The End Is Near

We’ve all seen them. Maybe in person, maybe just on TV. They stand on street corners with signs declaring,  “The End Is Near.” Well, I have my own “The End Is Near” sign in the form of a date on my calendar. It marks the final day of my culinary training. The day when, newly armed with my Culinary Arts degree, I will be released back into the world to find gainful employment. For the first time in almost twenty years, I will be entering the real world and asking someone to take a chance on me. Now some of you who know me are probably saying, “You’ve only been unemployed for 2 years, not 20.” Fair enough. But, you must realize that for the 18 years prior to that, I was in education. As those of you who might be in education know, it is not the real world. It is a very different world with very different rules where for the most part, I was paid to either talk, or supervise other people who talked (please don’t be offended my educator friends, you know what I mean). I was paid to think, not to do. Now I will be asked to do and probably told not to think! My Dad made a living with his hands. He built things, he fixed things that were broken. At the end of the day, he could see how he had created something where it previously didn’t exist. This was never my forte. It probably goes back to my mother not wanting me to get dirty when I was little. To be fair, I was never really interested in the dreaded “manual labor” that fed my family for all those years. Now, at age 48, I will be asked to produce. Frankly, it scares the hell out of me. I have always been a thinker. Just ask my wife. Her response will probably be something along the lines of  “If you want ideas, he’s your man. If you want a speaker fixed, keep the screwdriver away from him (sorry, but that is an inside joke between me and my beloved).” I think I know what happened. Growing up, the only thing I ever wanted to do, the only thing I ever wanted to be was a baseball player. If a ball was hit my way, I caught it. It was God’s plan for my hands to be used to catch and throw. Or so I thought. Why would I risk injury by helping my dad repair the car, shingle the roof, build a cabinet, etc. Now, I must accept the reality that despite the fact that the major leagues sorely lack good lead-off men with exceptional speed and a good glove, I may be past my prime. The call I have waited on for over 40 years may not be coming (insert a loud sigh here and excuse me while I wipe the broken dreams off my cheek). So now, the only batter I will face will be for blueberry muffins. The only glove I will wear to work will be an oven mitt.

Music, Food, and Being Human

The world today is complicated. So many people disagreeing on everything from politics to religion to which deodorant really provides all day protection. As I was driving this morning listening to the radio, I realized how easily I could be transported to another place and time by a certain song. Play Chicago’s “Hard For Me to Say I’m Sorry – Theme from the movie Summer Lovers”, and I am instantly back at the Tara theater with my new girlfriend Sherrie (now my wife of 24+ years). Amazing! As I pondered this, I thought that a certain taste or smell can have the same power over us. The human brain is an incredible piece of work. I can’t remember the name of the parent I just met at my son’s field day, but I can remember what my Grandmother’s kitchen looked like when I smell hot chocolate made with Hershey’s cocoa. Now I haven’t seen that kitchen in over 35+ years but I could walk around in it with my eyes closed after smelling that. We are wired to associate sounds, tastes, and smells with specific memories. Now I’m sure that my behaviorist friends will tell me that this is all related to survival instincts and such (I was always a bit of a humanist) but I think it is much deeper than that. Music and food have spiritual powers that connect us to our past and, I believe, connect us to our common humanity. People in every culture base their religious experiences around music and food. When they get together with friends to celebrate, mourn, or just hang-out, it is safe to assume that music and food will play a central role. So here’s my suggestion for bringing an end to all the bickering. Sit down together share your favorite food and the memories it stirs up, tell each other about your favorite song and why it makes you smile, laugh, cry, etc. I don’t think that it will make us all come to a consensus over things we disagree about, but it might at least help us to understand each other a little better. Maybe we can connect as human beings and drop the labels for awhile (Tea Party, liberal, conservative, gay, straight, Christian, Muslim, white, black, etc.). Memories can be powerful. When you share them with other people, you share part of who you are. So my request to all of you who read this, is to sit down with someone and share some food and songs. At best, you might find you’re not so different after all. At worst, you’ll be full and have some new tunes to create new memories.

Peace and Happiness,
Dave

On a more serious note….

