was for her to stop traveling and take a lower-paying job in Tampa where we would both work full-time after the birth of our daughter. Looking back, it hardly seems like a choice at all. We made this plan with the understanding we would live as nomads for a time. With project-based work we might be here for a few months and there for a few more. Our life would be exciting but challenging as we would potentially live in temporary housing in places around the world for a few years. We soon learned our first stop would be Chicago, and we had no way of knowing at the time it would become our only home for the next 5 years. Other opportunities arose, but the 6 months in London didn’t come to fruition and the Chicago project was extended time and time again. Eventually, Vv was able to latch on to a more stable full-time position with the company she had been consulting for and we knew we’d be in Chicago for a little longer. </span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">When we began the undefined adventure in a new city, I remember wondering how I would fit in such a place. I’m a country boy at heart, spending most of my years in one part of the southeast or another with a short stint overseas and a brief stay out west. I had lived in what I thought were big cities -- Columbia, Atlanta, Tampa -- but I was amazed at what the Second City had to offer and it’s sheer immensity. I was even more amazed that my provincial ways, non-traditional gender role, and even my southern drawl created no impediment to my acclimation to Chicago. I was welcomed into circles everywhere I cared to explore. Along the way, we made friends ranging from the twenty-somethings in our building working to launch careers as </span><a href="http://www.reverbnation.com/treehousehiphop" style="line-height: 23px;">Treehouse</a><span style="line-height: 23px;"> (remember me when you’re famous guys!) to the doormen of the downtown building we first moved into, to the part time-SAHD/PH.D. student and the award winning </span><a href="http://www.itvs.org/films/dream-in-doubt/filmmaker" style="line-height: 23px;">documentary film-maker</a><span style="line-height: 23px;"> and mother. From fellow parents to single fun-loving adventurers, we met people of all walks of life. We rode </span><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/41/Chicago_'L'_-_Flickr_-_ReneS_(3).jpg" style="line-height: 23px;">the L</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, gazed at the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cloud_Gate" style="line-height: 23px;">bean (Chicago’s CloudGate)</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, gorged ourselves at the </span><a href="http://www.cityofchicago.org/city/en/depts/dca/supp_info/taste_of_chicago.html" style="line-height: 23px;">Taste of Chicago</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">. I hung out with DJ’s on the southside and learned how to match a beat. I prepared a meal for tenants of a women’s shelter with my aforementioned doctoral friend. I marched the streets in protest of inequality and managed to stay out of jail while occupying some space for a time. I ran the </span><a href="http://vimeo.com/61685999" style="line-height: 23px;">Chiditarod</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, a story unto itself which I have yet to write. I enjoyed fraternity with other fathers, especially at-home fathers, from all over the city and befriended the founder of the local SAHD group and later the president of the <a href="http://athomedad.org/">National At-Home Dad Network</a>. I was welcomed by mothers in each of the neighborhoods we lived in and never made to feel out of place by them, in fact, several of them are among my closest Chicago friends. </span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">I learned the windy city </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Origin_of_the_name_%22Windy_City%22" style="line-height: 23px;">has reason</a><span style="line-height: 23px;"> to be "windy," with the history and culture of this place, it’s no wonder we’re boastful (yeah, it has nothing to do with the breeze). Home to two MLB teams, a championship team in every other sport imaginable, parks like I never even dreamed of, and miles of lakefront the city was, and still is, a wonder to me. Then there is the food. Glorious food is a centerpiece of the city with two shoulders and I leave with the two chins to prove it. I sampled a little of everything. Duck fat fries from </span><a href="http://www.travelchannel.com/interests/food-and-drink/articles/chicago-hot-dogs" style="line-height: 23px;">Hot Doug’s</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, Chicago style thick pizza with the sauce on top from </span><a href="http://www.pizanoschicago.com/" style="line-height: 23px;">Pizano’s</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, and assorted cuts from chop houses around the city. I enjoyed craft breweries and tap rooms, tapas bars, </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/ipsento" style="line-height: 23px;">Ipsento coffee</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, sushi of incredible quality, hot dog stands, corned beef sandwiches from </span><a href="http://www.mannysdeli.com/" style="line-height: 23px;">Manny's</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, huge slices after a Cubs loss, and </span><a href="http://www.kumascorner.com/" style="line-height: 23px;">Kuma's</a><span style="line-height: 23px;"> burgers just to name a few. I sampled wares at grills overlooking </span><a href="http://www.parkgrillchicago.com/" style="line-height: 23px;">parks and skating rinks</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, </span><a href="http://www.chicagorooftopbars.com/rock-bottom.html" style="line-height: 23px;">on top of buildings</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, </span><a href="http://www.billygoattavern.com/" style="line-height: 23px;">under buildings</a><span style="line-height: 23px;">, </span><a href="http://www.odysseycruises.com/chicago/cruises/specialty/fireworks" style="line-height: 23px;">on boats</a><span style="line-height: 23px;"> and in the </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/thesouthernmac" style="line-height: 23px;">back of parcel trucks.</a> <span style="line-height: 23px;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">I'll never forget my Chicago experiences. I’ve danced with my family to everyone from </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJCcdxeyoXw" style="line-height: 23px;">Ray Lamontagne at Pritzker Pavilion</a><span style="line-height: 23px;"> to the </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypaa_XHEC0E" style="line-height: 23px;">Black Keys </a><span style="line-height: 23px;">(heard free of charge from a hill across the street from Lollapallooza) to </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3m9jz0amsLo" style="line-height: 23px;">Bill Opelka</a><span style="line-height: 23px;"> the street performer we befriended in the </span><s style="line-height: 23px;">catacombs</s><span style="line-height: 23px;"> pedway beneath the Loop. I’ve enjoyed night clubs, fancy restaurants, dive bars, street festivals, bowling, theatre and theaters, Segway tours and bike rides, fantastic live music venues, kite flying near the shore, world class museums, botanical gardens, aquarium and planetarium. We’ve seen the water cannon blow a stream across the Chicago river, pondered the faces towering over us as we splashed in the Crown fountain, and we’ve noted the time on a summer day by the eruption of the Buckingham fountain on more than one occasion. </span><a href="http://www.dadontherun.com/2011/07/lifes-beach.html" style="line-height: 23px;">Afternoons on the beach</a><span style="line-height: 23px;"> (a learning experience for a rookie father), mornings at the zoo and walks in the tropical oases of the many conservatories available even in the dead of winter. I watched J Bean learn to walk in the Chicago Cultural Center, perused the</span><span style="line-height: 23px;"> Art Institute of Chicago with the tyrants, explored countless city parks accessible by all manner of public transit (a delight to the children) and we've been under the city in the many pedways and above it from the Hancock observatory and our first apartment. J Bean and Link are as familiar with unusual sights like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xQHMcZjTpsg">men painted silver mimicking robotic dancing Michael Jackson statues</a>, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZqOX4tZJZA&list=PLuYy2YOjlvl3fDJC44HljLw0uPbfyJO0h">puppet theater from the mobile stage on a bicycle</a>, or a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gBiC5yuHRuU">drum line of young men armed with 5 gallon buckets and sticks</a> as some children might be with the mail carrier. </span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">We spent our first two years downtown among the skyscrapers where we witnessed St. Patrick’s day parades including the green river, Stanley Cup fanfare, airplanes buzzing the Aon center during the Air and Boat show where we sat among the clouds and where Vv worked during our time in this town. After the hustle and bustle of the Loop, we moved to the neighborhoods and were lucky enough to join the gritty, flavorful character of Logan Square and then the warm, welcoming community of Irving Park. Each locale had its own appeal and I am glad to have spent time in such richly different environments.