My sister is a writer. It is a large part of who she is and when asked, she will tell you it is what she does (she also happens to be a good mother to two sons, one of whom has Tourette’s Syndrome. He has it but it definitely doesn’t have him). I happen to be someone who enjoys writing. I do not claim to be a writer, nor do I ever expect that I will. This is my first post in a number of months and today, as I had nothing better to do, I wondered why? I do enjoy it if only to express myself or share some funny occurrence in  my life. It seems to give me an improved sense of self, a better attitude in general, and specifically, an outlet for what I might be feeling at any given time. Now my mother will tell you that there was a time when I wrote prolifically. I fancied myself a poet or songwriter of sorts. Then, I grew out of those wonder years (most of the time the writing was about unrequited love anyways. I never figured out that you actually had to tell someone that you were interested in them. But that was the story of my high school years and is for another day). So again, I tend to digress, why not do it more? It makes me wonder how many of us have some secret passion (minds out of the gutters please) that we tend to push aside for more “serious things.” Maybe we would all be better off if we rediscovered that thing and embraced it. Give it some time and space of its own. If playing the guitar makes you feel good, do it even if you do it badly. Sewing is your thing? By gosh, make that shirt for your spouse, child, etc. even if it does have one sleeve shorter than the other. My point is that life is really best lived when it is lived in balance (my old psychology professor would say a state of equilibrium). And balance must include some time for you doing what re-energizes you. Revisit that passion or find a new one. Rediscover your balance. Balanced = Happier. Happier people = Better world. Take care my friends.

Dad, remember when ……….

Whenever I watch interviews on TV with various “famous” people, it is always interesting to hear what they remember most about their relationship with their Dad. I remember a number of things about mine but one that always makes me smile is the memory of days spent in a small aluminum boat in the creeks of our rivers crabbing and shrimping. Now that I have sons of my own, I have often wondered what they might remember if asked when they become “rich and famous”. (Notice I said rich and famous. I am counting on my boys for my retirement.) Now I pride myself on being a pretty good dad. I have always tried to be fair with my sons, made sure they have what they need and often what they want, treated them with love and respect, and provided the necessary examples to produce men who will make the world a better place. Let’s start with my oldest son who is approaching his 22nd birthday. I can honestly say that I have never missed a practice, game, school meeting, or significant event in his life. I believe that family always comes first. My son would be quick to point out, however, that I was out of town on business for his 12th birthday. He will not recall that this was an isolated incident or that I sent him a really nice candy and balloon bouquet from San Francisco. He will not feel blessed that his dad has been present for all 20 other birthdays. He still will ask me “Dad, remember when you missed my 12th birthday?” I fear that will be his response when the reporter asks the question. “Well my dad was a pretty good guy but I never really got over the time he missed my birthday.” I will suddenly be exposed for the terrible dad that I am. My middle son has his won special memory of dear old dad. I must state for the record here that he was possessed by demons from the ages of 8 – 12. Anger him and he would trash his room to a degree worthy of a 70s hair band. This particularly memory is tied to a morning when he decided that he was not going to school. I was ready to leave to take him and then continue on to work. I promise you I tried every means possible to get him up and out. Pleading, threatening, dumping him off the bed with his mattress (not real proud of that one). He refused and further more would not respond to me at all. I finally stormed out of his room yelling and I quote “you’re going to give me a f**king heart attack. Now those who know me will be shocked. As was my son. I could tell by the snickers coming from under his covers. Instant memory created. “Hey dad, remember when I almost gave you a f**king heart attack?” The reporter will snicker along with my son while I will wait for social services to come and have me locked up. My youngest son’s brain is still in the pre-memory stage. I can look at this two ways, I have one last chance to be the dad who “made me the success I am” or I can accept my destiny to hear “Hey dad, remember when you ……………….”  Heaven help me!

Moments

From this moment (Shania Twain); This magic moment (Jay and the Americans); One moment in time (Whitney Houston). Three songs all expressing the specialness of that unit of time we refer to as a moment. For me, the word moment is neither special nor particularly eagerly anticipated. Let me explain. Somewhere along the path to verbal expression, my two year old began referring to his process of filling his diaper as “a moment” as in “Luke are you OK?” “A moment daddy, I’m having a moment.” Perhaps this is the “magic moment” Jay sang about. It is possible that Whitney was referring to just such a “moment in time.” And Shania, herself a parent, may have written “From this moment” to describe how her life would never quite be the same after experiencing her child’s first. We are often told to live “in the moment.” I will choose not to. It is bad enough having to be in the same room with the result of “a moment.” The “moment” is often accompanied by strange sounds and grunts that would normally be heard near the monkey cages in a zoo rather than my living room. Combine the sounds with the intriguing aroma that only a young child can produce and add in something that surely must have come from somewhere other than my child and you will understand why the next time someone asks me “Can you wait just a moment?”, I will rapidly exit the room.