</span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">In this town we’ve watched the snow fall for days, wondered when the sun would show its face again and shoveled our sidewalk like a good neighbor. Together we built snowmen, temporary monuments to the wonderment of the longest season, and watched them melt with anticipation of a Spring that will come one day. We’ve sledded down snow covered mountainettes at the local park, donned 5 layers of clothing for a 30 second walk to the car a thousand times, made snow shakes and pelted each other with snowballs. All those things were new to us, having spent the better part of the previous decade in Tampa Bay. </span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">Tampa Bay… a gem atop a glistening waterway. I’ll never forget seeing it for the first time. The place is like a vacation brochure come to life. It’s also a place where I have friends from years and careers gone by along with new friends I didn’t know when I lived there. Tampa is a warm city where the sun will shine often and where we’ll never grow old and we won’t ever die. Isn’t that what we always think about a new place? I know I do. So why does it feel so bittersweet to be leaving this one? Because this town, this scary and intimidating metropolis, somewhere along the line became home and actually lived up to the feeling we get when we prepare to hang our hats in a new place. The grass is green indeed. Leaving in winter would have been a little easier, but the best things about this city go far beyond the temperature on a given day. It’s the people. </span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">In 5 short years we’ve met people who have had a great impact on us. People whom I hope modern technology and social gadgetry will help maintain the tenuous bridges of friendship as we journey across the country and back to the land of sunshine. </span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">I can’t get into a list of names, or I might never stop telling you of the super-moms, the neighborly neighbors, the bartenders with welcoming smiles, the kindly old gardeners, the postal worker who spoke Spanish to my children through the open window on many a summer afternoon, the volunteers at the park -- at least one who doubles as a super-mom and great neighbor, doing what she does for love of community never making a show of her selflessness. I can’t mention her husband, the gentle giant who exudes calm and always has an ear for a child. I can’t make a list of names to include the redheaded Irish woman who drank me under the table at a German pub or her husband quick with a smile and a laugh and handy with a bit of sincere insight on life and the meaning of it. If I listed that name then I might forget to tell you about the mother of two, who wears a smile like a badge and makes a mean horchata. I would be remiss to name them without naming the mom who takes pictures of everything, supports her children and her friends with a smile and a good listening ear. If I mentioned her, I’d have to talk about her husband the teacher and the conversations I’ve enjoyed with him. I can’t tell you about the SAHD turned sous-chef who shares my love of music and my interest in looking at the world a bit sideways. There is no need to name the friend, the one man, who taught me more about feminism than any man really has the right to do, but he’s the same one who became my steadfast buddy and confidant and one whom I shall miss most often I think. If there were time, I might tell you about the<a href="http://justadad247.com/about-us/"> Italian father</a> with dimples for the ladies and <span id="goog_165679357"></span><span id="goog_165679358"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a>validation for dad bloggers or the young man who taught me about resilience in the face of adversity after his second <a href="http://thefunnyconversations.com/2013/05/13/im-going-to-have-to-re-learn-my-abcs/">stroke</a>. Time being short as it is, I can’t mention the Jewish father who was quick to organize a night out to blow off some steam and quicker still to coordinate meal planning for a friend or family in need. I’ll miss the aroma of Cuban food in my foyer from the upstairs neighbor and the occasional sample plate delivered right to our door (especially after the smell of my burnt pizza filled our building). I’ll miss the Chicago Firefighters from station 106 who responded on more than one occasion to find the emergency limited to my own paranoia or burnt pizza, but who always took the time to talk with J Bean and Link and invite them to head down to the station to feed the coy anytime. The father I met, who was<a href="http://steveisrunninginplace.blogspot.com/"> running in place</a> and is now running in places shall remain nameless though I’ll miss our nights away from the children as well as playdates with them. The smiling faces of two “nannies” who just happen to also be great mommies can’t be put to name, but they know who they are. The teacher of my eldest, shall remain unknown here lest I forget another important influence in my children’s lives although she will come to mind every time J Bean requests Aladdin. I’ll miss those morning chats with her and her teaching partner as the children buzz around anticipating a day full of learning and fun that I’ll hear about until bedtime. Many other mothers and fathers of this city and, in particular, this neighborhood will forever hold a place in my heart along with their children. </span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">The children. Nameless for now, though most will make a great name for themselves in the future, I suspect. I will miss them and their devilish grins, the pitter patter of their feet, their awkward proclamations, their insistence on another push on the swing from Mr. Eric. Their sheer enthusiasm for every day is fuel enough to power even the Second City and I’m glad I have my own Energizer rabbits to take with me or the loss might be more than I could bear. To me they are special, their potential unlimited and their future bright due to the caring and involved parents behind them. To my daughter, they are the friends that I wrote about above. When her pen meets paper for the first time and her own words find voice, the ink will spill bittersweet tears for these childhood friends and a city she’ll always remember. </span><br /><br /><span style="line-height: 23px;">Goodbye, sweet home Chicago. Or better yet… until next time.<br /><br /><br />Here are a few of my favorite memories of Chicago in pictures. Thanks for reading!</span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o8aSgZiiSxs/U1lDBR7lhTI/AAAAAAAAFrg/8dE9ofW0Igc/s1600/Chicago1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o8aSgZiiSxs/U1lDBR7lhTI/AAAAAAAAFrg/8dE9ofW0Igc/s1600/Chicago1.jpg" height="400" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The L. Skyline in the background. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UDNaaxfaVw8/U1lDFQ69XEI/AAAAAAAAFtQ/SrepTUJW4CM/s1600/Chicago2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UDNaaxfaVw8/U1lDFQ69XEI/AAAAAAAAFtQ/SrepTUJW4CM/s1600/Chicago2.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sue at the Field Museum. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oDSVdawSFwc/U1lDIyKPAZI/AAAAAAAAFuU/iu05Exrq7uQ/s1600/Chicago3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oDSVdawSFwc/U1lDIyKPAZI/AAAAAAAAFuU/iu05Exrq7uQ/s1600/Chicago3.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Vv's office.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RNkGsby-xg8/U1lDGqZxtbI/AAAAAAAAFtk/lqmgPlVijUU/s1600/Chicago4+Corned+beef+mannys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RNkGsby-xg8/U1lDGqZxtbI/AAAAAAAAFtk/lqmgPlVijUU/s1600/Chicago4+Corned+beef+mannys.jpg" height="296" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manny's Corned Beef.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ReJNNIpbaf4/U1lDG2Q-JbI/AAAAAAAAFts/aH4Nownxe00/s1600/Chicago5+botanical.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ReJNNIpbaf4/U1lDG2Q-JbI/AAAAAAAAFts/aH4Nownxe00/s1600/Chicago5+botanical.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Botanical Gardens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p7_nB_b2PuU/U1lDHUzxTKI/AAAAAAAAFt0/T8aO3mHdF8Y/s1600/Chicago6+bean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p7_nB_b2PuU/U1lDHUzxTKI/AAAAAAAAFt0/T8aO3mHdF8Y/s1600/Chicago6+bean.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bean.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DqI3lW62Fak/U1lDHqNmkeI/AAAAAAAAFt8/_cE-02u-3RM/s1600/Chicago7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DqI3lW62Fak/U1lDHqNmkeI/AAAAAAAAFt8/_cE-02u-3RM/s1600/Chicago7.jpg" height="296" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polar Bear at Lincoln Park.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Su8UlY3kIAk/U1lDIFPgIYI/AAAAAAAAFuM/BG5kmsjrKMA/s1600/Chicago9+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Su8UlY3kIAk/U1lDIFPgIYI/AAAAAAAAFuM/BG5kmsjrKMA/s1600/Chicago9+snow.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snowman in Millennium Park.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D9j8gIG2yG4/U1lDH6BAzLI/AAAAAAAAFuE/lHPu1s5L24Q/s1600/Chicago8+green+river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-D9j8gIG2yG4/U1lDH6BAzLI/AAAAAAAAFuE/lHPu1s5L24Q/s1600/Chicago8+green+river.jpg" height="295" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Green River.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F1x_FlfciMU/U1lDCIH2zHI/AAAAAAAAFro/FYpvRDrHQr0/s1600/Chicago10+pedway+Bill+Opelka+and+J+Bean.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F1x_FlfciMU/U1lDCIH2zHI/AAAAAAAAFro/FYpvRDrHQr0/s1600/Chicago10+pedway+Bill+Opelka+and+J+Bean.jpg" height="297" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">J Bean and Bill Opelka in the Pedway.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EMgivE5StCo/U1lDCiUHD2I/AAAAAAAAFr8/lEVmltjDQQc/s1600/Chicago11+river+stream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EMgivE5StCo/U1lDCiUHD2I/AAAAAAAAFr8/lEVmltjDQQc/s1600/Chicago11+river+stream.jpg" height="297" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Water Cannon at Chicago River</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4brohcpbT74/U1lDCU74ZKI/AAAAAAAAFr4/V1Nkpz9ukD4/s1600/Chicago11+da+bears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4brohcpbT74/U1lDCU74ZKI/AAAAAAAAFr4/V1Nkpz9ukD4/s1600/Chicago11+da+bears.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Da Bears</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-shorecw4rxw/U1lDDHAKDyI/AAAAAAAAFsM/7FWZS-WbUXQ/s1600/Chicago12+Stanley+Cup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-shorecw4rxw/U1lDDHAKDyI/AAAAAAAAFsM/7FWZS-WbUXQ/s1600/Chicago12+Stanley+Cup.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Da Blackhawks.... Stanley Cup Party in the Streets</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6oNPjQgzdbY/U1lDD00dzwI/AAAAAAAAFsc/GeybOEpL4WI/s1600/Chicago15+da+bulls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6oNPjQgzdbY/U1lDD00dzwI/AAAAAAAAFsc/GeybOEpL4WI/s1600/Chicago15+da+bulls.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Da Bulls</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4oQwvtkqTww/U1lDFbCvTBI/AAAAAAAAFtE/vqYwy6XQQ70/s1600/Chicago16+da+cubs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4oQwvtkqTww/U1lDFbCvTBI/AAAAAAAAFtE/vqYwy6XQQ70/s1600/Chicago16+da+cubs.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Da Cubs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ej2gzL9d_Tk/U1lDDeVXR4I/AAAAAAAAFsU/q-XW0ApIYxk/s1600/Chicago14+buckingham+fountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ej2gzL9d_Tk/U1lDDeVXR4I/AAAAAAAAFsU/q-XW0ApIYxk/s1600/Chicago14+buckingham+fountain.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">J Bean at the Buckingham Fountain.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xNyK9oML9IE/U1lDEnRVThI/AAAAAAAAFss/y6kdNZobBlQ/s1600/Chicago17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xNyK9oML9IE/U1lDEnRVThI/AAAAAAAAFss/y6kdNZobBlQ/s1600/Chicago17.jpg" height="400" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">City Days</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4DhFB_8yjGk/U1lDEz-6RLI/AAAAAAAAFs0/udEMoaNfvww/s1600/Chicago18+botanical.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4DhFB_8yjGk/U1lDEz-6RLI/AAAAAAAAFs0/udEMoaNfvww/s1600/Chicago18+botanical.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Link and Trains at the Botanical Garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wuLScCev5uM/U1lDFCKsW3I/AAAAAAAAFs8/fqFTP1fHnuk/s1600/Chicago19+botanical.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wuLScCev5uM/U1lDFCKsW3I/AAAAAAAAFs8/fqFTP1fHnuk/s1600/Chicago19+botanical.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spring in the City</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-53wP0bMqIKs/U1lDF4_nfQI/AAAAAAAAFtM/u_UmTYtJnvo/s1600/Chicago20+Sesame+street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-53wP0bMqIKs/U1lDF4_nfQI/AAAAAAAAFtM/u_UmTYtJnvo/s1600/Chicago20+Sesame+street.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our own Sesame Street.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IdSTTR5jMGE/U1lDGLcEOPI/AAAAAAAAFtY/vtY-t2s4l0A/s1600/Chicago21+Blues+brothers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IdSTTR5jMGE/U1lDGLcEOPI/AAAAAAAAFtY/vtY-t2s4l0A/s1600/Chicago21+Blues+brothers.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blues Brothers and J Bean at Midway</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qBY2Kn1CkN8/U1lDBmLt6JI/AAAAAAAAFrk/QbkVCtc_tdI/s1600/Chicago+CFD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qBY2Kn1CkN8/U1lDBmLt6JI/AAAAAAAAFrk/QbkVCtc_tdI/s1600/Chicago+CFD.jpg" height="400" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">J Bean at a CFD Firehouse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q0iZD8lvAao/U1lDC073ScI/AAAAAAAAFsA/WQ6MX41j1JY/s1600/Chicago+L.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q0iZD8lvAao/U1lDC073ScI/AAAAAAAAFsA/WQ6MX41j1JY/s1600/Chicago+L.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The L</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-32730073521416863182014-04-23T02:17:00.000-05:002014-04-23T02:20:11.407-05:00Perspective. <div class="MsoNormal">
As I pull the tape dispenser across another brown moving box,
it makes a noise akin to cheap fireworks. The repetitive motion triggers the memory of
a discussion with my daughter this morning. I say discussion, but it was more of a
lecture regarding the fact my packing tape has a duck on it. She asked why my
duck tape was clear. Extremely pedantic, and worst of all boring, from her
point of view that I want her to understand “Duck” is a brand of tape. A brand which,
in a great stroke of marketing genius, sells tape including but not limited to “duct
tape” which this packing tape is not. The
echo of the memory reminds me I haven’t heard much from J Bean in the next room
in the last minute or two, a sure sign of mischief. </div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--uGWWWK619g/U1dcWi9KB0I/AAAAAAAAFrI/-GmpApWIS5Y/s1600/Rojo+Unicornio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--uGWWWK619g/U1dcWi9KB0I/AAAAAAAAFrI/-GmpApWIS5Y/s1600/Rojo+Unicornio.jpg" height="258" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rojo Unicornio - J Bean 2014</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heading toward the kitchen, I edge past stacks of boxes strewn with, what
appears to be, tribal warfare or perhaps a scene from Game of Thrones recreated with dolls and the
ponies. In the kitchen, my firstborn is crouched on a stool intently gazing at
a small piece of paper and her own hands. To me it is a mess on the counter. I feel irritation heating up in my chest as my
mouth prepares to fire a reprimand across the bow. A warning shot, if you will. It seems our interactions this week have been
especially antagonistic, so my first stance is that of a disciplinarian. Just look at this! Crayons are littering the recently
cleared surface and the floor around her, markers without caps are splayed
across the area, glitter glue accents… well, everything. All of this is peripheral
damage from J Bean's most recent abstract art project -- a unicorn with "a lot
of red, but not too much red" in crayon, glitter and ink on wide-ruled notepad. She
calls it “Rojo Unicornio” and it’s for a friend at school. A friend she’ll miss
when we move to Florida. Now I remember her mentioning it when she asked if she could “make
some art” at the center island.<br />
<br />
I remember moving at this age. Leaving friends, making new ones, saying goodbye
to the comfortable and the familiar. Nervousness and excitement of it all working together
to create enormous stress on a child. She keeps asking me about “owning” a
house, and if we can stay in our next one forever (we can’t). I think she
senses moves will become harder to cope with as she moves from preschooler
to a young girl. One more move and maybe we’ll have our forever home,
something I wasn’t even sure I wanted before parenthood. I feel my nomadic childhood made me who I am
today, but I try to remember that I’m not remaking me. It is she who is doing
that. </div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VdkKTaW0xk8/U1dfM71ourI/AAAAAAAAFrU/4e2ALzxfyCg/s1600/Monet+sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I bite my tongue as she looks up at me, swallowing hard the scolding which was fighting to escape my mouth just a moment ago. Her blue eyes, dark like a sea beneath heavy clouds, peer at me from around her red-rimmed glasses. Each eye in frame like a Monet. Glitter tips her nose and the lenses of her glasses. I stop thinking about the clean-up and the regular chores and the moving that needs to be finished. With the look she flashes a sparkling smile (literally sparkling) that could melt the sky as she shows me two outstretched gold-glitter covered hands and says proudly, "Look, Daddy, my hands are soooo sparkly and pretty!"</div>
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Indeed.<br />
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I compliment her work and help her de-sparkle her hands a few minutes later before wiping down the counter and getting her to help me cap the wayward markers and stow them with the crayons in her art bag. It's always a different story when we see it through their eyes. Why is that so hard? </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VdkKTaW0xk8/U1dfM71ourI/AAAAAAAAFrU/4e2ALzxfyCg/s1600/Monet+sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VdkKTaW0xk8/U1dfM71ourI/AAAAAAAAFrU/4e2ALzxfyCg/s1600/Monet+sea.jpg" height="322" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: 16px;"> </span></td><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: 16px;">At Cap d'Antibes, Mistral Wind - Claude Monet, 1888</span></td></tr>
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Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-14584994231871086072014-03-23T20:12:00.000-05:002014-03-24T11:25:11.824-05:00Never Too Big... J Bean (5) started sobbing to Vv today after basketball class that she didn't want to grow up. She was worried she was going to get too big for me to flip her around and hold her upside down. When they arrived home, Vv told me about it so I went and found J Bean sitting in her dark room pouting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. Grabbed her up, threw her around like a bean bag, held her upside down on the ceiling and asked her what was wrong.<br />
<br />
"I don't want to grow up ever, not even a little. You won't be able to pick me up and toss me around anymore." She said with a fat lip. <br />
<br />
"I'll always be able to pick you up and throw you around." I promised. "At least for as long as you want me to because I'm super big and super strong."<br />
<br />
"No you won't. I will always want to, forever and ever." She whimpered in despair.<br />
<br />
"Are you going to be bigger than Mommy anytime soon?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"No, I don't think so."<br />
<br />
"Well, I can pick Mommy up, she may not want me to, but I can do it. Go ask her."<br />
<br />
20 seconds later, I have Vv over my shoulder in a fireman's carry and then into a Mr. T style Airplane spin until Vv's protests put an end to the manuever.<br />
<br />
Lifted J Bean again, held her upside down, so she hung in front of me face to face like a little dangling SpiderMan. "Believe me now?" I asked.<br /><br />She giggled, laughed and asked for more spinning; I obliged. I guess she won't be growing up today. Not on my watch.<br />
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Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-58690345057059719202014-03-18T10:04:00.000-05:002014-03-18T10:04:06.231-05:00Another Installment of "I Like to Move it"The one in which we all put down devices, close up those laptops and pump the volume for a dance party with any little ones around. This is one of Link's favorites right now. Every 5 seconds he finds me, points to the stereo and says "Nu Sick Knee Yun Lauer!" rough translation "Music. Neil Young, louder" and when he says "Neil Young" he doesn't mean I can select any jam of my choosing, he means only "Oh Susannah" will do. Enjoy!<br /><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ei2PVpSKkF4" width="420"></iframe>Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-39048391818919815792014-03-08T11:30:00.000-06:002014-03-12T15:09:49.803-05:00The Bear and Freddie's Boots<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It’s 102 in the