Wisdom comes with age, but sometimes age travels alone

It is official. At age 47, I am Mr. Mom. My wife has gone to work and I am left with the awesome responsibility of providing primary parenting to my 2.4 year old son. Now, when I say awesome, I mean as in “Aw he’s so cute when he is asleep”, as well as “Aw sh#t, how did he get that peanut stuck up his nose.” Awesome indeed. When my wife and I first found out that we were going to be new parents for the third time at age 45, we were excited and apprehensive. Most people told us how great the experience would be. “You will have so much more patience with this one”,  and my all-time favorite  “He will keep you young.” More patience, hmmmmmmm, let’s see how much patience you have (at any age) when your child is running around the house sans diaper yelling I’m peeing while actually performing said bodily function all over the carpet. Can you summon that patience when you are stranded on the toilet as he grabs the toilet paper and runs out of the room laughing? I reject your false perception that age brings patience! How am I doing with that whole being kept young thing? Let’s see, I wrenched my back getting him into his car seat today. Not sleeping through the night sure leaves me feeling youthful and refreshed. How about chasing him through K-Mart while a nice young man says “he’s getting away from you grandpa,” ah yes, the youthfulness is practically dripping from me. Sorry, that’s sweat from trying to beat him to the road before he runs into traffic. Please don’t get me wrong, I love my youngest and feel blessed to have him. It’s kind of like when you think you have eaten that last M&M, and one more drops out of the package providing a satisfaction that is different from the ones that came before it (is that too much of a stretched metaphor?). My point simply is that parenting is a tough job and it is not any easier just because you are older. Sometimes, it may even be tougher. My observation for those of you who may now be or may soon becoming “older” parents is that it provides a fresh perspective. One that you may have lost as you have aged. I sometimes am driven crazy by my son’s favorite question, “why daddy?” When I take time to stop and think however, it is kind of cool to realize that so much is new to him and I am getting the opportunity, for the third time in my life, to watch while a new little person takes in the world for the first time.

A suggestion for Tyson Gay

I am a runner. Even when I haven’t run for awhile, I still consider myself a runner. I have been at it on and off for over 25 years now. I don’t run fast (I seem to remember when I used to run fast) but I do try and keep a steady pace. I also love to watch people run. I watched my oldest son, when he was younger, run on the soccer field and the baseball diamond. He was never the fastest, but he always gave it his all even when the coaches weren’t looking. I admire that quality of the heart. My middle son is fast. If you don’t believe me, just ask around his school. He runs cross-country and sometimes the 400m in track. He ran so hard in a middle school 400m race that he separated his hip at the growth plate. I watch in utter amazement at the ease with which he flies around a track. My youngest son (two years old),however, has it figured out and here is where I hope Mr. Gay will pay attention. Apparently, the secret to running faster is not in better training, a better diet, or better shoes. My son simply throws his arms back and up (picture someone preparing to leap over a hole) and takes off. I can attest to the success of this maneuver as I have a hard time running him down in the house when he deploys his secret technique. Now the arms must remain in the locked and upright position. Fight the urge to swing them forward and pump or you will break the momentum generated by the technique. I am sure that this will work for you as well. So, Mr. Gay, next time you have a race against that human blur Mr. Bolt, you may want to try this. If you do and you win the race, I have a small favor to ask. Could you please get me an autograph from Mr. Bolt?

A Walmart Moment

I was making my daily shopping trip to Walmart today and saw a mother pushing her little girl in a shopping cart. They were Mennonites and mother and daughter were dressed the same. The little girl appeared to be two or so and was beautiful! When the mother made eye contact with me, I told her that her daughter was adorable. Her response is the reason for this posting. She simply said ” She is a gift from God.” Now I believe that every child is a gift from God. I know that my youngest son, born when my wife and I were 45, could be nothing less. It made me think though, do we treat our children as gifts or do we in the day to day activities of our life treat them as obligations or occasionally even obstructions? I know that I personally have times when I wonder why my children want to ruin my life. Why can’t they just be what and who I want them to be. My wife will tell you that I don’t like surprises. I usually guess what my birthday/Christmas gifts are before they are unwrapped. Sometimes I think I try to do the same with my children. Rather than just appreciate the gift that they are, I try to guess what/who they might become and become frustrated when they are otherwise. I am probably not unique in this but I think as parents, we need to try and appreciate the gift that is given instead of trying to make it what we want it to be. I hope my kids will forgive my personality flaw and that I can find a way to be better.

First Contact!

This has been an eventful summer to say the least. After 18 years in education, I lost my job, my best friends wife had an operation to remove a brain tumor just weeks after her oldest daughter got married (the second wedding in two months since her middle daughter was married earlier in the summer) and I began to have serious thoughts about being older and mortal. Did I mention that my youngest son also turned two while I will be 47 in a few months? So my perspective is one that I never saw coming three years ago. Have I changed my views on anything important? Maybe. Have I gained a new outlook on life? Possibly. Do I still think about the fact that my dad was dead by the time he was my age? Absolutely!

I am not any different from most people. I believe that most of us are not on the extreme side of most issues. We see things from multiple perspectives and struggle with important issues because of that. I am writing this blog simply to give myself and outlet. I don’t claim that I have any answers or that my observations will matter to anyone else. If you enjoy what I write, that is great. If you don’t, that is OK too.