shade and there ain’t no shade.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" height="279" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I'm trudging along behind a red International Farmall tractor in the middle of a tobacco field. The
tractor grumbles rhythmically. The engine's stutter punctuated by a clanking
rain cap over the exhaust as it crawls along the rows. <br /><br /><br />Plants, tall as a man
surround us on all sides. Thick leaves attached to central stalks. Blooms, or “suckers”
as we call them, crown a portion of the crop. The air is tainted with
half-burned fuel, tobacco tar and cigarette smoke. My nose wrinkles and the
noon sun narrows my eyes to slits. I look like the crankiest 12 year
old to ever work a field. My face all squished up like I just took a bite from a fresh lemon. My expression, however, does not accurately represent my feelings of excitement. I've never worked on a farm before today. </span><br />
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float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; 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font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; 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font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s1600/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-y5we6BklU9o/UxOmrH6CssI/AAAAAAAAD0s/kSz-ibwX980/s200/Tobacco+Barn+2+exterior.jpg" height="333" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">I broil slowly. The heat is oppressive,
but I want the resulting red neck. </span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">I need it.</span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">If I am to become bona fide in my old, yet new again, hometown the red neck is a prerequisite. You see, I’m known as a “city boy.” Despite
a birthplace only 20 miles away, I’m not of this place. My family left the
Flatlands when I was a toddler. My father was in the service during my
formative years. Now, after more than a decade away, it is time I become acclimated
to the ways of my southern kin.<span class="apple-converted-space"> Cropping
tobacco seems as fine a place as any to start my training. </span><br />
<br /><br />
My uncle Freddie owns the farm and acts as foreman to the harvesting crew. He isn’t
around anymore, but I can’t walk under a pale moon without thinking of him.
When I hear the heat song of locusts or catch a whiff of a tobacco pipe, which
resembles the aroma of an old curing barn, it takes me right back to a cool
southern night and I can hear his heavy boots on the pavement as we walk side
by side. We'll get to more on that in due time, but for now you should know Freddie
taught me how to work through pain, how much I could accomplish even outside my
element, and more than a little about being a man. Face your fears, live up to
your responsibilities, laugh when you can, apologize when you are wrong and sometimes when you are right, forgive. I am thankful for the
rain and the slick Georgia clay that led to an unexpected adventure over
twenty-five years ago. I wish I could tell him just how much one long walk
meant to me so long ago. I can't do that, so I'll tell you instead.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
<br /><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;">Uncle Freddie is a
monumental man. <o:p></o:p></span></span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">To my boyish eyes, he looks as if he just
stepped out of an old western or perhaps a Marlboro billboard. He is the oldest,
and at 6 feet, the tallest by far of five siblings. A tattered trucker hat tops
his thick, black hair with silver linings above the ears. Freddie’s eyes smile
constantly and his mouth obliges frequently. His hands, large and rough. His
handshake, a five pound hammer. Skin beaten by the sun. Well past a farmer's
tan, more of a leathery hide. His uniform, an old worn-thin plaid shirt,
sagging blue jeans and boots. A cigarette dangles from his lips, an afterthought. Its
ember flipping around precariously as he talks and laughs.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">In the field next to the old farmhouse, we’re trundling along one of the
longest rows.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">It is nearly half a mile through the
field from a dirt road on the north to highway 168 bordering on the south. At
our current pace, I wonder if I'll make it through the day, or if spontaneous
combustion will end my shift early. When we reach the highway, half an hour from
now, we'll look longingly at the inviting shade of the dense pines across the roadway.
Then the driver will turn around slowly in the fine gray soil and start back
toward the dirt road again. Up and down a dozen times and this field won't even
be half done. The day will eventually give way to evening and the barn will be
full before that happens. At least, I hope so, and George assures me.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">I imagine my headstone inscription as I attempt,
with little success, to shield my entire body from the sun with my small ball
cap as I walk. The epitaph will read, "Here lies Eric. Bear caught on a dog day.
Shoulda known better, city slicker." <o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">Since it's my first day on the job, Freddie
can’t trust me to do anything important. I walk behind the crew picking up dropped
tobacco or pulling any missed ripe leaves I might spot along the way. I'm not
even wearing shoes. I can't recall why that is, but in retrospect it seems
ill-advised. <o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">Taking a turn on the tractor is out of
the question since I didn’t grow up driving one. Behind the wheel, I might run
over some of the crop or wind up "bear caught,” endangering the whole crew.
It will be a few more days before I start real work and learn more about the bear. Freddie
and others warn me. Bullshit to scare the new guy, I figure. <o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">I am wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">For those, like me, who don't know:
"bear caught" is the close relative of heat stroke. When the sun's
rays beat down with constant force I can only describe in terms of pressure and
the only shade is cast by circling buzzards, you just might find yourself drowning
on dry land with the world spinning out of control beneath your bare feet. <o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><i>(Where the Hell are my shoes?!)</i></span></blockquote>
<br />
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">If you notice a shortness of breath and a
feeling of overwhelming dread while cropping it is time to get off your feet as
the next step is usually passing out, vomiting or both.<span class="apple-converted-space"> AKA: Bear Caught.</span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />Behind the caravan is the safest place to walk for a greenhorn. If I faint, at least I will not be run over back here. Atop the tractor, Bobby is in the
captain’s seat. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">He’s a grumpy, red-faced, round man in his sixties who is often late and occasionally falls asleep at the wheel.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"> He's been known to miss the turn at the end of
a row from time to time and can’t be relied on to react quickly to foolish city
boys who might fall down where they shouldn’t oughta have no business doing so.</span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">
<br /><br />
Progress is slow. <o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">The tractor is pulling a stick harvester
and the trailer brings up the rear of this 3-car rolling assembly line. Sticks
of tobacco will be piled neatly on the trailer as they are completed and the
“stackers” will leap from trailer to harvester and back again fetching
completed racks as we move across a dry sea of green and yellow. The body of the
harvester has two stations in the center and two more hanging off each side; suspended like gull wings by a metal sliding arm which creates a veritable
finger guillotine between the sleds and the main body of the contraption. <o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">This dangerous meeting of metal on metal
enables the sleds to be folded in for travel or adjusted for different
size rows. I don't put my hands up there because I've been warned and it’s
always covered with grease to facilitate the scissor action. Another relative
once showed me the scars where he lost four fingers and had them sewn back on
after resting his hand casually on such a bar at the wrong moment some 25 years previous. Amazingly, his digits still function, but his
piano playing days came to an end that summer. </span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
Each of the four stations have a low, forward-facing seat where a “cropper” can
encircle the bottom ring of leaves from a stalk with two hands, gather them in a
bunch and hand them up to the rear-facing stringer who is perched on a chair above and in
front of the cropper. The stringer wraps each handful with
twine, attaching them to a stick which hangs overhead. The end
result is a stick just over 4 feet long with large tobacco leaves hanging from
its length, save 6 to 8 inches on either end enabling the sticks to rest atop
rafters in the curing barn.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br /><br />
Later the sticks of tobacco will be manually hoisted by my older, and braver,
cousins into the dizzying heights of an ancient tobacco barn so rickety looking
I don't really want to stand in it, much less climb to the top with a 30 pound
stick of fresh tobacco. During the hanging process, my Uncle Freddie barks
orders and jokingly chastises anyone who hesitates by asking if they “need to
go change their dress.” He also makes us smile with his infectious laugh as he
regales the crew with stories and one-liners. Despite his jovial nature in the
shady barn, I take notice of some well-hidden concern shadowing his face.
Limber boys, fearless as any trapeze performer, jump from rafter to rafter and
seem to swing effortlessly from one to another overhead while hoisting sticks into
the furthest reaches of the towering structure. The downturned corners of my
uncle’s mouth and the darting way his eyes glance at the “hangers,” most of
whom are his nephews, betray the fact he has probably witnessed someone fall
from the upper rafters somewhere along the line. </span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
He’s probably seen a lot of things, I imagine.</span><o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></div>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“Hold up! Gotta change a spool!” someone
yells at the driver. After another series of curses and calls to stop, the request finally makes it past the engine noise and the 6
pack of Busch the driver has quietly downed in an attempt to beat the heat and
boredom of his job. </span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
The hard sun remains my main concern.</span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
As the caravan comes to a halt, croppers and stringers catch their breath and
take long pulls on their sweaty water bottles. Many of them douse themselves
with cool water, the sensation followed by involuntary gasps and then exhalations
of relief. I find myself envious of my cousin George with his spot under the
shady tarp and a rusty iron seat. He’s already a seasoned cropper. </span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
“If George can do it, so can I… right?” I think to myself. <br />
<br /><br />
It is only my ignorance of the job which leads to the thought. A few weeks from
now I'll remember my leisurely strolls behind the harvest train fondly and
wonder why in heck anyone would want to be a cropper. </span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
George is my senior by less than a year, but has lived here his whole life.
He’s just as much a part of this county as the old barn on the edge of the
field. A tight crew cut, a quick laugh, square glasses and an aura of experience
are his stand out features at this age. He’s been working on the farm for years
already and seems to have been vaccinated against the bear during his tenure.
He has a gun. His own gun! We go fishing together when we have the opportunity.
We roam the considerable wilderness around his home or play Duck Hunt for hours
on his Nintendo before a sleepover. <br />
<br /><br />In spite my city ways, George and I are like peas and carrots except when we are more
like oil and vinegar. We can usually resolve disagreements with a scuffle and a
hug. Fisticuffs be damned. Blood is the tie that binds and we never hold a
grudge that lasts half as long as one of our black eyes. </span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
As I look on, George is in the low seat of a center station on the harvester.
In front of him, a gorgeous teenage girl with curly brunette hair, an easy
smile, a maroon top and tight blue jeans that might have been purchased from
his Daddy's corner shop in town a few years back though they probably didn’t
fit like this back then. His vantage point seems better than the rear of
the trailer and uninterrupted horizon dominating my scenery as the forgotten
caboose. I look away quickly, hoping neither the girl nor her brother notice the slack-jawed admirer.<br />
<br /><br />
George plucks and passes clusters of leaves so hard and fast throughout the day his
fingers hurt and tar presses into every nook and cranny. Sweat drips from the
rim of his glasses to his turquoise t-shirt. George is wearing knee-length
shorts, we call them jams, and high-top sneakers. This will be his style of
work clothes for the season unless those pesky hairs on his legs start to
thicken before harvest is over. They will become bristly magnets for the sticky
tobacco tar as George’s voice begins to crack. The trained eye can tell by the
way he looks at the stringer this change will come sooner rather
than later. Judging by my jealousy, I’m not far behind. <br />
<br /><br />
“Owww! What the Hell?!” I shout, enjoying the newfound freedom of
cursing in the field. I dance around barefoot in the silty soil
after stepping on a discarded butt from the harvest train’s conductor. The crew laughs at me and Freddie glances back quickly, sees that I’ve suffered no major injury, and shouts an unconcerned
"All clear! Go ahead!" in the direction of the driver. </span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
We sluggishly make the rounds and inch our way toward a distant mirage. I’m
beginning to believe the oasis is not an illusion and my hope for an end to the
workday is gaining definition along with the buildings around the big house
which are coming into focus through the undulating heat waves. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><br /><br />
</span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Weeks pass. At this point I’m a respectable cropper and have only been “bear caught” a few
times. I spend most weekdays in the field and nights between with my uncle
at his mother-in-law’s home. Ms. Olive is a kind woman with the same lovely
eyes as her daughter, my aunt, whom Freddie is married to. Uncle Freddie
doesn’t have children and his wife is at their own home in town as she has a
job at a local dealership. Ms. Olive is elderly and busy with meals and other
household chores, so in the evenings I find myself with much more freedom than
I'm used to.</span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
After work and before supper, I roam the farm like a lost boy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></h2>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">I discover plows and trucks as old as the
creek bed, other farm implements of unknown origin and purpose, and hand tools
wielded by farmers long dead. I find abandoned barns with corrugated rusty-steel
roofs and walls more air than lumber after the slow wrecking ball of time has
done its thankless job. The barns rest unnoticed among the pines only
a stone's throw from the northern tip of the longest row in the main field.
There is a flat-pond behind the house, basically a low-lying area that holds
water in the rainy season. It is dry this summer but surrounded with clear
boundaries of briars laden with blackberries. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></h2>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">There are the two weary and beaten grain silos dominating the eastern border of the property, the sad fraternal twins cast long shadows in the evening. One cylinder is faded gray with sections outlined in oxidation red while the other appears to be its negative exposure. Both are capped with rusty tin roofs. When I open a door to the red silo I catch the musky odor of old soybeans and possum leavings. Dust sifts down from above, highlighting the bolts of sunlight piercing the rusty pock holes here and there.<br /><br /><br />In the woods, behind the main barn, there are squirrels and rabbits to track and a<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>drainage pond which stretches to the highway. Along the edge of the pond I battle hordes of mosquitos; my only allies, an army of dragonflies who feast on the plentiful parasites. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of a skink whose colors and reptilian head combine to give them an uncanny resemblance to a water moccasin, at least to the inexperienced eye of a city boy. The pond is a sea of minnows, frogs, lily pads and cattails. I drop a line in that big puddle a few times throughout the summer, but never catch anything more than a small box turtle.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br /><br /><br />I find wild muscadine grapes dotting the wooded area of the property. They are the size of a small marble and dull black when ripe. Their flavor pales in comparison to the scuppernongs I enjoy from another tended vine in the yard. The scuppernongs are three times the size of a wild muscadine and grow in sweet bronze clusters. The trick is finding them before the birds and the neighbors. I squeeze a thick-skinned grape between my thumb and forefinger and spit the seeds onto the ground before swallowing the slimy, yet satisfying, glob that remains. Afterwards, I put the grape skins on the tips of my fingers and imagine I'm a green frog leaping from tree to tree.<br /><br /><br />There is an upturned oak with dirt-bombs clinging to the horizontal disc of its roots which provide ample ammunition for waging war on an imaginary enemy or the wayward squirrel tracking my progress. Despite its resting place parallel to the ground, the huge tree holds onto life not unlike its roots used to grip the earth. I wonder what to call a “live oak” after it dies.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-weight: normal;">I don't know where I find the energy for these explorations, but it is a daily ritual and I don't return to the big house until the dinner bell rings. Ms. Olive lays out spreads worthy of a king but meant for a growing farmhand and his giant uncle. I’m thinner despite consuming copious amounts of sweet tea, peach cobbler, biscuits, fried okra, stewed tomatoes, ford hooks, and fried chicken of the like that has probably passed from this world forever.<br /><br /><br />While I am scrubbing the day’s tar from my hands with pumice-laced GOJO in preparation for supper, I look up into the mirror matching gazes with an unfamiliar dark face smeared with dirt and with eyes I like to believe are starting to sparkle with some of that backwoods experience I've been so desperately pursuing. I inquire aloud if GOJO is flammable. No one answers. It sure smells like it and my eyes water from the acrid fumes.<br /><br /><br />I wonder to myself if I’ll ever be as tough as my uncle, but I already know the answer.<br /><br /><br />This evening, Uncle Freddie asks me to tag along as he checks on the barns scattered about our corner of the smallest county in southern Georgia. We load up in his 4x4 two-tone Ford pickup and hit the road. A strong breeze swirls within the cab as we careen down the highway. We’re probably within the speed limit, but after a day in the field it feels like we’re riding a cruise missile. </span></span></h2>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />On the radio, Hank Williams is chasing rabbits, pulling out his hair and howling at the moon. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Freddie’s Boston Terrier, “B.A.,” as in Baracus (or was it Bad Ass?), smiles
an impossible grin with his head hanging out the window, his tongue flapping
wildly in the wind and a jaw seemingly unhinged like a rattler’s as he gulps in
the last drops of the day. <br />
<br /><br />
We stop and check on several barns; Uncle Freddie confirming propane levels,
inspecting the burners and examining some hanging leaves by rubbing them
between his calloused fingers. The barns are made of logs and mortar predating
my grandparents and they all smell of propane, musty wood and sweet tobacco. I
love that smell.<br />
<br />
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<br /><br />
As we exit the last barn, the curtain of night has fallen completely and the
moon is on the rise. The twilight is long gone and it’s nearly bedtime with
another day of harvesting ahead. The constant buzz of cicadas is now eclipsed
by the chirping of crickets and a cacophony of frogs in the roadside ditches. The
small frogs croak with a near machine-like consistency, but every 15 to 20
seconds the unmistakable bellow of a bullfrog rises above the noise as he
asserts his dominance over the night and all who hear him.<br />
<br /><br />
“Load up, kid. It’s time to go,” my mother’s big brother says, in his deep
barreled voice. <br />
<br /><br />
He lets fly a sharp whistle in B.A.’s direction. The small dog is investigating
a nearby thicket, but is still the first one in the cab. He seems
somewhat reluctant to allow me into his usual spot as co-chief. As Freddie
turns the ignition, Johnny Cash is crooning about "The Wide Open Road." My
uncle throws the column shifter into low gear and hits the gas. </span></span></h2>
<h2>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><br />
The engine revs and we go nowhere. </span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
He tries reverse, we hear the wheels spin and we can feel the truck sink just a
bit. He glances over, tells me to stay put while he hops out to engage the four
wheel drive hubs on the old pickup truck. Back in the cab, he tries again; and
again our only movement is downward. Now he’s out and his hat is in his hand
while he scratches his head aggravatedly, surveys the area and mumbles under
his breath. <br />
<br /><br />
I hop out of the cab with B.A. close behind to assess the situation. After I've
exhausted all manner of pointless questions and offered nothing in the way of
solutions, Freddie tells me to gather some sticks. We work together to put some
debris under the tires in the hopes of creating some traction. This goes on for
a spell and we make no progress. I take a turn at the wheel while Freddie
pushes and I press the gas too hard spraying him with mud and causing him to
trip and fall. My throttle enthusiasm also clears the items we had managed to
jam under the wheels. <br />
<br /><br />
“Dammit, Eric! Shit fire!!” Freddie shouts at me as he takes to his feet
throwing his hat down and kicking in the general direction of B.A., who had
taken the spill as an opportunity to lick some mud off his master's face. The
little black and white dog retreats quickly, though he was in no real danger. I
have a strong urge to follow him into the brush lest I catch a boot to my own
rear end, but I held my footing, sheepishly looking down and kicking at some
loose gravel with my hands stuck deep into my pockets.<br />
<br /><br />
Freddie is not usually an angry man, but I’m apprehensive as he is the first
adult to curse at me. I’ve heard the words, but they have never been meant for
me. I stutter and stammer attempting an apology. I’m fighting back the urge to
cry. Before I lose that battle, he calls me closer. He reminds me, and possibly
himself, that he chose the parking spot and spun the wheels to begin with. It’s
not my fault and he’s sorry for cursing and yelling.</span></span></h2>
<h2>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">I can breathe again. </span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
All is well with the world again, other than the fact we are stranded in the middle
of nowhere. This barn is at least 10 miles from home and nearly half that to
the nearest neighbor. A neighbor who happens to be a hand in our crew, but who also happens to own the world’s largest bull mastiff. This hulking beast seems a
closer relative to a great grizzly than the toy-sized bulldog we have as a
walking companion. Every time we pick up the boy for work, the mastiff peers intimidatingly
at the pickup from the porch. The workers in the bed of the truck sit quietly
and nervous. Each silently hoping they are not the slowest runner in the crowd
as they keep at least one eye on the behemoth until we’re back on the blacktop.
<br />
<br /><br />
Dreading the walk, we spend some time in the cab and I listen intently as Freddie
tries to hail someone on his CB radio. He speaks an unfamiliar language which
captivates me and reminds me of Smoky and The Bandit. After 10 minutes with no
answer it becomes apparent we are going to have to hoof it. We gather a few
things, roll up the windows and begin the journey. <br />
<br /><br />
We’re walking down the centerline of a lonely Georgia highway. Light from the near full moon makes vision the least of our worries on the open road. I munch
on a Snickers bar salvaged from the truck and we share a half bottle of
Mountain Dew during the stroll. <br />
<br /><br />
I stay close to the big man, like a shadow. <br />
<br /><br />
I notice B.A. doesn’t wander too far either. His pattering feet are quick as he
keeps pace with us, sniffing the asphalt and occasionally exploring the
shoulder as we walk. A few cars speed by here and there, but it was past
midnight when we gave up calling for help and struck out on foot so it comes as
no surprise to either of us when none stop to offer a ride.<br />
<br /><br />
The days are still warm, but this evening is unseasonably cool. Between the
southern humidity and our light clothing, we are chilled beyond comfort. After
an hour or so, we come to another of the barns so we step inside to allow the
propane heaters a chance to thaw our bones. Warm blooded again, we fill our
soda bottle with water and strike out once more. <br />
<br /><br />
Sometime after 2am we approach the home of the stacker with the gigantic
bear-dog. A quick discussion results in a unanimous decision. We do not want to
knock on the door and we need to make it past the house without awakening the
huge canine if we are to arrive home with no extra holes in us. Uncle Freddie carries
B.A. and we walk quick and silent until we are clear of the monster’s territory.
<br />
<br /><br />Even well beyond the dog's hearing I am terrified, like only a city boy could be, by the imaginary dangers I perceive to be lurking
just beyond the shadows. Trees line the sides of the road providing cover for
all manner of unspeakable evils. </span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
Freddie is the rock on which I anchor myself. He seems indestructible and shows
no sign of concern as we continue our march. </span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
We walk. We rest. We stop in another barn to warm up and we walk some more. I
tell Freddie of the latest video games, a cute girl at school, a truck I hope
to buy in a few years and how I’m not sure I fit in around these parts. I
listen as he reminisces on growing up with my mother, her sister and his two
younger brothers. It turns out, as big brothers, we have a few things in common
and 35 years doesn’t really amount to much in the grand scheme of things. He
tries to convince me I don’t need to prove myself and that the most interesting
people don’t fit in anywhere really. He tells me that I’m alright, for a city
boy, and that he’s glad to have me on the crew.<br />
<br /><br />
I swell with pride. Or perhaps, it's the unseen monsters in the shadows who shrink. </span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
As we near our destination, my legs are tired, my mouth is dry. I’m blissfully
unaware of how time will steal, so completely, many memories from this summer
and this night in particular or why I should hold onto them so dearly. I wish I
could go back and tell myself to write down some of those stories instead of
passing out on the bed when we arrive home. I’m thankful that I’m able to
remember what I do, but there was so much more. I had no idea his time was
short. <br />
<br /><br />
We veer off the highway and take the last mile on a dirt road. As we approach
the big house, the pregnant horizon is ready to give birth to the morning sun. </span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
The sky has been brightening steadily for the last hour. I am exhausted and
even B.A. isn’t smiling any longer as we reach the front door. From within, I
can already smell coffee, bacon grease and fresh biscuits. Ms. Olive greets us
with a smile and hugs inquiring about where we have been and what we have been
up to. Uncle Freddie gives me a cold glass of orange juice, a bacon sandwich then
sends me to bed. <br />
<br /><br />
Later I realize he went to the field to get the crew moving without laying his
head on a pillow. </span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
I don’t wake up until just before lunch and, of course, Ms. Olive worries over
me. She feeds me more than a dozen boys would need in one sitting. After lunch I
return to the field with the rest of the crew. Freddie pays me the twenty dollars I would
normally receive for a full day’s work and after supper we enjoy a good laugh
as we begin threading hyperbole into our fish tale. <br />
<br /><br />
</span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">If he were here today I suppose his version would vary quite a bit from the one
I have told. What I wouldn’t give to hear it. Tonight though, we agree that
damn dog out on Highway 168 is as big as any black bear in Georgia. We also
agree this evening we’ll stay in, sip some sweet tea and watch Wheel of
Fortune. </span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br />
<br />
That winter, a few weeks before Christmas, Freddie’s boots took their last
steps. <o:p></o:p></span></h2>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">A sudden and unexpected malady took him
from us on a cold Tuesday. The news punched me in the gut and the world spun
beneath my feet. A feeling not unlike being caught by the bear.</span><br />
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">
Today, I remain certain I'll never be as tough as Uncle Freddie, but I learned
to walk the walk and talk the talk. He seemed to think that was half the
battle. He taught me to laugh at the world, enjoy at least some part of every
day, and that listening is almost always better than talking. I learned to be
consistent in my dealings with others and to present myself as a superhero to
children who needn’t worry about things beyond their control. </span></span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Youngins believe
in the magic our mentors weave far into adulthood. Faith in their power remains
even after an invincible man inevitably proves that this, his greatest illusion,
was nothing more.</span><br />
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">
I've never forgotten to watch for the bear in the many forms he takes, but I will
not let fear of him paralyze me. </span><br />
<br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;">
In the end, some footprints leave no mark in the sand, but I can still hear the
clicking of those boots echoing across the southern Georgia night and no one
who knew Freddie can deny the impressions he left in their own life. </span><br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;">**Special thanks to my cousin, George, for helping me dredge up some of
these memories and some of the important details from a summer of croppin' and
the man we both loved.<br />
<br />
Also thanks to my dear friend, Brian
Sorrell of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span></i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.daddingfulltime.com/"><i style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">daddingfulltime.com</span></i></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">who helped me find the voice to tell this
story that I was, until now, unable to put to paper in a way that matched its
significance in my life. <br /><br />Another thank you, to Bill Peebles of </span></i><i><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://ihopeiwinatoaster.blogspot.com/" style="color: #0b5394;">I Hope I Win A Toaster</a> for offering feedback and support on this story and many others</span></i><span style="font-size: large;">. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><i>All of you have heavy boots and leave echoes you may not even be aware of. </i></span></span></span></h2>
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<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-8LgRzSOtWUA%2FUxOmvAW1WmI%2FAAAAAAAAD04%2F8cD3D05LK7M%2Fs200%2FTobacco%2BField.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8LgRzSOtWUA/UxOmvAW1WmI/AAAAAAAAD04/8cD3D05LK7M/s200/Tobacco+Field.jpg" -->Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-83844182127962891122014-03-07T13:06:00.000-06:002014-03-07T13:23:42.113-06:00An Open Letter To You. <div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You ARE a “beautiful snowflake.”<br />
<br />
For some reason, this has become a sarcastic comment one makes about others,
especially to parents regarding their children and how/why the world doesn't
care. Say what you will, but the truth
it is simply a statement of fact. YOU are a beautiful snowflake. <br />
<br />
That means it’s even true of me, it’s true of you (yes you, the person reading
this right now), and that kid at the store who threw a tantrum and the guy who
cut you off in traffic.<br />
<br />
I don’t always reach my goals, things don’t always turn out the way I <s>hoped</s>
<s>prayed</s> planned. Often it is quite the opposite. Intentions matter little
when it comes to results and I find myself looking at poor results in every
aspect of my life from time to time. Instead of succeeding, sometimes I’m just
hoping to fail less, but my struggles and my successes are mine. They are part
of me, as yours are part of you. <br />
<br />
There is no single measure of you. There
is not one action that defines you. One story that paints your picture. One moment
that epitomizes all moments. You are evolving every second. Whether you think
you are searching for nirvana, talking with yourself, praying to a god, or
simply changing neural patterns within the electrical box in your head… you ARE
special and every thought and every action you take confirm this. It is mathematically
impossible that you are not a beautiful, precious snowflake. <br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line this obvious fact ceased to matter to some,
myself included. At some point, I began to take snapshots of those around me
and make judgments about who they are and who they will always be based on
nothing of substance. You follow a certain political persuasion and I judge
you. You parent differently than I and I scold you. You are imperceptive in one
manner and I mock you while ignoring your superior perceptions in another area.
You ask me to play a game while I am waging war with the synapses of the world
wide web and I shoo you away. You cry and I wish you would stop because it
would be easier for me. You disagree with me, so I gnash my teeth and think (on
a good day) or say (on a bad day) what a loathsome creature you must be. I
forget that we are the same because I know we are different. I forgot you are
special. I forgot that I am special. <br />
<br />
Enjoy yourself, appreciate those around you and do your best to remember they
are a unique creation; there will never be another like them (or you). We can’t
change the structure of another, but we can remember we all fall from the same
sky and will melt on the same ground. What we do in between is what separates
us or bonds us with others. Today I will not spend my time looking for
weaknesses in your structure. Today I will play in the snow. <br />
<br />
Love, <br />
Dad On The Run<br />
</span><s><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span>
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Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-58492239823944457642014-03-01T15:14:00.001-06:002014-03-02T16:06:18.034-06:00A Kid Free World? To Travel or Not To Travel. That is The Question. <div dir="ltr">
Regarding children and travel.<br />
<br /></div>
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A child is not a non-stop source of noise, chaos and discontent for others. There is a spectrum of behavior a child will exhibit, that spectrum varies among children and age. Some items on that spectrum will disturb some people. Occasionally, the result is unexpected noise which could potentially bother or awaken someone outside of your room while traveling. No one is arguing that from my end. The assertion by some, however, seems to be that this set of facts means a person who travels with a baby/child is selfish and entitled. I'm going to get onboard with the argument here for the sake of discussion, but I have a few questions.</div>
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Why is it the person is selfish who risks the outside chance a crying fit from their child will occur during the chosen sleep schedule of another guest who happens to occupy the next room, will be a light sleeper, not traveling with children of their own, has no earplugs, really has a problem with noises in the night at a hotel and perhaps even issues falling back to sleep after a disturbance? Obviously that is a possibility, a child might cry and a child might wake up another person (and that sucks) but does it make them selfish? How likely is it and at what point does that probability translate to being an inconsiderate person who should not have even gone on the trip? If there is a 1 in 10 chance a kid might cry in the middle of the night are you selfish for bringing them? What if there is a 1 in 10 chance you'll let the toilet lid slam during a 2am trip to the toilet? Is the line the same for every person or do we allow leeway for those with mental/physical disorders? What is the decibel level and the frequency of an issue which triggers the "selfish" label? There must be such a line, so where does it lie?<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The possibility of waking another person seems to be the issue we want to focus on, at least in relation to <a href="http://www.dadontherun.com/2014/02/dont-like-kids-how-very-childish.html">my recent letter</a>. So what about the traveler who is traveling with a service animal and the neighbor who is allergic? What about an early riser who wants to get a run in and lets the door close too hard? What about a night owl? The horny couple? The guy with sleep apnea? The person with irritable bowel syndrome? The elderly man who needs the TV louder to hear it? The loud phone talker with insomnia? The heavy walker above? The reverse warning beep of the man with an electric wheelchair? The false fire-alarm because someone burned some toast in the lobby? The pregnant woman who keeps flushing the toilet that shakes the pipes in the wall near your head? The guy who designed the passing elevator? The landscape crew that arrives too early? There are many people who make noises in the night. I agree some of them are inconsiderate. Some of those noises will awaken some people, others will sleep right through them. This is why I think setting personal expectations for silence in a hotel environment is the point of view which is entitled and unrealistic.<br />
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The anger displayed by some over children's part in occasionally waking up someone should at the least be equally distributed among all the potential and common bumps in the night, shouldn't it? Why all the ire toward parents and/or children? Those who don't care for children are not aware of them until they present a disturbance, if that were the only time I took notice of kids I would have a poor opinion of them as well, but I also happen to take notice of the way they talk with others, hold no preconceptions about others, trust others, and look at the world. It is refreshing if you ever pause to appreciate them when they are not having "one of those nights/days."<br />
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To be honest I don't appreciate disturbances either. When I am disturbed I take steps to let others know, or I just deal with it rather than churning over all the ways the one disturbing me is an evil person. Calling out one who bothers you as selfish is often off-base. The woman in the next room with food poisoning is selfish? What about the guy who took a shower and forgot to turn off his alarm ahead of time? Maybe we're all just people, trying to enjoy our time and wishing we wouldn't cause anyone else a problem but recognizing that sometimes we do. How do we handle those situations? That's my question. Do we make our dissatisfaction known so something can be done, or do we write a letter in an attempt to "ruin someone's vacation" because that's what we perceive happened to us? Do all the rain clouds just follow us around, too?<br />
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It's bad luck when our sleep is disturbed, it's unfortunate, and I feel sympathy and empathy for anyone disturbed, but it is not a fundamental character flaw, an indication of entitlement or selfishness for someone to travel with a child. It is just part of life, sometimes other people or things make noise. That is why some establishments offer us all the chance to get away from many of those disturbances and, personally, those are the places I would choose to stay when I am looking for the perfect getaway sans kids and away from snoring neighbors et al. Short of doing so, I'm going to assume the quality of my sleep is a crapshoot in a crowded hotel, I might not like my bed, my phone might ring for no reason, someone in the hall might wake me up. My first reaction is, "That's life. Deal with it." I understand you may feel differently, so what are your thoughts? Where is the line between "living" and "selfish living"? Who decides what that line is? Is the decision solely given to the perceived victim? I'm very interested in your input here.</div>
Dad on the Runhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18145217634220011386noreply@blogger.com949tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559118930336770234.post-88288917950033809682014-02-24T19:19:00.000-06:002014-03-05T13:25:24.926-06:00Don't Like Kids? How Very Childish. <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zqXPQTdNXOA/UwvvIqchLzI/AAAAAAAADgo/l857QZMQwUw/s1600/Nastygram.jpg"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zqXPQTdNXOA/UwvvIqchLzI/AAAAAAAADgo/l857QZMQwUw/s1600/Nastygram.jpg" width="300" /></a><br /><br /><i><br /><br />An open letter to the miserable person who slipped this message under my sister's door in a hotel in Colorado this morning. </i><br /><br />Dear Parent of Infinite Wisdom, <br /><br />First of all, I only write this in order to reassure my sister and brother-in-law that they are not doing anything wrong. You are undoubtedly a nasty person regardless of the situation you find yourself in and how others are treating you, so on the off-chance you even see this I hold little hope it will effect your outlook on life. Is it fair for me to judge you by one nastygram? At least as fair as your judgement of someone based on what you can hear through a wall, I suppose.<br /><br />In your haste to pass judgement on others and whitewash your own memory of what parenting is like, you have forgot to check yourself for the very inconsideration and selfishness you abhor. You decided to lash out at others who were unaware of your plight or discomfort, at least until you left a cowardly letter after the fact at which point any opportunity they might have to try to alleviate your unfortunate situation had passed. Perhaps, if you had yelled back or pounded on the headboard then the thinness of the walls would have been more evident to the struggling parents. Then again, such an act of directness would have identified yourself as the petty selfish person you are. Personally, I think you knew that, which is why instead, you decided to lay your opinion out anonymously and with no consideration of what was happening within the room or who the people are you were addressing. You knew all you needed to know; "Someone is doing something I don't like! I should cry about it." Sound familiar? The baby was cutting teeth, what is your excuse?<br /><br />Here are a few of the things you didn't know. <br /><br />My brother-in-law helps more people before you get out of bed and have your morning coffee than you have likely helped in your entire life. He operates on brains and misses out on an awful lot of time with his wife and child so that he can use his knowledge and skill to help adults and children alike (even the selfish ones) with a second chance. He saves lives. This week he is in Colorado for a conference where he can learn to better treat you if you happen to fall from a snow-lift, get thrown from your high horse, faceplant into a tree while skiing down the black diamond trail or have the misfortune to trip over your own self-righteousness and fall down the stairs head first. Personally, I don't blame him for wanting to take his family with him to a convention rather than missing out on another week full of memories so that he can be the best surgeon. It's a great job, a rewarding job, but not one without sacrifices.<br /><br />My niece usually sleeps pretty well, and is not known for screaming in the middle of the night. If she were constantly having this issue both parents would be in a mental institution and you wouldn't have been disturbed. Newsflash: a night in the room with a screaming toddler is even harder than being next door and not something parents willingly plan for on holiday. From the far side of the wall, one cannot see the parents scrambling, attempting to feed the baby, rock the baby, shush the baby, walk around, rack their brains for a way to make the crying stop for the their sake, for their neighbor's sake and not least of all for the helpless child's sake.<br /><br />As for my sister, she is a kind and considerate parent, a dependable friend and an amazing wife. She is a first-time mother with a law degree who decided that spending time with and raising her daughter are the top priorities in her life. As a stay-home mother, I'm sure she jumped at the chance to get out of the house. What stay-home parent wouldn't? Sure, it is true, she's still learning the ropes. Can you remember what that was like? Do you remember thinking you knew your child's routines only to learn at an inopportune time that you don't really know much of anything? This usually occurs on the rare evening out with the whole family, or on a crowded airplane or when rooming next to the Prince or Princess of Passive Aggressiveness on the side of a mountain in Colorado. On those occasions, when your child transformed into a yelling, crying, sobbing ball of heartache you might recall your ears burning and your face flushing red with embarrassment. You may remember the hopeful feeling that there will not be a person like you around. Someone willing to belittle you rather than offer support, someone willing to call you a bad parent and a selfish person because you have somehow conspired to ruin their day, their meal or their trip. <br /><br />Well, guess what, perfect parent?! Your kids ruined things for other people too. As a matter of fact, you ruined more than one evening for others when you were a little tyrant yourself. The same is true for every adult walking the planet, unless their parents kept them tranquilized or frozen in carbonite until graduation. Maybe you didnt' know, but it happened. That is the way of the world, this is not a hermetically sealed, adults only dystopia where nothing unexpected occurs to anyone. If you want to guarantee a trip with those parameters (and since you obviously planned for this years in advance) then plan a little better and rent a freaking cabin or bring a set of ear plugs. <br /><br />If it's not a child, it will be a dog, if it's not a dog, it will be a group of drunken fraternity members, or a construction crew, or a leaky faucet. Maybe loud lovers, the TV in the next room, or a neighbor who leaves their radio clock on all night that will disturb your slumber. It's always something isn't it? I know the feeling. It sucks, but these things happen. Sometimes they are due to inconsideration and more often due to accident or happenstance. The question is not if, but when, something will taint our dreams of the perfect vacation, dinner or plane ride. I teach my children we can't control the actions of others, but we can control our own reactions. We can choose every day whether to let life's little inconveniences make us miserable, or we can choose to smile and carry on. Better still, we can decide to try to make the world a better place; to lend a hand instead of pointing a finger. <br /><br />You, on the other hand, choose to spew hatred and judgement on others even when it will bring no change to your own situation. You didn't say anything when the young parents could have done something. Choosing instead to leave a parting note to let them know what terrible people they are. Be honest, the note was not for the good of the world, it was for retribution. It was your way of doling out karma. I hope you are proud of yourself. <br /><br />I am sorry for you. I'm sorry for your children. Pat yourself on the back for never having your child wake another human (yeah, right) all you want, but when it comes to measuring the value of another person or the extremes of their selflessness (or selfishness) most of us would prefer to take a larger view and maybe learn something about the situation and it's participants before we cast our stones. <br /><br />I know little about you, maybe you were just cranky and writing without thinking. Maybe you are too stupid to relieve yourself with some Tylenol PM or earplugs or by calling the front desk to ask about options before spending a second night in wretched misery within the 7th circle of Hell. Maybe you are a really great person who helps others with every spare minute not spent on holiday at a ski resort or judging other people's parenting based on cries in the night. Then again, maybe you are just an asshole. <br /><br /><br />Good day, <br />Dad On The Run<br /><br />P.S. Lil' sis. Keep doing what you are doing. Your child is a part of this world and just as much entitled to it as the next person. Those who wish to have a child-free experience have plenty of adults only options for vacation accommodations. Love you.
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